There is a warmth that settles between us.
Something different and electric and gentle. He wants to talk. Parse it apart, dissect it until he can put every piece in its place and assign it a name.
Doesn't matter that he's happy. That when he pressed against me, and my name was his breath in my mouth, he was loose and still and pliant.
Jensen needs to know.
And I don't. I enjoy the questions. The mystery and tension and the leaping what if.
We haven't kissed since that first--only--time in my trailer. It's been a month and nothing has changed and everything has changed. Jared has been sliding curious and knowing looks at me, between us. Jensen told him. Of course Jensen told him. His brother and it's no small thing, this.
I hope that it is no small thing.
I've been tense and still, almost meditative with nerves running under my skin like a thousand bugs, a confusing twist of want.
He went to California this weekend. Without word or warning, to throw himself headlong into Danneel's too loving embrace.
A way to forget what happened? Or a way to justify this thing growing between us.
Vicki is busy with her new friend, a lovely girl that I can't bring myself to care about, not when Jensen lingers at the edges of everything, so full of promise and potential.
So I waste away the weekend, twisted up in poetry and a script I won't take and a little bookcase I'm building for Jared’s Gen, until sawdust coats my dining room floor and dusts my hands.
And I waited, all tense edges and pliant contentment, a delicious and frustrating dichotomy.
I expect it, but the knock followed by the scrape of his key in the lock on the door still stirs up my gut and I choke down all of my nerves. Brush my hair back with quick fingers and rub my palms dry on my jeans.
Jensen stands there, framed by the weak light and the cold wind and god he's gorgeous. I want to shove him against the wall and bury myself in him, want to live inside his skin.
I take a step back. Take a breath. Settle into who we are.
Misha and Jensen. Friends. The safe steady stable.
I flash a grin when he stays too silent, “How was Cali, Ackles?”
He doesn't answer, just steps out of the doorway and let's it close behind him and his big body is crowding close.
“I kissed you.”
I've dodged this conversation, slippery smooth wriggling away every time he tries to bring it up. If I had seen hurt in his eyes, I would have talked. But he's been patient and knowing and let me slip away and now.
“Think I remember that,” I say with a smile, gently. “You hungry? I was gonna order some --”
He moves and I gasp, a little, startled as his big weight and green grass eyes pin me to the wall, brace me there and lick away my words. I see the flash of a grin, Dean blending into Jensen and I'm so hard, suddenly and unexpectedly, that I arch into him, a long pushing line of skin and want and he meets me with his warmth and his soft gasp, his fuck, Misha.
I think I could come from this. Just this. Just him and his porn star lips, red and lush and wet against mine, his thumbs rubbing rough over my hip bones, his dick pressing hot against me, meeting the soft roll of my hips with the heavy push of his own. His voice, hot and dirty and sex in my ear. Everything I've wanted for so long now, everything I said I couldn't have and since that fucking kiss.
He's wanted to talk. But we talk it out, take it apart, it'll be ruined. It'll never happen again. And I can't take that. Not yet. So I shut him up and shut down every inch of want and buried myself in what we have, what I can have.
And he's changing the rules.
He's taking us to pieces and building something new and I--
His hand. Wrapped around my cock. I keen, a noise I've never made in my life, not even for Vicki, and he laughs, a huff of warm breath against my lips before he nips and his hand moves, slow and lazy.
“Want this, Misha. Want this with you.”
I whimper as his head drops, as he nuzzles into my neck, a brush of teeth that pulls a shiver as he strokes me, thumb brushing over my cock head and fuck fuck --
“Danneel,” I protest.
“Not here. This isn't her space. This is me and you, Mish.”
“Jay,” I groan, my heart bouncing erratic and hopeful, the stupid thing hung up on half spoken promises and drunk on him.
And then he's on his knees and I've never seen anything more erotic or beautiful as Jensen Ackles taking my cock in his perfect mouth, his green eyes shining with something I've never seen, directed at me.
I come like that, his hands on my hips, lips stretched wide and wet around me, bliss and adoration on his face and my hand in his hair.
I come with his name on my lips and a sound like a sob.
I come and he swallows, takes every fucking bit of me and catches me when I stumble, holding me up and easing me down.
That's always been us. Catching each other. Holding each other. Supporting each other.
I feel, absurdly, the urge to cry, when it's over and I'm curled in his arms on my couch, the scent of pine and spice and winter wrapped around me like a blanket.
He kisses my head, softly and says, “We're gonna make this work, Misha.”
The next morning, when I wake up, he's in my kitchen, sleepy and rumpled and grinning. He looks like he always had. In a pair of sweats an inch too short--he teases that I am shorter than him but he still wears my clothes--and a ratty t shirt from college and it stirs warmth, deep in my chest as he nudges a cup of tea at me. Leans across and kisses me. Like this is easy. Like this is our new normal.
And I relax into it, happy. All the electric tension and easy waiting smoothed into two words. chanted like a promise and a plea, and both mean the same thing and have now for so long I can't remember when they didn't.