TL&ToaDiD - DAY TWO, pt. 2
Winchester lands in front of the Daily Globe-Jensen knows it’s a bad idea, and says just as much, but Winchester says something about not wanting Jensen to have to walk back to work, and so they land directly in front of the Daily Globe. And, as a result, Jensen is practically blinded by the flash of photographers, and he has at least a dozen microphones shoved into his face, and, really, it’s actually kind of sweet of Winchester when he shields him from view, looking pretty sheepish. “I, uh-I didn’t realise there’d be…” Winchester says, searching for words, and then simply gestures at the reporters surrounding them. “I didn’t realise these guys would be waiting for you.”
“Yeah, well, I did say.”
“And next time I will definitely listen to you.”
“Who says there’ll be a next time?”
“I do,” Winchester grins, and then plants a kiss on Jensen’s lips.
It’s chaste and sweet and soft, and it lasts for mere seconds; it makes him feel like a livewire, light and electric all at once, and he lets out a slight gasp-and then, just as quickly, Winchester is pulling back, stepping away, jumping upwards and off he goes, into the air. And, as a dozen reporters shove microphones into his space and ask him about his suddenly extremely exciting lovelife, Jensen wishes he could just fly away as well.
Suddenly, he’s practically attacked by questions:
“What’s it like to be dating a billionaire?”
“How long have you and Winchester been together?”
“Who’s better at kissing-Misha Collins or Winchester?”
“Have you slept with them yet?”
“Are you sleeping with both of them?”
“Can you give Misha my number?”
“D’you think Winchester will sleep with me?”
“I’m not sleeping with either of them,” Jensen snaps, before he can stop himself and, just like that, the questions are renewed, frantic and fast. He kind of wishes he hadn’t said anything at all-but then, just like that, Danneel and Sandy are muscling their way through the crowd, all elbows and jabbing limbs; and then Chad’s behind him, an arm looped around his neck, and he’s suddenly being dragged backwards-and he’s been rescued. It’s kind of awesome, really; they’re pretty awesome, and he watches as Danneel and Sandy back into the reception, swinging the doors shut and locking them just as quickly. “Jesus-thanks guys.”
“Yeah, well,” Chad shrugs, looking mildly embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I mean, that was kind of a jerk move your boyfriend made, after all, just flying off and ditching you there, so-”
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
“Oh, dude, you don’t have to pretend with us.”
“I’m not!”
“We totally get it,” Sandy reassures him.
“Yeah, our lips are sealed,” Danneel adds.
“We’ve got your back,” Chad finishes, and proceeds to slap Jensen’s back, as if to prove a point-and Jensen doesn’t even bother arguing, because seriously, what is the point, now?
Exactly three minutes later, Jensen gets his first phone call. It’s Mackenzie, and when he sees her name on his phone screen, he debates as to whether or not he’s going to pick up-and, after a moment, he accepts the call. He’s greeted with a shriek of mixed rage and glee, and then his sister screeching: “You asshole! Why didn’t you tell me? You’re dating a superhero and a billionaire, you greedy bastard.”
“I’m not dating either of them,” Jensen says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Where did you hear that from?”
“It’s all over the news-Jesus, Jensen, you’re all over the Internet! You’ve got over three million hits on Google already, and you’re trending on Twitter; well, granted, it’s not you exactly, but ‘modern day Louis Lane’ is trending, and, due to the fact that it’s generally associated with pictures of your pretty face, I’m assuming it is you.”
“Oh God.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Jen?”
“Because it’s not true,” Jensen replies.
“Can I meet him-can I meet Winchester? I mean, I must get special sister privileges, right? And he can probably fly to Texas in seconds, can’t he-he’s like Superman or something, right? Faster than a speeding bullet or the subway or whatever. Can you get me an autograph? Jen, when are you going to introduce him to Ma-hell, when are you going to introduce them both to Ma? This is going to take loads of explaining, okay?”
Jensen doesn’t really get much work done that day-he does try, though. He stays way after almost everyone else has left, but he doubts he’ll get much work done for a while now, anyway, and he has to pretty much demand Danneel drop him back home. He’s just tugging on his jacket, ready to follow her over to the elevator, when the doors slide open and Misha steps out, looking vaguely bemused. Almost immediately, Danneel throws a pointed look over her shoulder at Jensen and then promptly leaves without him, letting Misha corner him. He scowls at her and she just waggles her fingers-and then the doors slide shut again, and he’s left alone with Misha.
There’s this long, drawn-out silence.
He fills it by glowering at Misha.
He thinks Misha fills it by checking him out, if that cursory glance up and down his body is anything to go by-and, judging from the way he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, Misha obviously likes what he sees.
Jensen feels himself flush.
“So,” Misha says.
“So,” Jensen repeats, and the word comes out prickly and cold.
Misha winces. “I take it you didn’t like your flowers.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You’ve only known me for a few hours!”
“And that’s too long.”
“Oh, come on-that’s kind of harsh, isn’t it?”
“It’s true.”
“It’s an exaggeration,” Misha frowns, before looking genuinely puzzled. “I don’t get it. I was being romantic.”
“I work here, and you turned it into-into-into a rainforest,” Jensen hisses. “With a marching band! They even had a song.”
“It wasn’t romantic?”
“No!”
“Huh. Zach said it was.”
“That-that explains a lot, actually.”
“So you don’t like flowers, then?”
Jensen thinks of the tiger lilies and shakes his head. “No, I do like flowers. Most people like flowers. I just-I don’t like-Jesus, we’re not talking about this. I’m not-no, this isn’t how this conversation is going to go! I’ve had the world’s shittiest day-okay, so maybe that isn’t entirely true, because flying was cool, but still, the point stands-and there is nothing you can do to make it better. In fact, you’re probably just going to make this worse, because this all began with you and your stupid kiss and now it’s going to-”
Misha doesn’t let Jensen finish.
Instead, he practically slams against him, pressing them together; it’s a slight shock, in all honesty, and for a moment, Jensen is utterly still-and then those lips are against his, and it’s like he just melts. Misha’s gentle, at first-it’s a bizarre mimicry of Winchester’s kiss from outside-but he soon seems to pick up the pace; then he’s all teeth and tongue, method and skill, swirling his tongue across Jensen’s bottom lip and fucking sucking, and, just like that, Jensen’s gone. Within moments, he’s a mess, breathing into the kiss, panting, gasping, as his fingers fly up to tangle in Misha’s hair.
“Me and my stupid kiss, huh,” Misha repeats, when they’re finished.
He’s smirking.
Jensen mostly wants to hit him.
“Shut up.”
“Come for a drink with me?”
“Just one drink,” Jensen says, and, just like that, Misha grins. It’s not as blindingly sweet as Winchester’s grin, but it’s dirty and huge and holds promises of nights to come-and if it sends blood straight down to Jensen’s cock, then, well, that’s something no one else needs to know, even if it is pretty apparent when his cheeks flush bright red and he can’t quite meet Misha’s eyes. His trousers suddenly feel a little too tight now, as well.
Okay, so just one drink turns into maybe a few more until that turns into let’s just get shitfaced, okay?, and all of a sudden, Jensen is sprawled across the bar, this pleasant numbing sensation in his head and a ridiculously goofy smile plastered across his face. Misha’s much better at holding his drink and is at least sat upright on his stool, but Jensen’s completely gone-whenever he moves, there’s this dizzy, rushing sensation, and so he’s just decided he’s going to stay as still as possible and just groan every now and again. Apparently, that’s enough for Misha, who is managing to hold a conversation entirely on his own.
“D’you know, if it weren’t for Zach, I think I’d be entirely lost right now-I know, I know, where did that come from, but it’s just come to my attention that he’s very adept at what he does, and I’d undoubtedly be lost without him. I mean, there was this one time, when I went out with Sebastian-nice guy, bit too much tongue but he’s got very nice hips-and we were both so smashed out of our faces, we might have killed a prostitute. In the end, it all turned out to be a very elaborate ruse set up by the media-they’re vultures-but Zach still managed to sort it all out; in the end, it actually seemed a lot like I was trying to resuscitate this woman, despite the fact that she wasn’t actually dead-and even she thought it was true. I still looked like a brilliant person in every light of the word, in the end, and it was all thanks to Zach. And there was this other time when me and Sebastian got so drunk that we managed to glue everything to the ceiling, but I think that was back in college-and it was actually because of this machine I built. It was all very fun.”
“Dude, do you-d’you always talk this much?”
“I’m pleasantly surprised you’re talking at all,” Misha says, and grins again. “How much tequila have you had, anyway?”
“Ugh-don’t remind me.”
“Do you want another?”
Jensen just groans.
Then, slowly, he slides his drink across to Misha.
Misha full out laughs then, eyes crinkling as he calls for the bartender; he’s been recognised by pretty much everyone in the bar, as has Jensen, and so most eyes are on them-and when Misha orders another tequila, practically every other young male in the bar rushes up to do the exact same thing. It’s probably a little flattering, but it’s mostly just creepy, and so, when the tequila comes, Jensen tips his head back and downs it in one. It makes his vision swim and his chest burn, but it’s mostly good.
Misha whistles, impressed.
“You are a very surprising man, Ackles.”
“Thank you, Collins,” he slurs, and very nearly falls off his chair.
Instead, he just sort of ducks his head forwards, forehead hitting the counter-and he’s lucky, too, because just as he moves, a bullet cuts through the air above his head and shatters a whiskey bottle. Misha’s reactions are fast, swift; his hand closes around the back of Jensen’s neck and he shoves him down, just as another bullet thuds into the counter where Jensen was once sat. It feels like the world is suddenly rushing past in a spectrum of blurred, dizzying colours, and Jensen really wants to puke, but then another bullet hits the wood above his head, and he has to start crawling. Another hits the ground in front of him.
And another.
A girl shrieks.
“Well, this is definitely new,” Misha murmurs good-naturedly behind him, shifting along on his hands and knees. “I mean, this is the first time someone’s been shooting at my date instead of me-the change of pace is extremely satisfying.”
“I am not your date.”
“I think our shooter would beg to differ.”
“Then-then he’s an ass!” Jensen snaps, and then presses his palm to his head, the beginnings of a headache coming on; above him, a bottle shatters and glass rains down onto them. “Fuck-fuck. Why is this happening to me?”
“Jen, the whole world thinks you’re dating me or Winchester-or both.”
“So?”
“So, Lois Lane, you’re a modern-day damsel in distress.”
“I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this.”
“Don’t worry-I’m sure your knight in shining spandex will make his appearance soon enough,” Misha says cheerily, just as they round the edge of the counter; Jensen’s unsure of where to go from here, and so he’s partly glad when Misha smacks the flat of his hand against Jensen’s ass, before gesturing behind the counter. “We may as well sit tight and wait for this all to blow over. If I know Winchester-and I do, sadly, and all too well-”
“Have you slept with him, too?”
Misha looks bemused.
“What?”
“I was just wondering.”
“No, I haven’t,” Misha places a finger against his lip thoughtfully, and then adds, “Yet. But I digress-that’s got nothing to do with what I was saying. If I know Winchester, and I do, he’ll be here in half a minute. Maybe less.”
“I saw him today,” Jensen announces. He’s not sure why.
Misha shrugs.
“I know.”
“Really?”
“Zach told me.”
“Oh.”
“He printed off pictures, too.”
“Oh,” Jensen says again, and then adds an afterthought, “That bitch.”
“They were very nice pictures, though. You looked good.”
“Thanks.”
“Your ass looked brilliant.”
“Uh-”
Thankfully, Jensen doesn’t have to respond to that because, just as he’s thinking of something appropriate to say, the window breaks. That’s because Winchester’s just thrown a man through it, but still, it’s a distraction; he throws his hands up in front of his face, and Misha curls around him like a cat, and then another man hits the wall behind them, gun still clutched in fingers. He thuds against the floor, groaning softly, but catches sight of Jensen-and then he raises his gun, smile curling across his lips, and Misha promptly kicks him in the face. That’s very nice of him, in all fairness, because Jensen thinks he’d probably have a few snazzy bullet holes decorating his top otherwise.
Winchester is quick at cleaning up the mess outside. It turns out there were four attackers-a car had rolled up outside, and two of them had gotten out, while the third simply leant out of the car window. They’re all either moaning pitifully or conscious now, and Misha deems it safe to stand up, tugging Jensen to his feet behind him.
He’s feeling a bit wobbly now.
And sick.
Very sick.
Winchester steps through the broken, wrecked window to a round of applause, which he ignores-instead, he seems to zip over to them, nothing more than a blurred motion, and immediately begins checking Jensen for any wounds. He’s concerned and obviously so, his eyebrows meeting behind his mask and his mouth is a little worried pout.
“Are you okay?”
“I think I might puke.”
That makes Winchester smile, but he turns to Misha nonetheless and asks, “Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine,” Misha tells him, shrugging a shoulder. “He may be in shock, though.”
“We can deal with that.”
“Yes, we definitely can.”
“They tried to kill him.”
“Yes, they did.”
“Did you recognise any of them?”
Misha rolls his eyes at that, folding his arms over his chest. “Ja-Winchester, they were generic thugs; Jesus, they probably weren’t even paid particularly well. There’s no way of tracing them back to-to him.”
“But it was him, wasn’t it?”
“We’ve got no proof.”
“We don’t need proof!”
“Sadly, we do,” Misha says, before flapping a hand absently and dismissing that topic-instead, he jabs his thumb in the direction of Jensen, and continues, “Look, we can’t just leave him here, can we? Not after-well, not after people have started shooting at him. I’d say to take him back to yours but, y’know, secret identity and all that-and besides, I’ve got better security.”
Winchester looks reluctant.
“Jesus, if you really have to babysit him, you can stay over as well.”
“Really?”
“Consider it one massive, happy pyjama party.”
Winchester’s face is pleased as he wraps an arm easily around Jensen’s waist-Jensen barely even notices. He’s too busy trying his hardest not to puke; it’s difficult, really, considering how the room won’t stop spinning, but he does notice when Winchester gingerly reaches for Misha, as well, as if to carry him away. Misha turns a funny shade of white at that, and manages to look twice as sick as Jensen feels, and says, “I am never flying with you again.”
Jensen understands entirely where Misha’s coming from. As magical and wonderful as flying in the day, when you’re very much sober, might be, it’s a whole different matter when you’re drunk-Jensen spends the entire journey trying his hardest not to hurl over Winchester’s shoulder. It’s all probably very attractive, Jensen reasons, and he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes slowly through his nose and wishes the dizziness would just fucking stop.
And, through it all, Winchester has the gall to laugh.
When they get to Misha’s place-wherever the hell it is-Jensen doesn’t even get to explore; hell, Winchester flat out refuses. Instead, he sweeps in through an open window, murmuring beneath his breath, “Yeah, security here is just fucking incredible,” and then sets Jensen down gently on perhaps the softest bed he has ever felt in his entire life. That’s probably why the moment his head touches the pillow, he’s out like a light-and it’s reassuring, really, feeling that weight down by his feet where Winchester’s sat; and maybe that’s why he falls asleep so quickly.
It’s mostly the alcohol, though.
Mostly.
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