Work Header

There's A Point To This Story

Work Text:

There’s no point to this story, Jensen thought once. No direction, no purpose, no goal – no point.

He knows now, as he slides up behind Misha’s chair in the quiet anteroom, breathing in the strange combination of smells from Misha’s coconut shampoo and spicy grapefruit shower gel, that this is the point.

It’s just them so he wraps an arm around Misha’s back, hangs his forearm over Misha’s right shoulder and drops his chin onto Misha’s left shoulder. He turns into the warmth of Misha’s neck, brushing his lips against the skin; not kissing, just – well, not kissing.

“Did you see this?” Misha says, eyes cast down, he doesn’t turn to acknowledge Jensen, but even settled in his hard-back chair, he manages to lean subconsciously into him, in the way that they always consciously, or subconsciously, fill each other’s space.

Misha’s pointing to a column in the newspaper on the table in front of him. Jensen leans forward a little to read. It’s just a piece on the ridiculousness of the human experience and it’s funny but Jensen’s more than a little distracted by Misha’s stubble catching in his fuller beard.

“Yeah, it’s cute,” he huffs, quietly amused, and thinks about nuzzling his nose into Misha’s hair.

But ...

“Panel, man. Come on,” he says, sliding a hand down to take Misha’s and pulling him up and out of his chair in one smooth motion, “And try to tone it down – they notice, you know.”

“Moi?” Misha asks, holding his free hand to his chest in faux shock as Jensen starts to tug him out of the room.

Misha’s right, of course. It’s always Jensen who loses himself so completely in this thing that they have, not that Misha tries to stop him or fails to follow him.

As soon as they sit themselves down in the uncomfortable stage chairs for their panels, Jensen forgets. He forgets he’s not supposed to flirt – he forgets he’s not supposed to stare so overtly with love and affection, not supposed to touch too much or tease too much, not supposed to cup Misha’s cheek in his palm and playfully push him away and especially not supposed to find the way Misha grins and curls his knees up towards his chest on his seat absolutely one of the most fucking adorable things he’s ever seen.

He gave up a long time ago trying to analyze this; they both did. They tried to label it once, in the early days, when what they were feeling confused the hell out of them both; and by trying to label it they’d almost destroyed it. It doesn’t fit comfortably into any of society’s accepted norms and they’d twisted it, and tried to force it, and tried to second-guess it instead of just letting it be.

They know better now, thank God, because Jensen wouldn’t give this up for all the moons of Jupiter.

The panel goes too fast for Jensen’s liking, the sixty minutes flying away, and before Jensen knows it, he’s being whisked off in one direction and Misha’s being whisked off in the other.

Misha’s face pulls itself into a huge grin, all crow’s feet and laugh lines, and he yells, “Thanks for the flowers,” over his shoulder, his voice echoing through the corridor as their minders pull them apart; though Jensen’s noticed that they’re never really apart; not even when they’re not together.


Misha’s already in the hotel room when Jensen gets back. Well, technically, it’s Jensen’s hotel room but Jensen and Misha have never been one for technicalities.

Jensen throws the magazine he picked up on his way through the lobby next to the pile of discarded jeans, blue shirt, dark socks, and (for once) dark briefs that lies crumpled on the bed.

“Honey, I’m home,” he says loudly and is rewarded by the sound of muffled giggling and loud splashing from the bathroom.

Jensen smiles and pokes his head around the edge of the partly-open door. Misha’s lolled back in the tub, bubbles up to his underarms, his skin pink from the heat, his face shining with sweat. There are half a dozen toy battleships bobbing around in the water, barely visible as they struggle with the foamy obstacle.

“Stay,” Jensen orders, pointing a strict finger Misha’s way.

“Aye, aye Captain,” Misha says with a lazy salute.

It takes two minutes for Jensen to pour the whisky, put in the ice, strip, and rejoin Misha in the bathroom. It takes another two minutes for him to persuade Misha to shuffle forward so that he can slot in behind him in the water, because the tub’s not really big enough for two men, let alone two their size.

“I was just about finished, actually,” Misha says, leaning forward between Jensen’s knees so that Jensen can wash his back.

Jensen ignores him. He spreads one palm around Misha’s side, picks up a nearby bar of soap in the other and slides it over Misha’s skin until Misha’s skin is slippery and Jensen’s hands can move in circles and strokes without friction. It’s some musky soap that Misha must have brought with him because it’s not the standard hotel stuff, and it’s nice. Probably some kind of aromatherapy thing.

“You can never be too clean,” Jensen says, moving his hand slowly up Misha’s back, bumping the pad of his thumb along the knobs of Misha’s spine as he goes. He looks around for shampoo and there’s more of the same musky range in a small bottle on the edge of the bath just behind his head.

“I already washed my hair,” Misha says when Jensen puts the first drops of the cold shampoo onto the top of his head.

Jensen puts his fingers into Misha’s hair, grabs a small handful and pulls back lightly, “Then you shouldn’t have started without me.”

His fingertips massage slowly through Misha’s scalp, his thumbs rub small circles over the bone behind Misha’s ears and Misha drops his head and goes quiet. Jensen’s cock swells, warm and fat between his legs and pushes up against Misha’s coccyx. He ignores it; they both do. He strokes his hands down Misha’s back and ducks his head in to press lips to Misha’s neck, tasting soap, before he pulls back and washes his own hair. The shower’s one of those detachable shower heads so he runs the shower for a couple of minutes by their feet until the water’s warm and he rinses the shampoo from both their heads.

Misha shakes his like a dog.


“Your fault,” and Jensen nearly gets a knee in the groin as Misha raises himself onto the balls of his feet and twists in the water to face Jensen. Misha stands up, as aroused as Jensen is, and showing just as little inclination to do anything about it. He places one hand on top of Jensen’s head to steady himself as he climbs out of the bath.

They get dressed slowly in clean clothes. Jensen adjusts Misha’s collar; tidies the hem of his shirt; tries, and fails, to pat down a persistent sticky-out bit of Misha’s hair with spit.

“You do know I just washed that – twice?” Misha points out, standing patiently amused, in front of Jensen.

Misha looks hot when he’s neat. Jensen fusses. Sue him.

“How does your hair even do that?” Jensen asks screwing his face up in concentration as he slowly removes his hand from the slicked-down renegade tuft only to have it spring back up again.

He scowls, only half-seriously. Oh, well. Misha looks hot when he’s scruffy too.

The evening’s spent in a bar; or maybe three. It’s a blur.

Jensen mingles in the first bar, making sure he says hi to everyone, trying to hide his shock at Sebastian’s language (because Jensen never thought of himself as a prude until he met Sebastian), trying to out-bear-hug Ty, and reluctantly singing a tipsy duet with Rob (because Rob’s a professional, and good though Jensen is, he’s fairly sure he’s not as good as Rob). Misha’s there, mingling too, somewhere; there’s always some part of Jensen that senses him even when he can’t see him or hear him. Once Jensen wondered about how that worked; worried even. He hasn’t wondered about it too much for a long time.

At the second bar, they prop mirrored elbows on the wooden counter and hold court as their friends gravitate in and out of their bubble. It’s sociable, they’re sociable, but they find themselves alone more often than not. They leave after 30 minutes at the third bar.

Some would say that they’ve been building up to this all day, but Jensen wouldn’t, because that would make sex the point, and it isn’t. That’s just ... well, it’s completely missing the point.

He’s willing to concede, as he leans against Misha, breathing him in and enjoying his heat, that it might be a point.

Misha’s boxed in by Jensen’s arms and body against the door of the hotel room and he’s putting up the pretence of trying to squirm away, though Jensen thinks it’s just an excuse to squirm because he must be able to feel, even if he can’t see, the effect his wriggling is having.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jensen growls. He leans in closer, taking playful advantage of his greater weight and height. He brushes his lips along Misha’s jaw and down the strong tendons in his neck to his collarbone, darting his tongue in and out like a snake, tasting Misha’s skin under the lingering flavors of musky soap.

Misha makes a strangled ‘gnnnh’ sound. The back of his head hits the door with a dull thunk. “Somewhere less solid,” he says, nipping Jensen’s earlobe.

Jensen laughs, starts walking backwards, pulling Misha with him. After a few steps, Misha starts pushing instead of being pulled and Jensen’s not surprised when the back of his knees hit the bed and he falls back, clutching onto Misha’s shirtsleeves as he goes, twisting at the last minute to avoid being crushed by six feet of sharp bone and toned muscle. He still manages to get one of Misha’s elbows in his ribs.

For a few minutes they just lie there, side by side, matching smiles on their faces. Then Jensen props himself up on an elbow and with his other hand starts to undo the buttons on Misha’s shirt. He does it slowly, not intentionally seductive, simply relishing the sight of slowly exposing the tanned skin; enjoying the feeling of his fingers and knuckles brushing against the warmth of Misha’s torso as he works down to the bottom button. His hand splays on Misha’s chest and he slides the cloth away to one side, puts his lips around Misha’s nipple; flattens his tongue along the hard bud of flesh.

Misha gulps in a breath, arches his back just barely into Jensen’s touch. Jensen keeps going, puts kisses against Misha’s ribs; licks a warm tongue down his sternum; sucks a bruise into the place where Misha’s last rib meets softer, more giving flesh.

Jensen goes lower, trailing the tip of his nose through the soft hair on Misha’s belly, dipping his tongue into Misha’s bellybutton, scraping his teeth lightly over the hip bone that peaks suggestively above the waistband of Misha’s jeans.

He slips off the end of the bed, and sits back on his heels between Misha’s knees. Misha’s feet are still firmly planted on the floor, boots and all. The boots are the first to go, then the socks, then, kneeling upright, Misha’s belt, the button on his jeans; the zipper.

“Lift your butt.”

Jensen pulls Misha’s Jeans and briefs down, over Misha’s hips, down his thighs and over his ankles. He leans forward, stroking his hands up the length of Misha’s legs; the jut of his ankle, the muscle of his calf, the curve of his knee, the smooth skin of his inner thigh and he nuzzles at the dark hair between Misha’s legs, his cheek brushing against the velvet skin of Misha’s penis. Misha groans unashamedly, making fists in the comforter and lifts his hips up in small jerks towards Jensen.

Jensen’s hands move to Misha’s hips, hold him down while his thumbs rub soothing circles in the skin that stretches over the bone. He lowers his head, turns it to one side and kisses a line along the inside of Misha’s thigh. Misha hisses from the bed, twists his hips left, then right. Jensen looks up through his eyelashes, watches Misha writhe, his head thrown back so all Jensen can really see is the underside of his chin.

Jensen lifts Misha’s knees up over his shoulders, leans forward, takes the tip of Misha’s penis in his mouth, licks around the head, dips the tip of his tongue against the slit and spreads the salty, bitter liquid around the spongy flesh. He sucks down slowly, rewarded with nonsense babbling from the bed; the tip of Misha’s penis nudges the back of his throat. He puts the tiniest bit of teeth into the drag back up. There’s a gasp of inarticulate pleasure. He chases it, tries to capture it again; his mouth tight as he drags down again, hollowing out his cheeks when he reaches the base. He sets up an even rhythm, a little bit of tongue, a little scrape of teeth. Spit and pre-cum dribble down his chin.

Misha’s so close, so desperate; Jensen hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet. He smiles. There’s something almost worshipful about this. He doesn’t care.

He moves one hand and strokes his forefinger across Misha’s sac, wiping up a liberal coating of dribble. He moves his finger between Misha’s ass cheeks and strokes over and around the little circle of puckered muscle, teasing but not entering and the litany of profanity that comes out of Misha’s mouth would make Sebastian blush.

It only takes one final circle of Jensen’s finger on that muscle, one final loop of his tongue on the silky head of Misha’s penis, one final drag down to feel the weight of him in Jensen’s mouth. Jensen feels Misha tense under him, listens to the long breathed out, “aaaahhhooohfuck”, watches Misha’s hands stop their desperate scrabbling, for a second it’s as if the whole world is on pause, then there’s a pulse of hot liquid on Jensen’s palate, and Jensen lets Misha slip out of his mouth and he takes him in his hand, stroking him while ribbons of white shoot out to coat his stomach.

Jensen stands up and strips, lies down on the bed beside Misha, turns and kisses him; circles his erection against Misha’s hip. Misha turns a lazy, blissed out face towards him, and rolls onto his side to face Jensen. He kisses back, pushy and breathy as he puts a hand on Jensen’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back. Following him to lie on top of him, Misha moves so that Jensen’s cock is slipping and sliding in Misha’s cum on Misha’s stomach.

When Jensen tips his head back onto the bed, Misha kisses his jaw, his neck, licks at his Adam’s apple, sucks a line along his clavicle. Misha’s hand slides between them and he raises himself onto his knees and braces on one arm, to hover over Jensen. He wraps his fingers firmly around Jensen’s cock and Jensen thrusts into his fist as Misha’s fingers squeeze and twist and his thumb scrapes across the slit on the down-stroke. It’s fast but not urgent, Misha’s fingers around him, on him; Misha’s breath huffing above him, in little gusts against his face.

Jensen opens his eyes and Misha’s watching him, with Cas-like concentration; and then Misha smiles; open, lazy and fond. It’s ridiculous that should send him to the edge and over it, and Jensen would laugh if he had enough breath left. As it is, he barely has time to register the build up of pleasure before he comes with a surprised gasp. Misha’s arm buckles and he collapses half across Jensen, his hand still on Jensen’s cock, stroking him through the completion of his orgasm.

“You are so sappy,” Misha mumbles against his shoulder when Jensen’s cock is softening against his thigh. Jensen can feel Misha’s mouth curled into a grin on his skin. Jensen smiles, wraps an arm over Misha’s back and can’t help but agree.

There’s no point to this story, Jensen knows now. There’s no direction, because they’re already where they want to be; no purpose, except what you see; no goal, but to simply be, to have, to hold, to never let go. No point, except – isn’t that the point?