Vegas brought out the worst in everyone. Or at least that’s how Jensen feels right now. Jared is off his face, drunk and laughing raucously, which is maybe exactly how a bachelor party is supposed to go, but Jensen just isn’t feeling it tonight.
That probably makes him a crappy friend. So he tries to fake it. Hell, Jared’s so wasted he probably can’t tell the difference.
The sounds from the casino floor filter into the club, every time the heavy doors open to let people in and out - money and chips clattering along with the artificial bells and whistles. Every five damn seconds, Jensen hears the electronic yell of “Wheeeeeel of Fortune!” grate up the back of his spine.
Jared’s friends are loud and drunk, just like Jared. Some of them are family, Jensen can tell by the sheer size of them. For the most part, he doesn’t know them, and that makes him antsy.
It isn’t like Jensen doesn’t like to have a good time, get drunk and laugh at stupid shit. Lord knows, he does. But he wants the country twang of his music and the stupid redneck snorts of his friends. He wants beer and bourbon and not the fruity concoction that Misha had shoved into his hand a half hour back.
His crowd is not classy, by any means. They’re loud and obscene a lot of the time, but the music will inevitably turn soft and the guitars will come out and the vowels will get longer and the hollers quieter.
The girls thread themselves through the room, a spread of curves and sweet smelling hair. They dress like fashion models, kiss like whores, but deep down they’re just the girl from next door that scratches up their knees climbing trees and stealing beer from the cooler when their daddies aren’t lookin’.
With Jared’s friends, things just keep amping up louder. The music beats incessantly cheery, excessively fast. The singers sing through their noses and have foreign sounding accents thicker than tar. Instead of getting slower, the night spins faster, winding itself up tighter and tighter until Jensen suspects they will all reach breaking point and fall down, instantly comatose. The girls in Jared’s crowd are fine. They dress bright and dance in groups like they’re in tornadoes. They’re fun, no doubt about it, but they’re also sharp and chirpy and sometimes they seem very, very young. They make Jensen feel fucking old.
He isn’t even sure why he’s suddenly thinking in terms of ‘his friends’ and ‘Jared’s friends.’
Misha slips onto the barstool beside him with a grin the size of Texas and bumps against Jensen’s shoulder with his own. “Howdy, partner!” The grin gets bigger, shows gum.
Jensen just raises an eyebrow and slides the fruity drink back towards Misha as if he’s been baby-sitting it and is not its owner. Misha is as drunk as Jensen’s ever seen him, weaving slightly on the stool. Jensen thinks he probably doesn’t remember that he was the one who bought the drink in the first place. He chases the straw with his mouth as it slips around the circle of the glass, eventually catching it and sucking his cheeks hollow as he drinks.
Clearly Misha likes it. He hums happily and Jensen wonders briefly if he shouldn’t be cutting him off rather than enabling him. But fuck, it’s a party and he’s no ones keeper.
“Why so glum, pretty boy?” Misha asks after letting the straw drop back into the glass, tongue flicking out pink and wet to chase the liquid from his lips. His eyes glitter, even if they are somewhat jerky in their focus.
Jensen shakes himself, ties to dislodge the mood that is apparently just that obvious.
“No reason. Just not into all this I guess,” he says and gestures abortively at the club full of drunken Jaredness.
Misha nods sagely, though the movement is too large, too comical with liquor. He places a hand on Jensen’s arm, just above his elbow. “You’re losing your friend.”
Jensen snorts. “Not even, man. Jared ain’t going anywhere and I got plenty of friends.”
Misha just smiles like he doesn’t believe him. Which is, frankly, kinda annoying. Whatever.
“So what, you’re just not into all this wedded bliss then?” Misha asks, his tone of voice clearly showing he doesn’t believe that to be the reason for Jensen’s sulking.
“Maybe I’m not,” he answers, feels the hackles rising. Who the hell is Misha to think he knows the deep dark secrets of Jensen’s mind?
Misha clearly senses danger and silently goes back to sucking the pink drink from its glittery glass prison. His gaze doesn’t waver from Jensen though, watching him with large knowing eyes.
When he pulls off the straw he says, with a waggle of his eyebrows “So let’s fuck off? Play some craps, lose some money. Get married by Elvis.”
Tempting, but Jensen has no desire to go out fuck his night up with Misha anymore than he has of abandoning Jared on his night of debauchery. Even if he doesn’t want to be there.
“No thanks” he answers. “I have no intention of marrying anyone tonight, least of all you.”
Misha shrugs, slides the glass, now empty save for umbrella and chewed up straw, back in front of Jensen. He slides off the barstool and pushes away from the bar. “Suit yourself, Jen. But lighten the fuck up. People are trying to have fun.”
And with that Misha is away, melding into the dance floor of writhing bodies and the jumping excited girls covered in glitter and shining with enthusiastic sweat.
Dick, Jensen thinks. But his heart isn’t in it.
Jensen turns to the bartender and orders a Jack and coke.
* * *
Jensen does try to lighten up, and he does a passable job of it, if he does say so himself. Especially after he convinces the barkeep to give him a beer in a goddamned bottle.
Somehow it’s easier to blend in when you have a bottle in your hand.
He even makes it out onto the dance floor where some girl that came with Chad totally feels him up as she dances against him. He doesn’t stop her, just swigs his beer over the top of her head and laughs to himself at the daggers Murray is shooting him from across the room.
Jared dry humps him in the middle of the next song and he decides it’s time he can leave without Jared remembering he wasn’t there till the end. It’s two in the morning and they’ve been here since seven the evening before. He’s more than paid his dues.
People clasp him on the shoulder as he weaves his way toward the exit, his new best friends who he doesn’t even know the names of. A pretty brunette girl in neon yellow pulls him down by his shirt-collar and sticks her tongue in his mouth. He goes with it for a moment or two before prying her off him and pointing her by the shoulders in the direction of the dance floor. She goes off happily, seemingly not at all dismayed by the change in plans, and Jensen just shakes his head and slips out the door past burly bouncers.
The main floor of the casino is less busy than the club though it still smells like money. The crass tourists and bored locals have thinned down to leave only the hardcore gamblers and down on their luck desperados. Even the cocktail waitresses have lost the spring in their step they had when they started their shifts.
They still look fucking hot though, all long legs and solid thighs in nothing more than spandex leotards with strategically placed feathers and beads, cleavage you could lose yourself in. A tall blonde one gives him a tired wink as she passes and he briefly wonders if he shouldn’t try to tap that. A blow job could be what he needs right now to end the night a step up off the floor.
But she’s disappeared between the thought and his next slow blink, sliding like oil on water between the silent tables and restlessly lonely ding of abandoned slot machines.
For the second time, Jensen shakes himself out, yawns despite the heavily oxygenated air. He decides to just bail on the whole night and hit the sack.
He follows the winding tread of the carpet towards the other side of the casino complex, looking down from the blinking lights to the hideously fucking ugly carpet. Only Vegas could justify carpet this disgusting, designed solely to hide vomit and cause headaches that forced you to look up at the glittery beckoning of ways to lose ones money.
At the elevator banks a Venetian mime tries to sell him an artificially red rose for twenty bucks a pop. Jensen says no and turns away.
Inside the elevator there is a playing card with a stripper on the back shoved between the seams of the mirrored panels. He studies it idly, the way the seven of hearts mirrors out one way and the naked girl the other.
He wonders what this girl is doing right now. Is she down in a seedy club on the Strip? Dancing and avoiding the dirty hands of disgusting old drunks? Is she in a stucco apartment out behind the glitz, peeling linoleum and bottle tops stuck into the wall in patterns of spiders and roses, cooking dinner for a lazy husband? Is she on her hands and knees making a quick buck, or is she in jeans and t-shirt, chewing the end of her glasses as she stays up nights studying torts or algebra in the library over at UNLV?
Jensen has always been a maudlin drunk. He’d never deny it.
The elevators open on the top floor where Jared’s rented out all the suites and assigned them quarters. At least up here it’s quiet, soft lighting and expensive gold fixtures. The carpet is soft and cream, not a swirl of garish colour disrupting it.
He slips the keycard out of his back pocket and slides it through the reader at the door. The light turns green and it clicks softly as it unlocks.
He’s sharing with Misha, unable to stand the idea of bunking with Jared, Chad and Jared’s brother. At least Misha could sometimes pretend to be normal. Jensen throws the keycard down on the mahogany side table in the hall, surprised when he sees another one already there. He’d assumed Misha was still downstairs thrashing about in an imitation of dancing.
Jensen calls out hesitantly. “Misha?”
A low moan comes from somewhere inside the suite and Jensen pauses, briefly considering that maybe Misha was thrashing about somewhere, but in a decidedly different way than dancing.
As he stands on the threshold to the rest of the rooms the sound comes again and there’s no mistaking the self-pitying miserable tinge that laces it this time.
Misha is on his knees, legs splayed to the side, feet bare, his body hunched over the porcelain of the toilet bowl. He looks up as Jensen comes to the open door and Jensen feels his chest tighten in something he’s gonna put down to commiseration.
Misha is drawn and pale, black pools of fatigue scooping underneath his eyes. In the halogen whiteness of the bathroom they’re as blue as Jensen has ever seen them, though the red bloodshot laced around them is definitely unusual, although not unseen.
“I see I lasted longer than you then,” Jensen says, blackly amused that Misha’s demands at having fun seem to have backfired on him.
Misha opens his mouth, ready to protest, but then his eyes go wide and he’s heaving over the bowl, emptying nothing but liquid from his stomach.
Jensen’s been here enough times with various friends to know that it’s bad, the way Misha’s fingers tighten and then scrabble at the lip of the toilet and his back ripples in misery beneath his t-shirt.
At least he doesn’t have to pull Misha’s hair back from his face like he does with Chris or Steve.
It really only takes a few seconds for him to make his mind up and then he’s there on the floor with Misha, sliding to his knees and rubbing a hand gently up and down Misha’s spine in soothing strokes.
Misha whimpers pitifully and rests his temple back on the lip of the bowl.
“Shhh,” Jensen quiets, “It’ll be over soon.” It appears to help somehow, because Misha seems to relax a little under his hand, breathing evening out even if it’s still a little shaky.
Jensen continues to talk in a low comforting drawl, pulling Misha’s mind away from the roiling that must be happening in his stomach. “Aren’t you glad we didn’t go pull a Britney Spears, huh? Then you’d be dealing with press as well as booze.”
Misha snorts air out of his nose in a soft huff, eyes closed tight and a slight sheen of sweat across his forehead.
“Not to mention Eric. Still, you’d make a pretty bride I’m sure. And there’s always tomorrow. Though Jared may kill you for upstaging his nuptials.”
He isn’t really saying anything of any sense, just letting the words fall randomly from his mouth to Misha’s ears, letting the soft, accented burr soothe both their jagged souls.
Misha sits up slightly, eyes heavy-lidded and lips wet with spit and reacquainted alcohol. He swallows carefully, “You’d be lucky to…” he cuts off, groaning and throwing himself back over the bowl, heaving but there’s nothing left to come up.
Jensen slides his hand up over the back of Misha’s neck and massages lightly.
“No really,” he deadpans, because he really can’t help himself, “Marry me so we can have conversations like these for the rest of our lives.”
Misha laughs, or maybe groans. Jensen isn’t really sure, but the nausea has passed quicker this time and Misha’s slump has less tension to it and more exhaustion. They sit there for a while longer and when Jensen’s pretty sure that Misha’s stomach has finished betraying him he slides his arm around his waist and helps him to his feet.
“Come on. You need sleep, dude.”
Misha lets himself be cradled under Jensen’s arm, sways, but dutifully follows towards his room, feet dragging heavily.
Jensen helps him take off his t-shirt, wipes at Misha’s mouth and sweaty brow before he throws it to the corner of the room. Together they work out how to get Misha’s jeans off him without either of them falling over and getting a concussion and then Jensen pulls back the covers and tucks them around Misha when he climbs in fragile and shaky.
When he returns to the room with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin five minutes later, Misha is already asleep.
* * *
It’s the sun that wakes Jensen up in the morning. It’s horrendously bright and glints off every glass surface in the room, of which there are a lot it turns out. It’s also hot.
He finds it ironic that Vegas is so damn shiny and wholesome in the daylight, a completely different place, like you went to bed on the surface of the Moon and woke up on the Sun. The Mandalay gleams bronze in the sun, reflecting the mountains and architecture back as a giant mirror.
Groaning he rolls to the side and disentangles himself from the sheets enough to find the button for the automatic black-out blinds. They whir almost silently into action and begin their descent down the floor-to-ceiling windows. Slowly the dragon that is Las Vegas sleeping in the sun, one eye open and waiting to pounce on the night, is swallowed up from view.
The room is plunged into pitch blackness.
Thank fucking god.
It’s gotta be close to noon, but Jensen can’t be bothered finding the alarm clock. Can’t even be bothered lifting his arm to see if he’s still wearing his watch. And actually, he doesn’t really care. Jared and Co. will be lucky to surface before dinner-time he figures. He lets himself fall back into that mellow drifting place between sleep and wakefulness.
At some point he becomes vaguely aware of the shower running in the bathroom. He figures that this means Misha is alive, so that’s probably a good thing. Soft muted sounds of things being moved, taps turning on and off, doors opening, reach his ears and he lets the sounds of their domesticity wash over him.
Sometime later, minutes or hours, Jensen couldn’t say, the door to his bedroom pushes softly open, sunlight spilling in from the outside.
He turns over and blinks at the figure in the doorway. It is, of course, Misha. Couldn’t be anyone else.
“Morning,” he tries, but his voice is gruff and unused from sleep. It comes out more of a grunt.
The door closes again, and it takes a second for Jensen to see that Misha is on the inside now. He’s dressed, but only in t-shirt and boxers. His hair is wet, sticking up at odd angles.
The bed dips as Misha crawls onto it, collapses face first in the pillows on the other side to Jensen’s. It’s a king-sized bed; there are miles between them, but hell, that doesn’t make climbing into bed with someone uninvited any less weird.
“Uh, dude?” Jensen coughs.
“Dark.” Comes the mutter through the pillows. At least, Jensen thinks that’s what Misha says.
“Your room has blinds too you know,” he says, amused. Misha is clearly still the worse for wear.
“Don’t work,” comes the muffled response, only it comes out sounding like ownt urk.
Jensen rolls his eyes. Whether they really don’t work or Misha just doesn’t know where to find the switch he doesn’t know. He takes pity on him anyway, pulls the soft white sheets further up his t-shirt clad chest and says, “Fine, but don’t hog the covers.”
The muffled mmpfh, is apparently the only thanks he’s gonna get.
He lets himself be pulled back under into blessed sleep, strangely unaffected by the body sleeping next to him though he wonders if perhaps he should be.
Misha starts to snore.
* * *
It’s around eight when everyone who is still in Vegas makes it out alive for dinner. Jared is still grinning like a loon, seemingly hyped up on pure adrenaline, but Jensen can tell he’s dragging.
For one thing, the Texas is creeping back into his speech, big time.
Not that Jensen has a problem with that, of course. But the problem with accents is that they are infectious, and he finds the country accent creeping back into his speech the more that Jared drawls. Every time it does Misha snorts like the fact that they’re slipping back into lazier speech patterns makes them some kind of damn hillbilly yokels.
It rubs Jensen the wrong way. He’s not ashamed of where he came from, hell no, and anyone who insinuates such a thing will find themselves missing some teeth. Still, he’s spent a long time manufacturing a more Hollywood image, and he likes to think he pulls it off damn well.
So, fuck Misha and his snorting. Yankee.
They’re sitting outside in a roped off restaurant that is surprisingly private, despite the fact that it’s damn near on top of the Strip itself. One thing that Vegas does have going for it, Jensen is willing to admit, is the absence of clouds. The sky is a mix of purple and orange, fading down towards the horizon as the neon rises up to take its place and light the hemisphere.
He’s eating steak, and while it isn’t quite the same as back home, it’s a damn sight closer than Vancouver manages. It should be going some way to mollify the mood that’s threatened to descend once more ever since he left the calm of the hotel suite, ever since Jared came out Chad hanging off his arm, babbling about Gen and wedding nights. But it isn’t quite getting there.
Must be the sub par barbecue sauce.
The other thing that Misha does to annoy him is stare. Or, no, he’s not doing his imitation of Castiel, staring across the table at him or anything. That would be weird. What he is doing is glancing at him every five seconds from around the burnt orange lobster legs he’s waving about in conversation.
Jensen tries to shove it off and eat his damn steak, but it’s hard to focus on what Jared is saying – something about women and what they think constitutes the best way to decorate a house – when he keeps catching the flutter of Misha’s eyelashes over the slide of blue every time he tries to tune in.
Eventually he just tunes them all out. Let’s them talk house and girls and weddings like a bunch of middle-aged women.
Instead he stares out across Vegas. The top of the Luxor is beginning to shine into the darkness down the other end of the Strip. The MGM lights up like a giant green frog. The Bellagio’s water is silent, waiting for its crowd.
Closer by to where they sit the pavement clings to abandoned plastic champagne flutes.
So many stories, man. It kinda does his head in a bit, this city.
He lives in a lot of different places these days, and most of them have their lies within them. Texas will always be home, where his family is. And Texas is…well, not a lie, but an exaggeration at any rate. It’s bigger than the truth, than the kernel. But that kernel more often than not doesn’t pull any punches.
LA. Well L.A. is fake, ridiculously so. At least the Hollywood part of it all. Jensen thinks that the city itself is strangely gritty and honest in a way that no other place on earth is. But that’s the streets and the dirt, not the business. The business is so sweetly put on that it makes Jensen’s teeth ache.
Vancouver may actually be honest. Which is some kind of ironic that he doesn’t even want to think about, given he’s ended up living most of his adult life there.
Las Vegas though. Hell, it’s like all the places he lives in all rolled up into one. It’s full of exaggeration, and cowboys, and the place thrives on stories – what happens in Vegas… Yet it’s completely fake, unabashedly so. Eiffel Towers and pyramids, not to mention the whole city of New York. Yet unlike LA, it embraces that, hell, it makes money off selling itself as the fakest place on Earth - which makes it kinda like Vancouver, in that it’s downright fucking honest about life.
When Jensen looks back up from his mind’s tangent, Misha actually is staring at him. Full on head tilt, brows furrowed. He looks concerned.
Jensen thinks he perhaps doesn’t stop the glare in time judging by the quirk of Misha’s lips from concern into apparent amusement.
Misha goes back to his lobster though and it seems to stop the staring enough for Jensen to finish his meal in peace. Well. As much peace as can be had with the conversation devolving into flower choices and honeymoon g-strings.
Which isn’t actually all that much.
* * *
He has a splitting headache by the time he makes it back to the hotel.
Jared and some of the boys had gone on clubbing. And Jared had grabbed Jensen’s shirt sleeve and given him puppy dog eyes and pleaded for him to come with, because he needed his best friend there with him.
Which was bullshit. They went out without each other plenty of fucking times. But it was closely followed by Jared’s bitchface, which had nothing on Sam’s, and Jensen had agreed to go.
That had been a mistake. The place was crowded and there were paparazzi out front and over enthusiastic fans inside. The music had been so godawful that even the devil himself would have changed the station. And really, Jensen was old enough to fucking know better than to drag himself out when he was in a funk. It never ended well. He’d get pissy or morose and neither of those things were things he should subject his so-called friends to.
Misha had begged off, and somehow Jared was just fine with him not coming out. So when he lets himself back into the hotel suite he already knows he won’t be alone. Won’t have the time he needs to unwind and get himself back in the game to avert world war three.
There is music on, but it’s soft and jazz-like. And nothing at all like what Jensen would have thought Misha would listen to. Not that anyone could do something so easy as pin down Misha’s tastes.
The man himself is lounging along one of the plushy white couches, reading a book. A glass of amber liquid settled on one of the coffee tables nearby. He looks up as Jensen enters, nods his head in greeting.
“Hey, man. How was the free for all?”
“Free,” Jensen answers, considers heading straight to a shower, but ultimately sits down on the couch opposite Misha for reasons he isn’t sure of. “For all,” he adds as he notices the hickey on his arm that he definitely did not give permission for anyone to leave.
Misha smiles and it’s soft and somehow less annoying than the behaviour of the last few hours. He feels a little of the tension in his shoulders dislodge, ease down out his arms and dissipate.
“Ah, to be young again,” Misha says, reaches for his drink and swallows a gulp down.
“I dunno, you seemed to be pretty into it all last night as I recall.”
Misha snorts, “All show. Gotta appease the masses.”
Ah. Interesting. If nothing else it makes him feel better at his weird forlornness this weekend, that there was maybe a co-conspirator in the ranks with him. Instead of voicing that thought he chooses to say, “The whole of life is a show.”
And then laughs at himself, because jesus that’s pathetic.
Misha’s smile splits into a grin. Lights up the damn room. “My aren’t we a maudlin drunk.”
It’s a fair call, and Jensen feels the slight flush of his cheeks at being once again, so easily read. “I’m not even drunk enough to resemble that comment.”
Misha laughs, and Jensen wonders what’s with all the emoting all of a sudden. But then Misha folds himself off the couch and stands, holds up his empty glass. “That, I can fix. Yes?”
Jensen nods. Why not. His headache is receding. He watches as Misha fixes them both drinks from the bar on the other side of the room. Carefully finding ice and eyeing up the bottles before him before choosing what to pour. Whether he’s choosing something by mood or colour or an obsessive compulsive need to make the liquid in each bottle the same height, Jensen couldn’t even begin to guess.
Misha brings the glass over to him, cradles his own against his chest. “Maudlin suits you, actually.”
Jensen arches an eyebrow. “I very much doubt that.”
The small smile around the corners of Misha’s lips are back as he sips his drink. Sits down on the coffee table in front of Jensen rather than going back to his own couch.
“I’m not a liar, Jen.”
He snorts, he can’t help it, and the whiskey almost goes down the wrong way. “All you do is make shit up.”
Misha shakes his head, “Not really. I just… exaggerate a bit.”
It echoes Jensen’s thoughts from earlier so profoundly that he actually can’t help staring at Misha, mouth open, glass raised half-way there. The quizzical look Misha gives him alerts him to the fact he’s about to catch flies and he snaps his mouth shut with an audible click.
He tries again.
“You need to stop with the method-acting, dude. The angel mind-reading shtick is kinda disturbing.”
Misha sips his drink, all calm nonchalance, and Jensen can’t help but feel that something just changed. Some kind of switch flipped, and the room feels suddenly different though neither of them have moved.
“If I could read your mind, Jensen, we’d be in an entirely different place right now…”
It’s cryptic, and Jensen doesn’t get it, but Misha sets his glass down on the table behind him, reaching in and taking Jensen’s from him, depositing it too.
And then he has a lap full of Misha, with no idea how it happened. Did he miss a signpost? Because what the hell?
And yet part of Jensen, a part he won’t acknowledge, isn’t surprised at all as Misha places his hands against Jensen’s chest and pushes him against the cushions. Straddles him and sits on his thighs, palms resting lightly on his shoulders as he looks at him, not asking, not demanding. Just looking.
“Really?” Jensen asks, which is stupid, because Misha is in his fucking lap.
But Misha doesn’t laugh at him, or call him slow. Doesn’t hit him in the shoulder the way Jared would before he went off cackling at the joke. He just smiles, soft, and shrugs his shoulders almost imperceptibly.
“I think we could both use some comfort, don’t you?”
He wants to protest, tell Misha he’s just fine, thank you very much, and that’s that. But to do that, he’d have to get up. He’d have to push Misha away from where he’s sitting, warm and solid and against him.
He’s not sure he has it in him. More worryingly, he’s not sure he wants to have it in him.
Which is what, ultimately, makes up his mind for him, and he leans in and presses his lips to Misha’s.
There’s no spark, no electric zing, just Misha’s lips, chapped and warm, pillowy soft. Just the soft sigh that slips from between them against Jensen’s mouth as they open. When Misha’s tongue slides into his mouth, wraps around his and curls lazily though, Jensen can’t help but notice the soft shudder that wends its way down his own spine. The way the heat begins to seep and pool in his groin.
Misha just holds him there, kissing for what seems an age, and it’s nice, in the best way. So fucking easy and comfortable and not at all how Jensen would have thought making out with a co-star would be. Let alone a male one.
Just gentle sucking and nibbling of lips, striping of tongues and a mesh of breaths, Misha’s thumbs in the hollows behind his ears, palms wrapping around the back of his neck. Jensen with his hands resting lightly on Misha’s hips.
He’s getting hard, just a nice ambling ache towards rigid, and that is just so strange that it almost freaks him out.
When Misha slides his hands down his front, heads for the catch of his jeans, well then he does kinda freak out, has to pull away from Misha’s mouth. His eyes must betray his sudden hesitancy because Misha whispers shh, in parody of Jensen the night before, and moves a hand back to Jensen’s face.
“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want to.”
Jensen swallows, audibly, he’s sure, and shakes his head, looks out over Misha’s shoulder instead of at him. “I know… it’s not… it’s just. Odd, you know?”
Misha chuckles softly, presses the pad of his thumb to the corner of Jensen’s mouth.
“Yeah, well. This isn’t where I thought this evening would end up either. But, c’est la vie, I say.”
“Carpe diem?” Jensen feels the smile tug at his lips.
Misha grins. “Something like that.”
They watch each other for a moment that, oddly, doesn’t feel to Jensen like he’s slipped into some kind of chick flick territory, although it really ought to.
“Here,” Misha says thoughtfully before moving the hand on his cheek up and laying his palm over Jensen’s eyes. “Try this.”
Jensen’s world turns black, tinged red around the edges where the light seeps through Misha’s skin.
“Just go with it, Jensen,” Misha murmurs close to his ear and there’s enough amused irritation in there for Jensen to smile wryly and do as he’s told.
He feels Misha’s other hand move against the button of his jeans, bites his lip as nimble fingers flick it open and drag down the fly. It’s strangely different when he can’t see what’s happening, when all he has is feel and sound to go on.
Misha’s fingers slide into his jeans and cup around his cock and Jensen’s hips jerk slightly of their own accord, a hiss escaping his lips. There’s that chuckle again, he thinks, as Misha wraps his fingers around him through his underwear and begins a slow teasing slide.
“Oh my god, Misha,” Jensen breathes, melting into the touch as all the nerves in his body begin to tighten and twang.
“See,” Misha says, and Jensen can practically see him nodding sagely, “You should always trust me.”
Jensen isn’t going to argue that one. Not when Misha is pulling the band of his underwear back and sliding those fingers against the bare skin of his cock. That he notes idly, absolutely feels like electricity jolting through him, head to toe.
Misha sets up a slow sinful slide around him, catching the pre-come from the head of Jensen’s cock and smearing it down over him. The air in the room is shivery cold against the wet.
He can’t see that Misha is leaning in, not from behind Misha’s hand, but he feels it. Feels the prickle of the hairs on the back of his arms and neck stand on end as Misha moves, seals his mouth over Jensen’s once more and slides his tongue back in.
It’s good. It’s really fucking good. And something settles and soothes within Jensen that had been eating away at him all weekend. He’s good with not examining that any further. His hips are pushing up into Misha’s hand and the wet smacking of their kissing is increasing in intensity.
He reaches up and curls his fingers around Misha’s hand, draws it away. Because it served its purpose, he’s not going anywhere and he wants to fucking see. And it’s worth it, when the vision he gets is Misha, flushed with pink-bitten lips and eyes sparkling in the artificial lighting. Misha smiles and yeah, whatever the fuck they’re doing right here, it’s okay. It’ll be fine.
No sooner has he thought it than Misha is tucking him back into his underwear, backing up, sliding off his thighs. Jensen momentarily panics, but before he can say anything Misha is holding his hand out to him, beckoning him to follow.
So he does. For no other reason than Misha wants him to, and that’s the first damn bit of sense he’s felt in this whole upsetting weekend.
He’s expecting Misha to lead him towards a bedroom, but as he takes his hand Misha leads them around the couch instead. Toward the wall of windows overlooking the Strip. Misha turns his head, winks and let’s go of his hand to clap once, loudly.
The lights turn off.
And Jensen laughs, because what the fuck, Misha can’t get the blinds to work but he knows that the lights are on automatic clapper things?
He can see the white grin of Misha’s teeth as the light from the casinos filters into his retinas, appears to bathe the room in swatches of hot pink and neon green and blue as his eyes adjust.
Misha places a hand on his arm and turns him to the window, slides in behind him, arm around his waist and settles his chin on Jensen’s shoulder. It’s strangely intimate, and Jensen doesn’t care. He leans back into Misha, just a little.
Misha’s mouth slides over to his ear, his breath hot and moist against Jensen’s skin as Jensen gazes out over the glittering expanse of Vegas laid out before him. Misha’s voice is a low murmur, full of dirt.
“I wanna get you off right here, where the whole fucking city can see, Jen.”
Jensen shuts his eyes tight, ‘cause that’s just too much. He shivers as the tip of Misha’s tongue slinks across the shell of his ear.
“Jesus, Misha,” he moans, presses back and feels the answering foreign hardness of Misha’s cock pressing through denim into the small of his back. Which just makes him shiver more.
“Can I take that as a yes?”
“Fuck yes,” he manages to wring out of his apparently suddenly useless voicebox. “Yes.”
And Misha’s hand is snaking into his open jeans, pulling his aching cock out of his pants and resuming the steady push and pull of before. Jensen’s head falls back against Misha’s shoulder and Misha tsks at him.
“No, watch. I want you to watch.”
So Jensen pulls his head back up, though it feels like it’s full of concrete and he stares out at the shimmering lights of the city of sin. They dance and flicker and blur in his vision as he drags breath into his lungs, falling into the feel of Misha’s hand on him. No one can see them, up as high as they are. But he feels ridiculously exposed nonetheless.
And then he finds he doesn’t actually care at all, his hips pushing forward on every backstroke of Misha’s hand. The catch of breath in Misha’s throat, the way his other hand is tightening on his hip. The steady press and grind of Misha’s erection into his back that coincides with the whimpering whine that one of them is making.
Misha is talking in his ear again, low and dirty and he isn’t even sure he hears all of it, except for near the end when Misha whispers I’m still here, I’m always here, and Jensen is awash with fire, his hips bucking forward into Misha’s fist and he comes with a cry down the windowpane in front of him.
Which is a little bit embarrassing, both the why and the where, but Misha doesn’t seem to mind and so he decides not to care either.
He’s shuddering and losing the strength in his legs and more than a little of his weight is being supported by Misha behind him. He feels him move, twist him around until his back is against the desert-cold window, come seeping through his t-shirt and Misha pushing him upright in front of him, tucking him back in and pressing against his oversensitive cock, making him gasp.
They’re kissing and it’s an odd mix of Jensen’s sated slow sweeps and Misha’s tension-riled flickers. He wonders if there’s something in that, something that says things about their personalities. And then he stops being a fucking girl and pushes Misha off him enough to get a little bit of control back in this situation.
“My turn,” he growls and Misha’s eyes flash sparks as his eyelashes dip and rise to reveal the entirety of Vegas in their reflection.
Misha nods and Jensen gets the distinct impression he’s being given a lot more than yes.
“I want to watch you.”
Misha looks confused for a moment, and Jensen’s mind flashes to Castiel in a weird moment of character bleed. “You want to watch me what?”
“I want to watch you,” Jensen says calmly, amazed at the bravado the endorphins are kicking up in him.
Misha’s face turns to one of surprised realization, and then he grins slowly, wide as a Cheshire fucking cat. “Oh yeah,” he says, breathy and deep, “That I can do.” And he’s backing away, leaving Jensen alone, sliding back into the dark of the room until his thighs hit the back of the couch and he perches there, eyes heavy-lidded and dark.
He’s watching Jensen, eyes never leaving his as his hand snakes to his jeans, flicks open the button and slides down the zip, levers the band of his boxers down over the top of his erection and wraps his fingers around himself with a soft gasp.
And then Jensen realizes he’s watching Misha jack himself off and it all gets a bit much for his legs and he lets himself slide down the window to his ass, legs bent in front of him and not caring that he’s just smeared his own come down the glass in the process.
He rests his wrists over his knees, slumps there lax and sticky and fucking golden, as he watches Misha begin to slowly tear himself apart.
It doesn’t take long, mere moments of back and forth and then Misha is twisting his wrist on the upswing and his whimpers are cut off in a strangled moan and he’s coming all over his own hand, eyes boring into Jensen’s.
It’s the hottest fucking thing Jensen thinks he’s ever seen.
When they eventually fall asleep it’s in a tangle of limbs and sheets, covered in sweat and at peace with the world.
* * *
Jared comes down to the lobby in a whirlwind of luggage and clothes. He’s possibly still a little drunk Jensen thinks, judging by the way he’s holding himself in a slightly off-kilter angle.
Misha laughs under his breath from where he’s sitting next to Jensen, just a little closer than normal not enough for anyone to notice, as they wait for the rest of the guys to get their asses in gear. They have a flight to catch after all.
Chad is bitching and moaning behind Jared’s hulking figure as he tries to fit an oversized high-rollers jacket into his case.
Misha silently hands Jensen his cup of coffee and he takes a long mouthful of the deliciously hot liquid before passing it back again, without a word.
It’s just easy and Jensen’s bitchy mood hasn’t threatened to come back since last night. The hollow in the pit of his stomach has eased.
Jared spots them and changes angles, weaves toward them and brings his caravan of hangers on with him. Just.
“Afternoon,” Jensen deadpans, though it’s barely past ten in the morning.
“Fuck you, man,” Jared whines, makes grabby fingers at Misha until Misha hands over the remaining coffee and Jared downs it in half a gulp. He throws the empty at the trash can beside them and it bounces on the rim before teetering and falling inside. “Not all of us are so fucking old that we have to turn in early like the little old ladies you two pussies are.”
Misha grins so wide and filthy that Jensen starts laughing and Jared looks at them both, bewildered.
“What’d I miss?” he demands and Jensen swears he’s a second away from stomping his foot like a five year old.
It just makes Jensen laugh harder, throw his head back and blink away the beginning of tears.
Vegas fucking rocks.