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broadwritingTitle: "Biloxi" 2/2
Pairing: Christian Kane/Jensen Ackles
Rating: NC-17
(Continued from here)
Tomorrow's just another chance to fuck up worse than you've done today –
Jensen's still MIA the next morning when Chris drags himself out of bed and hobbles to the shower. In the harsh, unforgiving light of the bathroom, his bruises shine like beacons. He pops four ibuprophen and lets the hot water do the rest. His head still throbs with hangover and regret.
He's not really hungry, but he knows he needs to eat something, so he throws on a clean shirt and a pair of cut-offs and makes his way across the parking lot to the Waffle House. No one even looks at him twice. But then, he reckons, a place like this has seen far worse than his beat up face.
He orders a bowl of grits with cheese and a cup of coffee, and has just poured Tabasco over the grits (best hangover cure ever invented) when Jensen slides in the booth across from him. Jensen's lips are red and puffy and Chris can see a large bruise disappearing under the collar of his shirt. The sense of satisfaction feels a little hollow in the daylight.
"Look, about last –"
"Forget it."
"And the –"
"I said forget it. We're cool."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care."
Chris thinks about pressing the issue, but Jensen's a stubborn son of a bitch when he's got a mad on, and Chris is inclined to let him ride it out. "Alright," he finally replies. They'll deal with it when Jensen's ready. "Pass me the salt?"
"We're not that cool." Jensen signals for their waitress. He doesn't give Chris another glance. "Get it yourself."
Paradise is normally where you least expect it –
"Pull over."
"Why?"
"Dude selling boiled peanuts at that stand."
Jensen pulls into a small gravel parking lot and they both get out. The sun's beating down on the top of Chris' hat like it's full August instead of May, and when he looks out at the highway, the asphalt shimmers like an oasis in the middle of the desert. The breeze is barely stirring the air, but at least it's cool.
There's a wobbly picnic table next to the small stand. Jensen's not sure it'll hold their combined weight, but Chris thinks it looks sturdy enough. For a long time, they sit side by side, sucking on peanut shells and looking out over the horizon.
"I am sorry," Chris says, after he thinks enough time's passed and Jensen's in a more mellow mood. Man should always own up to his fuck ups.
"Yeah," Jensen replies quietly, squinting out at the nearby trees. "Me too. Not for hitting you –"
"Course not."
Jensen smiles briefly. "But for assuming."
"Naw, man, you did the right thing." Chris stops before speaking again. This part's harder for him than the actual apology. "I am proud of you. Proud of everything you've accomplished. Don't ever think I'm not."
"No, I know you are." Jensen claps a warm, weighted hand on Chris' knee. His thumb rasps across worn denim in a light caress, cool metal of the ring glinting in the sun. "Proud of you, too, man."
"Me?" Chris snorts. "I'm just some mediocre son of a bitch that got lucky."
"So what? You got lucky. Who cares if you earned it or if you didn't bleed enough for it?" Jensen's look is cool, freckles standing out in stark relief from around brilliant green eyes. Chris can't remember Jensen ever looking so serious. "Enjoy it while it lasts, brother, because it doesn't. Nothing does."
You can bullshit yourself until the cows come home, but that still won't make it true –
"Aw, hell no, you have got to be kidding me."
Chris takes another look around the bar in the hopes that the karaoke set-up at the far end might've disappeared. No such luck. What the hell is Jensen thinking?
Jensen pats a friendly hand across Chris' back. His smirk is as gleeful as a kid's. "C'mon, it'll be fun."
"I'm not in the mood to get up in front of a bunch of people and sing tonight, man." Tonight or any night of the past few months, if he's honest with himself.
Jensen strides to the clipboard on the table without looking back. "Yeah, you are," he says, and finishes signing them in with a flourish. "C'mon, I'll buy you a shot."
"You're lucky I don't shoot you," Chris grumbles, but it's hard to be annoyed in the face of Jensen's honest and open enthusiasm. Sort of like kicking a puppy, if a puppy had five inches and a good thirty pounds of muscle on him.
An hour later, Chris is pretty sure there's not enough alcohol in the world for this. Louisiana has got some of the most tone-deaf people on the planet, or maybe it's this bar, Chris doesn't know. But, man, everyone kinda sucks, and all they wanna sing is boyband bullshit. He blames American Idol, really. Everyone thinks they can be a star, and everyone thinks they got what it takes to make it. He wants to tell all of them about friends of his – real musicians with real talent – that've toiled for years without recognition, but he knows it would fall on deaf ears. Tone-deaf ears.
He's laughing at his own admittedly bad joke when the emcee calls Jensen's name. Jensen downs his shot, lets out a wolf-like howl, and claps Chris on the back, the touch lingering, before he strides up to the small stage and takes the mike. Chris has no idea what Jensen's up to, but he knows that look.
The bar is so fucked.
Jensen confers with the emcee for a minute, then turns that mega-watt Hollywood, freckled smile loose, and it's like a bolt of lightning's hit the bar. Everyone stares, including Chris, and he's seen that smile directed his way more than once. Normally it's right before Jensen does some crazy-ass thing.
"Alright, so, this one's for my good buddy, Chris, because he don't wanna sing with the rest of us tonight –" Jensen holds up his hands when the crowd starts hootin' and hollerin' " – but I'm aiming to fix that, and since nothing else I've tried has worked, I'll just have to shame him into it."
When the first strands of Bad Company's 'Feel Like Makin' Love' start, Chris closes his eyes and drops his head to his chest. Good Lord. Jensen cannot be –
Baby, when I think about you
I think about loooooooooooooove
Jesus H, he really is.
Chris watches, listens, in startled amazement as Jensen croons into the microphone like he's Etta James or Marilyn Monroe singing for Kennedy or something. Every word is low, breathy, sultry as lazy summer afternoons, and, the entire time, Jensen's staring at Chris with smoky green eyes, pinning him in place.
Darlin', if I live without you
I live without loooooooooooove
Hands down, it's the dirtiest, most pornographic version of this song that Chris has ever heard. He can't believe – well, that's not exactly true. He can believe Jensen's doing this. He doesn't need to look around to know that the women are all staring at Jensen like they're imagining him naked and sweaty, and, hell, probably some of the men. With those full lips and soulful eyes and swaying hips...even Chris has to adjust himself.
For a moment that stretches into infinity, he remembers, with vivid clarity, what those lips had felt like against his.
When the song ends, the entire bar is stunned into silence for a few beats – then it erupts into wild applause and catcalls for an encore. Jensen flashes a bright, open grin, sultry temptation disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.
But Chris still can't quite catch his breath.
"Well, Chris?" Jensen asks, speaking into the microphone. "You coming up to sing or am I gonna have to break out the big guns and do Zeppelin next?"
As far as dirty threats go, that's one of the best ones Chris has ever heard. "Fuck it," he sighs, and stands. Because, yeah, maybe he can't resist Jensen's smile. And maybe Chris still sort of owes him for the bruises. And maybe, really, the idea of Jensen doing 'Whole Lotta Love' would be like overkill.
And maybe, just maybe, mind, Jensen's got a point.
"They got any David Allen Coe?"
"We're in Louisiana," Jensen replies, as if that settled the matter.
When it's the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded and two outs? Swing for the motherfucking fences –
It's hours later when Chris and Jensen stumble into their motel room, Chris leaning heavily on Jensen for balance. Not that he's drunk precisely – buzzed, sure – but Jensen seems to think he is, and Jensen feels warm and solid against him, so Chris is milking it for the moment. One song had turned into half a dozen, and, at some point, someone had produced a guitar. Which had led to Jensen and Chris performing a couple of Kane songs, with Jensen providing backing vocals in that clear voice of his, and Chris can't remember the last time he's had so much fun just sittin' in front of a crowd and playing his own music.
He's been missing simple joy in his life for too long.
He half-stumbles into Jensen's back when Jensen opens the door to their motel room, and the kiss is more an accident than anything else. One second, Jensen's turning to laugh at him for his clumsiness, and the next, Chris is leaning in to nibble on Jensen's lower lip. There's a stunned, breathless moment of stillness, then Jensen kicks the door shut behind him, and pushes, mouth slanting over Chris' like he's starving and Chris' mouth is his last meal. Chris can taste acrid smoke mixed with the sharper bite of Jack Daniels and he thinks it just might be better than the last time.
Then Jensen shoves him away, chest heaving as if he's run a marathon, and the abrupt loss is like a slap in the face.
"It's not what you think." The instant the words are out of his mouth, Chris wants to take them back.
"You have no idea what I think," Jensen bites back.
"Okay, then, tell me."
For a second, Chris is sure that Jensen's going to ignore it. Ignore him. Then Jensen just gives a little shrug. "What I think is that you don't know shit from shinola most days," he finally says, in a low, controlled voice. "Especially about me. And I think I'm done being your whipping boy and some goddamn substitute."
What the hell? "Substitute? I don't...I don't think you're a substitute, alright."
"Fuck it, man, just – stop, already." Jensen rubs a hand over his face. "I'm tired and drunk and fucked up and it doesn't matter, alright."
"Yeah, it does," Chris argues. He's got a bad feeling that something important's going wrong, and he has no idea how to fix it. "I mean –"
Jensen's fingers are warm over his lips, stilling his words. "It's alright. I'm not Janet. I won't throw anything at your head, I promise."
They both smile at the memory, even though that night had capped a new low for Chris. Then again, he's never had much luck with women not going crazy on him at some point.
"We're good like we've been," Jensen continues. "No need to up and change that just 'cause we're both horny."
"But I...it's not like that." Chris isn't exactly sure what it is like, but he knows it's not what Jensen's thinking.
Whatever it is Jensen's thinking.
"Well, you just let me know when you figure it out, then." Jensen's smile holds more than a little bit of drunken challenge. "I'm gonna hop in the shower."
He leaves Chris in the middle of the room, and Chris stands there, blinking, half-hard, and thinking about that smile. He listens to the sound of the shower starting, and thinks about Jensen's skin, slick and soft and muscled, thinks about the fact that he can't quite get the taste of Jensen's kiss out of his head. Thinks about how hot Jensen had looked getting his dick sucked, how debauched and dirty, about the unbelievably filthy things that he'd said to...well, whatever her name had been. About how Jensen's always pushed Chris into all kinds of shit, but has always had his back...
Fuck it, man. He's done being a coward.
With a decisive nod, he goes stomping to the bathroom and yanks on the shower curtain. Jensen stares back at him, naked and wet, hair slicked back from his face, soap in hand. He doesn't even flinch.
Chris doesn't dare look down. If he does, he'll never say what he needs to.
"You do realize this is more fucked up than a truckstop queer giving blowjobs, right?"
Jensen tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. "What's that?"
"This," Chris replies, and yanks on the back of Jensen's head to bring their mouths together for a hard, messy kiss. He can still taste the Jack, but under it all, there's something more elusive, raw, a taste he's been craving since the first time he'd had it. The soft rasp of Jensen's stubble scrapes across his chin like sandpaper. "Jensen, I..." He falters, stops.
Jensen simply smiles. "Chris, man, relax. It's just sex. I ain't gonna ask you to marry me."
Chris' laughter surprises him, loosens a knot from somewhere deep inside. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
When he steps under the spray, clothes on and all, Jensen's right there, pressing him against the tile, lips against his, asking permission with the flicker of his tongue. Chris opens his mouth, answering with a low moan, and lets go, lets it happen.
Soft lips traverse from his mouth across his cheek to his bruised eye, and Chris lets out a hitched breath at the gesture. One of Jensen's hands slithers under his shirt, thumb ring cool and metallic over his skin, and the contrast has him gasping into the next meeting of lips.
Jensen murmurs something indistinct, then moves his hands up, peeling off wet clothing, warm hands slickly gliding across his chest and stomach, stopping to trace each rib, the concave hollow at the top of his abs, following the matted trail of hair down to the waistband of his jeans. It's like Jensen's looking to memorize Chris by touch, like there might be quiz later and he wants to ace the hell out of it.
Then Jensen fumbles with the zipper of Chris' jeans, and it takes the both of them to get him out of the damn things. Jensen's warm laughter rings in his ears when they both almost slip.
"Careful now, you break your skull, and I'll never let you live it down."
"You would tell everyone," Chris grins, pressing tips of his fingers push along the muscled planes of Jensen's back, down to the hollow of lean hips.
Jensen slides against him, naked and slick, the hot spray of the shower steaming the air around them. "Damn right I would," he replies, and bites at Chris' lower lip.
"Is this...?" Chris ducks in for another kiss, another taste. "Is this what...?"
"Yesss," Jensen hisses, and grinds against him, slow heat mixed with desire. "God, Chris..."
Chris thumps his head on the tiles hard enough to see stars when Jensen slithers to his knees and wraps tight lips around the head of his cock. His hands slide through wet strands of hair as he looks down, breath catching. Full lips stretch over him, slide with every lazy bob of Jensen's head, and this is so fucked up and probably the alcohol talking, but god damn, Jensen's good with his mouth. And Jensen's tongue fluttering along the underside of his cock is pure erotic gold.
"Jesus, Jensen," he murmurs, barely aware he's even speaking out loud. When Jensen releases him with a loud pop and slides back up along his body, he can't tear his gaze from the bruised look to Jensen's lips. It's a very good look on him.
"Best you've ever had, right," Jensen jokes, bracing his hands on either side of Chris' head as he ducks in for another kiss. And Chris wouldn't exactly say the best – that honor belongs to Katie Bowman in his senior year of high school – but Jensen's pretty far up the list.
When Jensen lifts his head, they're plastered together again, chests and cocks and thighs rubbing against each other in a slow dance. "We should take this to the bed," Jensen says softly, and reaches down to shut off the water.
Chris thinks that's the best goddamn idea anyone's had ever.
His hands are clumsy, rough when he dries himself off, and he almost drops the towel twice because he keeps casting glances out of the corner of his eye at Jensen. At the acres of golden skin and the rippling muscles underneath. "Seriously, how much have you been benching?"
"Uh..." Jensen looks down at his chest, tosses the towel to the floor, and shrugs. "I dunno, man, 225, but I do a lot of pushups between my reps."
"Well, it works."
Jensen snatches Chris' towel from him, and presses close, eyes dancing with laughter. "You been checking me out?"
"Yes," Chris replies, not even bothering to deny it, and pulls Jensen down to him for a slow, open-mouthed kiss, whiskey mixing with mirth.
A warm breeze is blowing from the open window, plain white curtains billowing as the wind shifts. Chris can smell saltwater and seaweed, a scent he always associates with the Gulf, as they tumble out of the bathroom and onto the bed, kissing and touching each other in equal measure. A hand glides along his flank as he trails his fingers across strong shoulders. Legs tangle, hairs rubbing and sticking together, and Chris can feel the steady thump-thump of Jensen's heartbeat against his own. Jensen's hands are strong, work-rough, press a lot harder against his skin than he's used to, but it's good. Damn good, even.
He still can't believe he's here, that they're doing this, but he sure as hell isn't gonna stop. It's actually nice, odd in that good way, to be with someone who's interested in going slow and easy, like they've got all night, all year, even, to explore each other.
He can't remember the last time he's wanted to take his time with anything. Can't remember the last time he'd cared. But this is Jensen – one of his best friends – and if a person can't make the effort for a friend, then there's just no hope.
Chris follows the goosebumps along Jensen's arm – stopping at his wrist, the crook of his elbow, the muscled line between his bicep and triceps – to his shoulder, collarbone, lazily moving over soap-scented skin.
"Thought about this..."
"Yeah?"
Chris nods his assent, and smoothes a hand over Jensen's cock, lightly tracing the veins and ridges, smearing pre-come across the tips of his fingers. "Couldn't get the taste of you out of my mind."
Jensen's eyes glitter with something dark when he smiles. "Good," he says, the sound a purr against Chris' lips, and his tongue pushes past Chris' teeth before he can make a reply. Talking's pretty overrated, anyway.
Jensen's hands sweep over him, the touches callused, slow, and he follows the path with his lips, igniting a fire just under Chris' skin. A soft tongue darts at his nipple, gentle teeth rake over his ribs, soft words are murmured against his hips, and it's easy enough to lie back. Enjoy.
"You're awfully good at this," he remarks, then jumps when Jensen's teeth find a sensitive spot along his collarbone, stubble abrading his skin.
"This is nothin'," Jensen jokes, spiderwalking his fingers down Chris' stomach and stopping just above his groin.
"Jen..." Chris places his hand over Jensen's, guides it down.
"Always about the money shot," Jensen complains, even as he closes his fingers around Chris' cock, begins a slow, maddening rhythm that has Chris praying to every deity he can for control.
"C'mere," he rasps, and yanks on the back of Jensen's head, teeth clanking together as he explores the inside of Jensen's mouth with a questing tongue, shuddering each time Jensen's fingers tighten over him, each time the thumb ring slides along his length.
When Jensen lifts his head, his smirk is part dare, part need. "Your turn."
Much as Chris is reluctant to lose the feel of those clever fingers, fair is fair. And it's past time to see if he can make Jensen moan. "Guess I could be persuaded," he says, and wastes no more time pushing Jensen to the pillows and slithering down.
After all, he is all about the money shot.
He opens his lips, slides down, tongue flickering over the slit of Jensen's cock, catching on small droplets of pre-come. The hot, heavy taste fills his mouth as he bobs his head, and he's not very good at this at all, but Jensen doesn't seem to care. At least, not if the way the moans and bucking of his hips are anything to go by. Chris hums a little on the next slide down, the sound vibrating along Jensen's length, back into Chris, and he slips when Jensen thrusts up, chokes a little.
"You okay?" Jensen's concerned voice floats down to him, gentle fingers brushing across his cheeks.
"Yeah," Chris answers, lifting his head long enough to smile. "Just...been awhile."
"I know," Jensen says, and, before Chris can puzzle out how Jensen would know that, Jensen twists around until his face is level with Chris' crotch. When Chris blinks and stares down, Jensen just grins. "Easier this way. Slow."
Chris has a lot of opinions and thoughts on 69ing, but easy and slow aren't two of them. Not that he's going to argue precisely, especially not when Jensen digs his hand into Chris' hip and unhinges his jaw, swallowing Chris' cock like a goddamn pro. He just lets out a sharp, short gasp, and tries his best to give as good as he's getting.
The angle this way is all fucked up, weird, with both of them on their sides, and pretty soon, Chris has lost all feeling in one arm from trying to push up to get any sort of leverage. His one thigh trembles with the effort of holding it up, and his throat aches with every thrust of Jensen's cock, but fuck, fuck, he never wants to stop. Jensen's lips are obscenely tight over him, and he keeps doing some wild butterfly thing with his tongue that Chris tries his best to emulate, but all he can mostly do is moan around Jensen's cock and try to awkwardly move as best he can. Every time he takes a breath, the skin of his torso sticks to Jensen's skin, sending heated shocks along a body already clamoring, aching for more.
Then one of Jensen's hands finds its way between Chris thighs, cupping over his balls, and the shock of it explodes across his senses like a bomb. He tries to give a warning, but Jensen pushes his hips forward at that exact moment, and he grabs a handful of Jensen's ass instead, swallowing as much of Jensen's cock as he can as Jensen's throat works, milking him dry.
Lassitude fills him, and his vision blurs as he closes his eyes. Jesus... The first thick, bitter splash of come gags him when it hits his throat, but he gamely tries to swallow as much as he can. Some of it dribbles across his mouth and chin in spite of his best efforts, but he can't even manage the energy to do anything about it as he flops to his back, vertigo spinning through him, causing the room to tilt.
He feels Jensen moving again, then warm lips dragging across his chin, and his cock gives an interested twitch at the thought of Jensen licking up his own come, but Chris can't even get his eyes to open to enjoy the sight. "Killedme," he mumbles instead, and manages to pat Jensen's back once before it slides down, then off.
"I hope not," Jensen replies, the sound pleased, satisfied, in his ear. "Didn't think you were ever gonna get it, you know."
Chris doesn't even bother to lift his head. However, he does open his eyes this time. Jensen's smile is just this side of smug, eyes bright and clear, cheeks flushed, lips shiny with spit and come. He looks like a pornstar, which shouldn't look as hot as it does. "Hmmm?"
Jensen points between the two of them. "Dave tried to warn me. Said you were a slow one with the hints."
"Uh..." Chris struggles through his post-orgasmic euphoria, and wobbly rises to his elbows, brows furrowed. "Wait a minute. You sayin' Dave knew?" Which isn't even the question he wants to ask, but being befuddled'll do that.
Jensen's laughter is soft, amused. "You are so blond sometimes, man." Before Chris can sputter out a response, Jensen rolls on top of him, solid warmth pinning him back to the bed. "Chris, why do you think I'm here kicking your sorry ass?"
"Well, I..." Then Chris thinks about it, now that he can think. Jensen, not Dave or Jason or, hell, even Steve. When it hits him, all he can do is shake his head. "That's a lot of effort just to get laid."
"Yeah, well, if I'd wanted easy, I'd've stayed in Texas," Jensen replies, with a light kiss to Chris' jaw. "But if you don't want Jason to know how bad you've been treating me..."
Chris can only laugh, then gasp, as Jensen's fingers close over him.
It's not the journey or the destination. But who you have with you along the way –
The jogging pants hit him in the face, wake him from a dead sleep with a muffled curse. "The hell..."
"Come on." Jensen's teeth gleam white in the dark.
"Wha –?"
When he cracks his other eye open, he sees Jensen – in a t-shirt and sweatpants – standing at the foot of the bed. "Get dressed. Meet you outside."
Three minutes later, huffing, wife-beater and jogging pants on, feet shoved hastily into boots (no socks), Chris steps out onto the patio. He looks at Jensen, who simply points up. The meteor shower up above them is as unexpected as it is beautiful.
Jensen's voice is a low hum in his ear. "They say when you see one of these you're supposed to make a wish."
And Chris thinks about it, about all the things he should have had, all the things he'd done, mistakes he'd made – and there've been some doozies – and maybe he'd wish it all away. But then, everything he'd ever done has brought him to this point. To this life. And maybe it's not perfect, but hell, what is? It's his.
He bumps shoulders with Jensen, companionable and close. "Thanks," he says, a moment later.
He doesn't need to look to know Jensen's smiling. "What friends are for."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm thanking you for the reminder."
Jensen leans his elbows on the railing, and gives Chris a long look. "My Uncle Jack usedta say there were three things you couldn't tell a man unless he was your best friend – everything else was fair game."
"I'm listening."
"That a man's bad in bed, that he's a lousy driver and that he hasn't got a sense of humor. But a good friend – the best and truest of friends – well, they can tell you all that. Y'follow?"
And yeah, Chris thinks maybe he does. Thinks maybe he finally, really does get why Jensen's here. "Well," he drawls, slowly testing each word, "it's a good thing, because we both know you're a lousy driver."
He knows he's made the right choice when Jensen grins back at him. "Maybe, but at least I'm not known as 60-second man."
Chris lifts an eyebrow. "You know better."
"And no sense of humor," Jensen continues, with a sad, tsking sound. "You're lucky I like you anyway."
"This your way of asking me to prove myself again?"
"Well..." Jensen draws out the word on a wink.
Chris slaps Jensen on the back. "Last one on the bed rides bitch."
He's halfway inside before Jensen catches up with him.
End.
Pairing: Christian Kane/Jensen Ackles
Rating: NC-17
(Continued from here)
Tomorrow's just another chance to fuck up worse than you've done today –
Jensen's still MIA the next morning when Chris drags himself out of bed and hobbles to the shower. In the harsh, unforgiving light of the bathroom, his bruises shine like beacons. He pops four ibuprophen and lets the hot water do the rest. His head still throbs with hangover and regret.
He's not really hungry, but he knows he needs to eat something, so he throws on a clean shirt and a pair of cut-offs and makes his way across the parking lot to the Waffle House. No one even looks at him twice. But then, he reckons, a place like this has seen far worse than his beat up face.
He orders a bowl of grits with cheese and a cup of coffee, and has just poured Tabasco over the grits (best hangover cure ever invented) when Jensen slides in the booth across from him. Jensen's lips are red and puffy and Chris can see a large bruise disappearing under the collar of his shirt. The sense of satisfaction feels a little hollow in the daylight.
"Look, about last –"
"Forget it."
"And the –"
"I said forget it. We're cool."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care."
Chris thinks about pressing the issue, but Jensen's a stubborn son of a bitch when he's got a mad on, and Chris is inclined to let him ride it out. "Alright," he finally replies. They'll deal with it when Jensen's ready. "Pass me the salt?"
"We're not that cool." Jensen signals for their waitress. He doesn't give Chris another glance. "Get it yourself."
Paradise is normally where you least expect it –
"Pull over."
"Why?"
"Dude selling boiled peanuts at that stand."
Jensen pulls into a small gravel parking lot and they both get out. The sun's beating down on the top of Chris' hat like it's full August instead of May, and when he looks out at the highway, the asphalt shimmers like an oasis in the middle of the desert. The breeze is barely stirring the air, but at least it's cool.
There's a wobbly picnic table next to the small stand. Jensen's not sure it'll hold their combined weight, but Chris thinks it looks sturdy enough. For a long time, they sit side by side, sucking on peanut shells and looking out over the horizon.
"I am sorry," Chris says, after he thinks enough time's passed and Jensen's in a more mellow mood. Man should always own up to his fuck ups.
"Yeah," Jensen replies quietly, squinting out at the nearby trees. "Me too. Not for hitting you –"
"Course not."
Jensen smiles briefly. "But for assuming."
"Naw, man, you did the right thing." Chris stops before speaking again. This part's harder for him than the actual apology. "I am proud of you. Proud of everything you've accomplished. Don't ever think I'm not."
"No, I know you are." Jensen claps a warm, weighted hand on Chris' knee. His thumb rasps across worn denim in a light caress, cool metal of the ring glinting in the sun. "Proud of you, too, man."
"Me?" Chris snorts. "I'm just some mediocre son of a bitch that got lucky."
"So what? You got lucky. Who cares if you earned it or if you didn't bleed enough for it?" Jensen's look is cool, freckles standing out in stark relief from around brilliant green eyes. Chris can't remember Jensen ever looking so serious. "Enjoy it while it lasts, brother, because it doesn't. Nothing does."
You can bullshit yourself until the cows come home, but that still won't make it true –
"Aw, hell no, you have got to be kidding me."
Chris takes another look around the bar in the hopes that the karaoke set-up at the far end might've disappeared. No such luck. What the hell is Jensen thinking?
Jensen pats a friendly hand across Chris' back. His smirk is as gleeful as a kid's. "C'mon, it'll be fun."
"I'm not in the mood to get up in front of a bunch of people and sing tonight, man." Tonight or any night of the past few months, if he's honest with himself.
Jensen strides to the clipboard on the table without looking back. "Yeah, you are," he says, and finishes signing them in with a flourish. "C'mon, I'll buy you a shot."
"You're lucky I don't shoot you," Chris grumbles, but it's hard to be annoyed in the face of Jensen's honest and open enthusiasm. Sort of like kicking a puppy, if a puppy had five inches and a good thirty pounds of muscle on him.
An hour later, Chris is pretty sure there's not enough alcohol in the world for this. Louisiana has got some of the most tone-deaf people on the planet, or maybe it's this bar, Chris doesn't know. But, man, everyone kinda sucks, and all they wanna sing is boyband bullshit. He blames American Idol, really. Everyone thinks they can be a star, and everyone thinks they got what it takes to make it. He wants to tell all of them about friends of his – real musicians with real talent – that've toiled for years without recognition, but he knows it would fall on deaf ears. Tone-deaf ears.
He's laughing at his own admittedly bad joke when the emcee calls Jensen's name. Jensen downs his shot, lets out a wolf-like howl, and claps Chris on the back, the touch lingering, before he strides up to the small stage and takes the mike. Chris has no idea what Jensen's up to, but he knows that look.
The bar is so fucked.
Jensen confers with the emcee for a minute, then turns that mega-watt Hollywood, freckled smile loose, and it's like a bolt of lightning's hit the bar. Everyone stares, including Chris, and he's seen that smile directed his way more than once. Normally it's right before Jensen does some crazy-ass thing.
"Alright, so, this one's for my good buddy, Chris, because he don't wanna sing with the rest of us tonight –" Jensen holds up his hands when the crowd starts hootin' and hollerin' " – but I'm aiming to fix that, and since nothing else I've tried has worked, I'll just have to shame him into it."
When the first strands of Bad Company's 'Feel Like Makin' Love' start, Chris closes his eyes and drops his head to his chest. Good Lord. Jensen cannot be –
Baby, when I think about you
I think about loooooooooooooove
Jesus H, he really is.
Chris watches, listens, in startled amazement as Jensen croons into the microphone like he's Etta James or Marilyn Monroe singing for Kennedy or something. Every word is low, breathy, sultry as lazy summer afternoons, and, the entire time, Jensen's staring at Chris with smoky green eyes, pinning him in place.
Darlin', if I live without you
I live without loooooooooooove
Hands down, it's the dirtiest, most pornographic version of this song that Chris has ever heard. He can't believe – well, that's not exactly true. He can believe Jensen's doing this. He doesn't need to look around to know that the women are all staring at Jensen like they're imagining him naked and sweaty, and, hell, probably some of the men. With those full lips and soulful eyes and swaying hips...even Chris has to adjust himself.
For a moment that stretches into infinity, he remembers, with vivid clarity, what those lips had felt like against his.
When the song ends, the entire bar is stunned into silence for a few beats – then it erupts into wild applause and catcalls for an encore. Jensen flashes a bright, open grin, sultry temptation disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.
But Chris still can't quite catch his breath.
"Well, Chris?" Jensen asks, speaking into the microphone. "You coming up to sing or am I gonna have to break out the big guns and do Zeppelin next?"
As far as dirty threats go, that's one of the best ones Chris has ever heard. "Fuck it," he sighs, and stands. Because, yeah, maybe he can't resist Jensen's smile. And maybe Chris still sort of owes him for the bruises. And maybe, really, the idea of Jensen doing 'Whole Lotta Love' would be like overkill.
And maybe, just maybe, mind, Jensen's got a point.
"They got any David Allen Coe?"
"We're in Louisiana," Jensen replies, as if that settled the matter.
When it's the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded and two outs? Swing for the motherfucking fences –
It's hours later when Chris and Jensen stumble into their motel room, Chris leaning heavily on Jensen for balance. Not that he's drunk precisely – buzzed, sure – but Jensen seems to think he is, and Jensen feels warm and solid against him, so Chris is milking it for the moment. One song had turned into half a dozen, and, at some point, someone had produced a guitar. Which had led to Jensen and Chris performing a couple of Kane songs, with Jensen providing backing vocals in that clear voice of his, and Chris can't remember the last time he's had so much fun just sittin' in front of a crowd and playing his own music.
He's been missing simple joy in his life for too long.
He half-stumbles into Jensen's back when Jensen opens the door to their motel room, and the kiss is more an accident than anything else. One second, Jensen's turning to laugh at him for his clumsiness, and the next, Chris is leaning in to nibble on Jensen's lower lip. There's a stunned, breathless moment of stillness, then Jensen kicks the door shut behind him, and pushes, mouth slanting over Chris' like he's starving and Chris' mouth is his last meal. Chris can taste acrid smoke mixed with the sharper bite of Jack Daniels and he thinks it just might be better than the last time.
Then Jensen shoves him away, chest heaving as if he's run a marathon, and the abrupt loss is like a slap in the face.
"It's not what you think." The instant the words are out of his mouth, Chris wants to take them back.
"You have no idea what I think," Jensen bites back.
"Okay, then, tell me."
For a second, Chris is sure that Jensen's going to ignore it. Ignore him. Then Jensen just gives a little shrug. "What I think is that you don't know shit from shinola most days," he finally says, in a low, controlled voice. "Especially about me. And I think I'm done being your whipping boy and some goddamn substitute."
What the hell? "Substitute? I don't...I don't think you're a substitute, alright."
"Fuck it, man, just – stop, already." Jensen rubs a hand over his face. "I'm tired and drunk and fucked up and it doesn't matter, alright."
"Yeah, it does," Chris argues. He's got a bad feeling that something important's going wrong, and he has no idea how to fix it. "I mean –"
Jensen's fingers are warm over his lips, stilling his words. "It's alright. I'm not Janet. I won't throw anything at your head, I promise."
They both smile at the memory, even though that night had capped a new low for Chris. Then again, he's never had much luck with women not going crazy on him at some point.
"We're good like we've been," Jensen continues. "No need to up and change that just 'cause we're both horny."
"But I...it's not like that." Chris isn't exactly sure what it is like, but he knows it's not what Jensen's thinking.
Whatever it is Jensen's thinking.
"Well, you just let me know when you figure it out, then." Jensen's smile holds more than a little bit of drunken challenge. "I'm gonna hop in the shower."
He leaves Chris in the middle of the room, and Chris stands there, blinking, half-hard, and thinking about that smile. He listens to the sound of the shower starting, and thinks about Jensen's skin, slick and soft and muscled, thinks about the fact that he can't quite get the taste of Jensen's kiss out of his head. Thinks about how hot Jensen had looked getting his dick sucked, how debauched and dirty, about the unbelievably filthy things that he'd said to...well, whatever her name had been. About how Jensen's always pushed Chris into all kinds of shit, but has always had his back...
Fuck it, man. He's done being a coward.
With a decisive nod, he goes stomping to the bathroom and yanks on the shower curtain. Jensen stares back at him, naked and wet, hair slicked back from his face, soap in hand. He doesn't even flinch.
Chris doesn't dare look down. If he does, he'll never say what he needs to.
"You do realize this is more fucked up than a truckstop queer giving blowjobs, right?"
Jensen tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. "What's that?"
"This," Chris replies, and yanks on the back of Jensen's head to bring their mouths together for a hard, messy kiss. He can still taste the Jack, but under it all, there's something more elusive, raw, a taste he's been craving since the first time he'd had it. The soft rasp of Jensen's stubble scrapes across his chin like sandpaper. "Jensen, I..." He falters, stops.
Jensen simply smiles. "Chris, man, relax. It's just sex. I ain't gonna ask you to marry me."
Chris' laughter surprises him, loosens a knot from somewhere deep inside. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
When he steps under the spray, clothes on and all, Jensen's right there, pressing him against the tile, lips against his, asking permission with the flicker of his tongue. Chris opens his mouth, answering with a low moan, and lets go, lets it happen.
Soft lips traverse from his mouth across his cheek to his bruised eye, and Chris lets out a hitched breath at the gesture. One of Jensen's hands slithers under his shirt, thumb ring cool and metallic over his skin, and the contrast has him gasping into the next meeting of lips.
Jensen murmurs something indistinct, then moves his hands up, peeling off wet clothing, warm hands slickly gliding across his chest and stomach, stopping to trace each rib, the concave hollow at the top of his abs, following the matted trail of hair down to the waistband of his jeans. It's like Jensen's looking to memorize Chris by touch, like there might be quiz later and he wants to ace the hell out of it.
Then Jensen fumbles with the zipper of Chris' jeans, and it takes the both of them to get him out of the damn things. Jensen's warm laughter rings in his ears when they both almost slip.
"Careful now, you break your skull, and I'll never let you live it down."
"You would tell everyone," Chris grins, pressing tips of his fingers push along the muscled planes of Jensen's back, down to the hollow of lean hips.
Jensen slides against him, naked and slick, the hot spray of the shower steaming the air around them. "Damn right I would," he replies, and bites at Chris' lower lip.
"Is this...?" Chris ducks in for another kiss, another taste. "Is this what...?"
"Yesss," Jensen hisses, and grinds against him, slow heat mixed with desire. "God, Chris..."
Chris thumps his head on the tiles hard enough to see stars when Jensen slithers to his knees and wraps tight lips around the head of his cock. His hands slide through wet strands of hair as he looks down, breath catching. Full lips stretch over him, slide with every lazy bob of Jensen's head, and this is so fucked up and probably the alcohol talking, but god damn, Jensen's good with his mouth. And Jensen's tongue fluttering along the underside of his cock is pure erotic gold.
"Jesus, Jensen," he murmurs, barely aware he's even speaking out loud. When Jensen releases him with a loud pop and slides back up along his body, he can't tear his gaze from the bruised look to Jensen's lips. It's a very good look on him.
"Best you've ever had, right," Jensen jokes, bracing his hands on either side of Chris' head as he ducks in for another kiss. And Chris wouldn't exactly say the best – that honor belongs to Katie Bowman in his senior year of high school – but Jensen's pretty far up the list.
When Jensen lifts his head, they're plastered together again, chests and cocks and thighs rubbing against each other in a slow dance. "We should take this to the bed," Jensen says softly, and reaches down to shut off the water.
Chris thinks that's the best goddamn idea anyone's had ever.
His hands are clumsy, rough when he dries himself off, and he almost drops the towel twice because he keeps casting glances out of the corner of his eye at Jensen. At the acres of golden skin and the rippling muscles underneath. "Seriously, how much have you been benching?"
"Uh..." Jensen looks down at his chest, tosses the towel to the floor, and shrugs. "I dunno, man, 225, but I do a lot of pushups between my reps."
"Well, it works."
Jensen snatches Chris' towel from him, and presses close, eyes dancing with laughter. "You been checking me out?"
"Yes," Chris replies, not even bothering to deny it, and pulls Jensen down to him for a slow, open-mouthed kiss, whiskey mixing with mirth.
A warm breeze is blowing from the open window, plain white curtains billowing as the wind shifts. Chris can smell saltwater and seaweed, a scent he always associates with the Gulf, as they tumble out of the bathroom and onto the bed, kissing and touching each other in equal measure. A hand glides along his flank as he trails his fingers across strong shoulders. Legs tangle, hairs rubbing and sticking together, and Chris can feel the steady thump-thump of Jensen's heartbeat against his own. Jensen's hands are strong, work-rough, press a lot harder against his skin than he's used to, but it's good. Damn good, even.
He still can't believe he's here, that they're doing this, but he sure as hell isn't gonna stop. It's actually nice, odd in that good way, to be with someone who's interested in going slow and easy, like they've got all night, all year, even, to explore each other.
He can't remember the last time he's wanted to take his time with anything. Can't remember the last time he'd cared. But this is Jensen – one of his best friends – and if a person can't make the effort for a friend, then there's just no hope.
Chris follows the goosebumps along Jensen's arm – stopping at his wrist, the crook of his elbow, the muscled line between his bicep and triceps – to his shoulder, collarbone, lazily moving over soap-scented skin.
"Thought about this..."
"Yeah?"
Chris nods his assent, and smoothes a hand over Jensen's cock, lightly tracing the veins and ridges, smearing pre-come across the tips of his fingers. "Couldn't get the taste of you out of my mind."
Jensen's eyes glitter with something dark when he smiles. "Good," he says, the sound a purr against Chris' lips, and his tongue pushes past Chris' teeth before he can make a reply. Talking's pretty overrated, anyway.
Jensen's hands sweep over him, the touches callused, slow, and he follows the path with his lips, igniting a fire just under Chris' skin. A soft tongue darts at his nipple, gentle teeth rake over his ribs, soft words are murmured against his hips, and it's easy enough to lie back. Enjoy.
"You're awfully good at this," he remarks, then jumps when Jensen's teeth find a sensitive spot along his collarbone, stubble abrading his skin.
"This is nothin'," Jensen jokes, spiderwalking his fingers down Chris' stomach and stopping just above his groin.
"Jen..." Chris places his hand over Jensen's, guides it down.
"Always about the money shot," Jensen complains, even as he closes his fingers around Chris' cock, begins a slow, maddening rhythm that has Chris praying to every deity he can for control.
"C'mere," he rasps, and yanks on the back of Jensen's head, teeth clanking together as he explores the inside of Jensen's mouth with a questing tongue, shuddering each time Jensen's fingers tighten over him, each time the thumb ring slides along his length.
When Jensen lifts his head, his smirk is part dare, part need. "Your turn."
Much as Chris is reluctant to lose the feel of those clever fingers, fair is fair. And it's past time to see if he can make Jensen moan. "Guess I could be persuaded," he says, and wastes no more time pushing Jensen to the pillows and slithering down.
After all, he is all about the money shot.
He opens his lips, slides down, tongue flickering over the slit of Jensen's cock, catching on small droplets of pre-come. The hot, heavy taste fills his mouth as he bobs his head, and he's not very good at this at all, but Jensen doesn't seem to care. At least, not if the way the moans and bucking of his hips are anything to go by. Chris hums a little on the next slide down, the sound vibrating along Jensen's length, back into Chris, and he slips when Jensen thrusts up, chokes a little.
"You okay?" Jensen's concerned voice floats down to him, gentle fingers brushing across his cheeks.
"Yeah," Chris answers, lifting his head long enough to smile. "Just...been awhile."
"I know," Jensen says, and, before Chris can puzzle out how Jensen would know that, Jensen twists around until his face is level with Chris' crotch. When Chris blinks and stares down, Jensen just grins. "Easier this way. Slow."
Chris has a lot of opinions and thoughts on 69ing, but easy and slow aren't two of them. Not that he's going to argue precisely, especially not when Jensen digs his hand into Chris' hip and unhinges his jaw, swallowing Chris' cock like a goddamn pro. He just lets out a sharp, short gasp, and tries his best to give as good as he's getting.
The angle this way is all fucked up, weird, with both of them on their sides, and pretty soon, Chris has lost all feeling in one arm from trying to push up to get any sort of leverage. His one thigh trembles with the effort of holding it up, and his throat aches with every thrust of Jensen's cock, but fuck, fuck, he never wants to stop. Jensen's lips are obscenely tight over him, and he keeps doing some wild butterfly thing with his tongue that Chris tries his best to emulate, but all he can mostly do is moan around Jensen's cock and try to awkwardly move as best he can. Every time he takes a breath, the skin of his torso sticks to Jensen's skin, sending heated shocks along a body already clamoring, aching for more.
Then one of Jensen's hands finds its way between Chris thighs, cupping over his balls, and the shock of it explodes across his senses like a bomb. He tries to give a warning, but Jensen pushes his hips forward at that exact moment, and he grabs a handful of Jensen's ass instead, swallowing as much of Jensen's cock as he can as Jensen's throat works, milking him dry.
Lassitude fills him, and his vision blurs as he closes his eyes. Jesus... The first thick, bitter splash of come gags him when it hits his throat, but he gamely tries to swallow as much as he can. Some of it dribbles across his mouth and chin in spite of his best efforts, but he can't even manage the energy to do anything about it as he flops to his back, vertigo spinning through him, causing the room to tilt.
He feels Jensen moving again, then warm lips dragging across his chin, and his cock gives an interested twitch at the thought of Jensen licking up his own come, but Chris can't even get his eyes to open to enjoy the sight. "Killedme," he mumbles instead, and manages to pat Jensen's back once before it slides down, then off.
"I hope not," Jensen replies, the sound pleased, satisfied, in his ear. "Didn't think you were ever gonna get it, you know."
Chris doesn't even bother to lift his head. However, he does open his eyes this time. Jensen's smile is just this side of smug, eyes bright and clear, cheeks flushed, lips shiny with spit and come. He looks like a pornstar, which shouldn't look as hot as it does. "Hmmm?"
Jensen points between the two of them. "Dave tried to warn me. Said you were a slow one with the hints."
"Uh..." Chris struggles through his post-orgasmic euphoria, and wobbly rises to his elbows, brows furrowed. "Wait a minute. You sayin' Dave knew?" Which isn't even the question he wants to ask, but being befuddled'll do that.
Jensen's laughter is soft, amused. "You are so blond sometimes, man." Before Chris can sputter out a response, Jensen rolls on top of him, solid warmth pinning him back to the bed. "Chris, why do you think I'm here kicking your sorry ass?"
"Well, I..." Then Chris thinks about it, now that he can think. Jensen, not Dave or Jason or, hell, even Steve. When it hits him, all he can do is shake his head. "That's a lot of effort just to get laid."
"Yeah, well, if I'd wanted easy, I'd've stayed in Texas," Jensen replies, with a light kiss to Chris' jaw. "But if you don't want Jason to know how bad you've been treating me..."
Chris can only laugh, then gasp, as Jensen's fingers close over him.
It's not the journey or the destination. But who you have with you along the way –
The jogging pants hit him in the face, wake him from a dead sleep with a muffled curse. "The hell..."
"Come on." Jensen's teeth gleam white in the dark.
"Wha –?"
When he cracks his other eye open, he sees Jensen – in a t-shirt and sweatpants – standing at the foot of the bed. "Get dressed. Meet you outside."
Three minutes later, huffing, wife-beater and jogging pants on, feet shoved hastily into boots (no socks), Chris steps out onto the patio. He looks at Jensen, who simply points up. The meteor shower up above them is as unexpected as it is beautiful.
Jensen's voice is a low hum in his ear. "They say when you see one of these you're supposed to make a wish."
And Chris thinks about it, about all the things he should have had, all the things he'd done, mistakes he'd made – and there've been some doozies – and maybe he'd wish it all away. But then, everything he'd ever done has brought him to this point. To this life. And maybe it's not perfect, but hell, what is? It's his.
He bumps shoulders with Jensen, companionable and close. "Thanks," he says, a moment later.
He doesn't need to look to know Jensen's smiling. "What friends are for."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm thanking you for the reminder."
Jensen leans his elbows on the railing, and gives Chris a long look. "My Uncle Jack usedta say there were three things you couldn't tell a man unless he was your best friend – everything else was fair game."
"I'm listening."
"That a man's bad in bed, that he's a lousy driver and that he hasn't got a sense of humor. But a good friend – the best and truest of friends – well, they can tell you all that. Y'follow?"
And yeah, Chris thinks maybe he does. Thinks maybe he finally, really does get why Jensen's here. "Well," he drawls, slowly testing each word, "it's a good thing, because we both know you're a lousy driver."
He knows he's made the right choice when Jensen grins back at him. "Maybe, but at least I'm not known as 60-second man."
Chris lifts an eyebrow. "You know better."
"And no sense of humor," Jensen continues, with a sad, tsking sound. "You're lucky I like you anyway."
"This your way of asking me to prove myself again?"
"Well..." Jensen draws out the word on a wink.
Chris slaps Jensen on the back. "Last one on the bed rides bitch."
He's halfway inside before Jensen catches up with him.
End.
