(no subject)
As I did the last edit on this p.o.s., Pet was sitting next to me babbling on *constantly* about PADDYWHACK-and telling me things like "PADDYWHACK says AMEN!" and "Look at this picture of Jared. Look at HIM!" and I was all "Yes, he is hot. Yes, he's hot. Yes, he's hot." And let me tell you, this weekend? We talked about Sam and Dean-end of story. Nothing else. Besides fix the streaks in my hair and insult people we dislike.
(she currently can't get her new wallpaper of Jared to work and is bitching about it and crying)
This story is a backstory to Brenda's story Bottom's Up found
he'ah
So, everyone I know has already read this: Jamie, Anna, JJ, and finally Brenda (who wanted it to be better than this, but I'm trying to drink here, also, see my icon for in regards to your last remark).
Gulf Coast Highway
And I'm back in my car and I'm out on the highway, goin' hard, goin' fast, goin' wild
I-45 to 1-10 will take you from the heart of Texas to the heart of Dixie at an almost right angle trajectory of cracked concrete and truck stops. In a reversal of how the old towns were settled next to rivers for transport, the interstate system was built to carry commerce from settled town to settled town--Dallas, Houston, Lake Charles, Lafayette, Gulfport, Biloxi. Anywhere you wanna get, it's always just a little further down the road. All the way to the Atlantic Ocean.
Jensen's standing barefoot in his parents' kitchen when Chris calls. It's almost like kismet, man, because Jensen was just thinking about calling Chris to discuss laying some money down on a Rangers game.
"Howdy." Jensen laughs down the line, pleased just to talk to Chris, pleased with fucking life, man, the whole spin of Dark Angel tangling him up, making him smile so his face's breaking off.
"That kinda day, huh?" Chris chuffs, but his voice's got the tightness of kicked-dog under it.
Jensen cuts to the chase. "She was a bitch, man, you're better off."
"If she was that bad, that makes me even more of a fucking clown, man." Chris tries to laugh it off, but the words totally call him out. Jensen considers laying it out-the fact that Chris does it to himself, that he picks the same heartbreaker who doesn't get him and reads The Rules and shit over and over, but that's not what Chris needs.
"Get your sorry cracker ass down here right this fucking minute and go on a road trip with me, bitch." Jensen firmly believes that road trips can fix cancer and heartbreak and some folk's whole personalities.
"I'm in L.A.," Chris sighs.
Fuck this shit. "You're gonna let a woman defeat you?" Jensen's going for pep rally. "You aren't that guy."
And that strategy backfires: "I think we both know I am."
"Just get out here so we can get you some tail, asshole. Fuck that bitch outta your system." Always works for Jensen.
"Don't ever let anyone tell ya you're not a romantic fucker." Chris laughs, and Jensen can hear the clicking of his ever-present bracelets against the phone.
"Word, bitch, word! I am Mr. Romance. A little tequila, a little music, and the panties fly, dude." Jensen laughs back when Chris lets off a huge guffaw.
The words unsaid between them are I'll pick you up, just like you did me, come on now.
I got on this airplane just to fly
Some things in life are predictable-rain in the fall, grandma's biscuits, and Chris having a woman hanging off his dick at any given moment.
Jensen fills the tank on the rented Ford, and Chris stands on the broken, stained pavement between the glass front of the Texaco and the gas pumps shaking his head and laughing at the antics of the two girls tag-teaming him. One has her fingertips on the brim of his straw cowboy hat and the other keeps touching the line of his exposed bicep. Jensen rolls his eyes. He's hungry, goddamn it, there's a Cracker Barrel around here with his name on it, and these skeazes are between him and some hashbrown casserole.
He snaps the nozzle back into place, wipes his hands on the back pockets of his jeans, and strolls right up to the circus, pretty as you please, teeth-baring smile in place and swagger in his step. He slides right up behind Chris, wraps an arm around his waist and whispers in his ear, "Baby, you leadin' these pretty girls on, now? Don't make daddy spank you."
Chris tips his head back laughing and his hat brushes Jensen's face. His calloused, strong fingers come up to circle Jensen's wrist.
"Being polite like my mama taught me's all, sweetheart," Chris is solid, smooth.
Both of the girls laugh uproariously, nudging and knocking into each other, and one of them whispers "Oh, lordy." They wave good-naturedly and walk off.
Jensen doesn't let Chris go until the girls are in their car. Chris's back sweats through his shirt and Jensen's. His hat still smells like straw after all these years.
"Goddamn. I can't leave you alone for the five minutes it takes to pump the fucking gas, dude." Jensen drops his arm and makes a biting motion at Chris's face when Chris smiles up at him all good ol' boy with his eyes half-closed and a wink comin' on fast.
"Being a pussy-magnet's a curse, boy, what you want me to do about it?" He's laughing, relaxed, and Jensen thinks his masterplan is already in full-effect. Then Chris sighs for no reason as he climbs in the car, and Jensen has to repress groaning. Fuck. Something's wronger with Chris than Jensen had first thought.
A busted neon sign
Houston is horizon to horizon concrete, petrodollars, and roughnecks who work off-shore or at refineries instead of on derricks. It smells like chemicals to Jensen, feels like falling off the edge of Texas. He's never liked Houston one bit.
Chris, however, has a completely different opinion.
"Fuck, man, I love this town." Chris drinks a longneck and watches a pretty girl in a baseball cap and LSU t-shirt kick the ever-loving crap out of a couple toothless rednecks at pool. "Holy shit, did you see how she banked that!" Chris slaps his leg, rocking on the bar stool and knocking into Jensen.
Jensen could whip that chick's ass easy. She's only winning because the guys she's playing are fucking tore up and stupid. Maybe retarded or something, who knows with rednecks. Jensen sets his beer down and moves to grab a pool cue off the rack, call the next game. Chris's smacks him still with an arm across his chest like a mama at a stoplight.
"Dial down the competitive streak. Bustin' out your pool prowess isn't gonna get anybody laid." Chris drops his arm and pokes Jensen in the arm with his bottle. Chris stares him right in the eye from under the brim of his hat, looking through him without a trace of a smile.
"Wasn't thinkin' that," he lies, and Jensen hates being that transparent. Sometimes Jensen lets Chris big-brother him, daddy him, boss him around, and he doesn't really know why. Nobody else talks to Jensen like that or even comes close.
The chick sinks an impossible double-banked combo shot, and Jensen lifts his eyebrows as Chris crows out loud and whistles. When she stands back up, the light over the pool table hits her full on the face, and she's got huge eyes and an up-turned nose, tanned skin and no make-up. Jensen suddenly regrets promising himself he'd let Chris have first dibs for the entire trip, because, damn, girl-next-door has always been his kryptonite.
Chris shouts out, "Girl, come over here so we can buy you ten drinks!"
And because Chris has that sincerity, that magic safe vibe, Miss Texas smiles bright as sunshine through the rain and walks the fuck over.
"I know who you are." She smiles, and Jensen can taste her on the back of his throat. Fuck friendship, because she's got a goddamned backwoods Louisiana accent, and when she pulls her hat off, slick, dark hair tumbles out half-way down her back.
"That so?" Chris's voice drops, and Jensen feels like a grip on a porno, because it's happenin' right there in front of his face, but he's not part of this. "Then you oughta tell me who you are, so it's all fair."
"Amy," says the girl Jensen should be bagging.
"This is my good buddy, Jen, Amy." Chris wraps his hand around Jensen's arm. Amy looks up at Jensen and her eyes sweep his face. Her lips part just a little, and Jensen can't even believe this.
When Amy's three shots down and in the little girl's room, Jensen lifts an eyebrow silently asking Chris what the fuck's going on.
Chris downs his shot. "Give her another round and she won't even mind when I stick around while y'all're at it."
Jensen coughs half his tequila back up.
"Easy, baby, just watchin'." Chris laughs red-tinged sin, and Jensen's so hard he's going to have to jack off in the bathroom before they leave -- or embarrass himself in front of company. "You not man enough? Afraid you'll disappoint everyone involved?"
And goddamn if that's not a dare. "It's like that, then?"
"It's like that." Chris downs his shot. Jensen hears loud and clear I can't fuck anybody else yet, man, snap me out of it.
It's on.
Or it's not on, because Amy's underaged.
It's gonna be on.
the Sabine and the Sulphur hold beauties a'many
The humidity in New Orleans settles into the skin and down the throat into the soul. Jensen can't hardly move in the heat with the fist of God rolling off the river to sap any intention to even think away.
They're drinking in some fucking dive off Esplanade. The place has red lights out front and rowdy-ass locals inside hollering and whoopin' it up-typical down-home. The place could be anywhere from Plano to Memphis to Valdosta with a simple shift of accents from the New Orleans Brooklyn tinged French spiced clip to the North Texas drawl to the Tennessee twang to the southern George creep. Chris isn't interested in frozen daiquiris and drunk frat boys, and Jensen could not agree with that mentality more. Where frat boys roam, so do co-eds, but there are plenty of pretty girls in hardly any clothes right in the no-name bar with the red lights to off-set that loss.
Even in the air conditioning, the humidity doesn't let up. Thick enough to cut with a knife, the old cliché, but fucking true. Jensen's given up on getting dry the whole time they're on the Gulf Coast; he expects mildew to break out on his skin any second.
Chris' hair's sweated curly when he takes his hat off. His face shines red long before he starts drinking. Chris' shirt, sleeves cut off, is plastered to him. Jensen's t-shirt is totally soaked and see-through. The inside of the bar's dark, stained wood with peanut shells on the floor and an old Wurlitzer playing ancient country hits and Zydeco.
The heat's bled Jensen's brain out. He's on the edge of dehydration, so he drinks beer while Chris sweet-talks a punk rock chick with short black hair. In New Orleans, the counter-culture swirls into even the most unlikely places-kids in pvc and chains in church and tattooed physicians giving babies shots and girls in tank tops inked in sharpie in honky-tonks.
Jensen eyes the girl-her tank top reads "F the President" and her bra straps are teal-over Chris's shoulder. She meets his eye and lifts an eyebrow. Oh, a live one, then. He smiles, and she rolls her eyes. Oh, hell no.
"My dumb friend's Jensen," Chris rumbles through laughter. "He got beat with the pretty stick until his brains fell out."
The girl throws back her head laughing, and Jensen sees the flash of tongue ring. Yup, Chris can pick 'em.
"Hey now, I only forgot how to spell my name that once, and mama-sister said that weren't my fault since I was so high on glue." Jensen can already see the direct route into this girl's pants-dot A to dot C to dot X.
She keeps on laughing, and Jensen gets off his stool to stand next to her, lifting the tail of his shirt to wipe his face. She's staring right at him when he drops the shirt back. They don't have to explain themselves anymore than that. He smiles, turns his head to the side to chug his beer, watching Chris out of the corner of his eye.
"So, what's going on here? Do you two have a bet who can pick me up first, or do you want a redneck threesome?" She pounds back a shot and glances between them with a lazy look of boredom.
Chris laughs so hard he almost falls off his stool, and Jensen lifts his eyebrows and blows her a kiss.
Jensen lets his eyes dropped closed a little, bites his bottom lip, and turns on the sex. "Which one would you choose?"
The girl's laughter is deep and zings him where he lives. She presses the back of her hand against her mouth. "Oh, this is gonna be fucking fun!" She slaps the bar and orders the bartender to line up a round of shots.
Her name's Isabelle, and she's not even slightly impressed by their careers. She's a law student at Tulane.
More importantly, after four more rounds, when Jensen picks her up and presses her against the side of a wood-framed house, her black skirt rides up around her hips as sweet as syrup and her legs lock around his back, and he can tell she's watching Chris over his shoulder. Sweat slides down his spine and the backs of his knees, and he strains to hear Chris behind him over Isabelle's breathing. He squeezes his eyes closed when she clenches around him. Chris whispers shit, and Jensen almost comes.
"You're so gorgeous," she whispers as he moves inside her, and she's still laughing, eyes drifting back from Chris to Jensen, and she knows how to work her hips. The ball of her tongue ring sliding against his lip makes Jensen's legs shake.
"Too bad I didn't get to see both of you naked, next to each other, touching each other," she whispers into Jensen's ear as he sets her down. Her lips limn his skin, and Jensen feels lightheaded and drunk and heat-strokey. Her kisses taste like sweat, and when he presses his hand between her legs to get her off, she bites him.
down around Biloxi pretty girls are swimming in the sea
Highway 90 runs from Jacksonville to Van Horn, Texas. It's a vestige of the pre-Interstate South, flowing through every city along the Gulf Coast and is a main thoroughfare through many of them, used just like any other four-lane road. In Mississippi, Hwy 90 wedges between pine woods on the north side and the actual beach on the south side. White sand and green needles, and Jensen sweats out his hangover sitting on a towel in Biloxi in a pair of jeans he hacked up with Chris's pocket knife that morning. How the hell Louisiana and Mississippi manage to be hotter than Texas, Jensen has no clue.
Chris had deposited Jensen on the beach and told him to get a tan while he checked into the hotel. Since Jensen had woken up still drunk and with a back spasm, that had sounded good to him. Girls in bikinis horse around in the surf, and Jensen knows if he had the energy he could have any of them sucking him off behind the frozen banana stand in the time it would take him to say "So, wanna fuck?".
But he's feeling antsy. Maybe for once Chris isn't being straight about something. Jensen hates that shit. If Chris needs to work or fight or fuck something out, he just needs to say so, and Jensen will knock his head against the wall until Chris gets what he's after.
Jensen falls asleep and dreams about Chris on his back deck eating cole slaw and explaining math, but he's talking backwards and Jensen can still understand him. Jensen comes to with Chris blocking the sun, crouching down, his hat set way back on his head. Jensen blinks and reflexively shades his eyes with his hand.
"What the fuck's going on?" Jensen barks before he can curb himself. Chris must have fucked up the situation with his woman, because if she'd just done him wrong he'd be back to normal by now.
Chris tilts his head and makes a humming noise. "What are you asking me?"
And one of the reasons they're as tight as they are is that when it comes to bullshit, neither of them tolerates it for long. "Why the fuck are we in Biloxi?"
Jensen does not say her name, does not scream What are you punishing yourself for? What did you do to be tearing yourself up like this? -- because he's willing to push, but there are limits. Jensen has few, but Chris has very specific ones and Jensen doesn't want to throw down with this kind of hangover.
"To gamble away all our easily-gotten money, man." Chris stands up. "Why else would anyone come to Biloxi?"
Yeah, right. Jensen's going to find out what Chris did. Then Jensen's going to get him over it or die tryin'.
"Yeah, sure, dude." It comes out sarcastic because he doesn't even attempt to hide his annoyance. No one ever said he was great with covering up his feelings.
send me dead flowers to my wedding and I won't forget to put roses on your grave
Chris has a profound sense of irony-and the tacky. They end up a casino shaped like a giant pirate galleon, being served drinks by girls dressed up like slutty pirate wenches. The carpet stretches wall to wall in a repeating pirate map pattern.
Jensen winces around his Jim Beam and tsks. "You hang out with Dave too much, dude."
"The middle class didn't leave you any room to appreciate kitsch, did it, baby boy?" Chris left the hat in their room and is wearing a t-shirt that pulls tight across chest and strains around his arms. His jean are holey and the rivet has long-ago been replaced with a button from a coat or some shit.
They're both wearing flip-flops.
Chris crosses the room to a poker table, his shoes slapping against the soles of his feet loud enough Jensen can hear it over the buzz of the gamblers. They settle in at a table, and Chris refuses to allow Jensen sit next to him, saying, "You steal my luck, sucker, don't even try it."
Chris is a gambler in the same way he's a bronc-rider and a singer-just because he is, with all the trappings falling around him easy as you please. Gamblers are superstitious, so Chris is superstitious when he gambles. On anyone else, it would be pretension; on Chris, Jensen feels like he's being out-done in the authenticity stakes. Jensen isn't used to being outdone. Every time Chris manages it, it stings.
"Fine. Asshole." The waitress comes around to ask for their drink order, and Jensen smiles at her. Her cleavage is out of control, and he peeks at it with a lift of his eyebrow and a joking smile. She laughs. He's so in there.
"Christ, can we get in a couple hands first?" Chris' voice drops and he almost sounds mad. He kicks the chair between them so it rocks against Jensen's.
"Jealous?" Jensen smirks to cover his unease at Chris' temper. The waitress walks off with a roll of her hips and a wag of her finger.
"We both know there's not a person in this casino you could have and I couldn't, so you keep your ego under control and we'll play some cards here." Chris' voice dips low-down, Oklahoma, red clay back road and buckshot. He taps his finger on the baize, and the dealer flips him a card, openly watching the two of them with amusement.
"Are you callin' me out?"
Jensen really does care what's wrong with Chris, why they're in fucking Mississippi, but he also can't pass up a chance to hand Chris his ass on a plate.
"Don't embarrass yourself, junior." Chris cuts him a sideways look Jensen can't quite get a fix on. Jensen's eyebrows come together without his permission and he scoffs, wagging his head. Chris doesn't smile like he normally would in a situation like this, and Jensen's at a loss.
It's on.
wherefore art thou, Romeo, you son of a bitch
Jensen hits a winning streak at stud, and in the thrill of the string of ladies and winking jacks in his hands, he forgets all about knocking the shine right off of Chris's bravado. When he looks up, Chris is sitting at the long bar against the far wall. He sits with an elbow on the back of the high stool, his legs wide open, and a woman leans in to him, her hand high on the inside of his thigh.
Damn it! They hadn't even run any parameters, and that son of a bitch has a girl practically blowing him in public. Fuck that.
"I'm done." Jensen wipes his chips into the huge cup with pirate cartoons all over it and wanders over to set down a cockblock not seen since eighth grade.
When the woman looks up and tosses her hair over her shoulder, Jensen recognizes her. The hot waitress in her civvies.
Son of a bitch!
Jensen steps right up to them, not even trying to be cool about it. Chris raises both his eyebrows. "Jen, I think you met Tammy already." Chris doesn't even try to hide how hard he is, his thick thighs flexing as he shifts his feet on the foot rail of the stool.
"Tammy," Jensen drops his voice and blinks slow at her. She blushes.
he's the last of the hard-core troubadours, baby, what you waitin' for?
At the Imperial Palace, Jensen wins a grand on one hand, but Chris pulls the pretty blonde Jensen has his eye on.
By the time they're at the Isle of Capri, Jensen's up three grand, and Chris's starting to get a little edgy with what Jensen assumes is unfulfilled lust. He's just horking Jensen's chicks and letting 'em go again, like undersized fish. If Jensen didn't have a wad of money in his back pocket, there might have to be some physical violence between them. He's trying to be understanding, and the money goes a long way to make him easy tempered.
The Isle of Capri is a madhouse of pastel neon and rainforest crapola festooned all over the place. Parrots and toucans and whirligigs. Jensen's close to drunk, so it all makes him a little dizzy.
"This place is fucked six weeks to Sunday, I love it!" Chris slaps Jensen on the back and whoops.
"You would, since you're deranged." Jensen's about ready to fight it out, since gambling it out's getting him no closer to what the fuck Chris's problem is, and Chris has apparently sworn off pussy for the rest of his life.
They decide to eat at the buffet before continuing the bullshit parade. Seafood, and more seafood, and crepes. That's pretty much it. Jensen eats crab legs and shrimp and some rice casserole stuff with cheese and shrimp. Chris eats crawfish and something spicy that makes his eyes water as he moans, "Whoooooheeeeeee!".
They also drink three scotches apiece just with the food.
Fortified with booze and sea creatures in their bellies, they settle in at the card table. They play two hands, and then everything goes to shit.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" A high pitched, heavily accented voice drawls from behind them. Jensen whips around in his seat just in time to see Chris reach up to keep a long-nailed female hand from smacking the taste out of his mouth.
"Renee, I know you did not just try to slap my face." Chris's pissed, using his "reasonable" voice. What the fuck? Chris' ex has always been a little bit of a nightmare to Jensen, a ball-buster. But more importantly, when the fuck did she move back to Mississippi? Chris is getting his assed kicked hardcore for this shit.
"I don't even know what the hell you think you're doin' here, but you best get your ass out before I call my brother." Jensen watches blonde hair fly around her face. She looks as gorgeous as ever, as deranged as ever.
Then the other shoe drops right on Jensen's head when Renee points a French manicured finger right in Jensen's face. "Lord knows what you think you're doing with that one, paradin' him around like it's not sick. You're goin' to hell, Christian. Burn in hell, you piece of shit."
Renee does not mince words. She yanks her hand out of Chris's grip and starts pawing through her purse. A security guy comes over and helpfully escorts Chris and Jensen to the cages so they can trade in their chips and then he follows them to the door.
"So I guess there is something you didn't mention." The heat shoves Jensen down into the concrete of the parking lot.
"What the fuck was I supposed to say?" Chris's dander appears to be still way up above acceptable levels. He turns on Jensen and shoots his arm out to stop him. "You tell me how I was supposed to tell you she left me because she thought I was fucking you. Hit me. I wanna hear it."
Jensen's had about enough of the pity party and the lyin'. He also can't take Chris' anger redirected at him, and if this goes on much longer it's going to end in blood and bruised knuckles. He smiles at Chris, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting out his mouth. "How about you fuck her over by making it true?"
Chris waits several ticks, just staring, then throws his head back to laugh. Jensen runs a finger up the visible vein standing out on the inside of Chris's arm. Chris's skin is soft and damp and Jensen can almost taste Chris' scent on the back of his tongue.
The anger's gone, but Jensen doesn't let the joke go, because he's too drunk to keep his mouth shut, and it's Chris. "Come on, kiss me so when that bitch comes bustin' out here to rip into you again she catches us."
Chris's smile's still there, but his eyes settle, half-closed, on Jensen's. "You think you're gon' win the bet pulling me?"
Jensen doesn't wait on yes, because he never hears no, and he totally forgets about Renee and her brother who's probably got a bat, when Chris commits to the kiss. His bracelet tickles Jensen's back as Chris works his hand up Jensen's sweaty spine, and the hand holding Jensen's arm drops to yank him by a belt loop.
Oh, fuck, it's filthy, with Chris sucking and making smacking noises and twisting his tongue up between Jensen's lip and the front of his teeth. And Jensen's instantly hard and confused about it, not wanting to want this at all, because there's no way Chris is taking this further than a bullshit display. He's an actor Jensen keeps looping as Chris kisses him stupid.
Jensen never in a million, not Chris.
But Chris's hand on his ass and cock peeking out of the top of his worn jeans tells another tale, and Jensen would rather have this than some random bimbo or a kitty from a good hand, because this is hitting the lottery and winning an Emmy on the same day. Chris, sweating and slick and fresh like the breeze off the water, oyster shells biting into the bottom of Jensen's feet and Charlie Daniels playing out of some car in the parking lot.
The casino circuit shuttle comes, and they break apart before it pulls up, but even from a distance what they were doing is plain to the world. Jensen doesn't give a shit and stares down the middle aged woman who makes a noise in their direction.
"Don't go menacing closed-minded matrons." Chris plops down in a seat and Jensen settles next to him. They don’t grope or even look at each other on the ride back to their hotel. Jensen doesn't think he could stand to look at him and not lick the crease of his arm. And they are in Biloxi, Mississippi-Jensen likes being alive.
same in any language
Jensen presses Chris face first into the mirrored wall of the elevator. "You should have told me, you fuck." He kisses the salt and damp on Chris's hairline behind his ear.
Chris doesn't answer, for once in his entire goddamned life, and Jensen licks where he was kissing, barely holding himself back from biting, cause once he starts, he knows he isn't gonna stop.
Their floor pings and Jensen hauls Chris behind him with a hand around his wrist, Chris leaning away and laughing. Their flip-flops slap loudly against their feet in the stillness of the garish gold and white hallway.
Chris is laid back in the sack the same way he is the rest of the time. He lets Jensen toss him around, whispering and humming and delighted. Jensen busts the button off Chris's jeans when he yanks too hard.
"Damn it, where did that button go?" Chris leans up off the bed and peers around like he's going to see it immediately.
"Are you fucking kiddin'?" Jensen pulls Chris's jeans down, licks the skin where his belly and hip meet.
"My lucky button, man," Chris moans as he collapses back with his hand coming down on Jensen's cheek.
"Hmmmm," Jensen answers, around the head of Chris's cock. Fuck Chris and his superstitious hillbilly bullshit.
Chris babbles low and sexy enough for Jensen to regret being on his knees on the floor with nothing to rub against. "Ahhhh, Jen, baby, mmmm, sooooo good, ah!" and every variation on 'ah' comes with a lift or a twist of his hips and press of his hand against Jensen's head. Under the salt, Chris tastes like Chris would-sweet and smoky and pure.
Jensen's eyes drop closed when Chris starts to beg without prompting. "Baby, please, ah, harder, just… I'll do anything, please, harder…" and Jensen sucks so hard Chris almost knocks him off with a sharp buck of his hips.
He pulls off and holds Chris down with a hand on his belly. "Chris, you're gonna have to behave. You can pull my hair, but, damn it, don't give me a black eye."
Chris opens his eyes and looks down at Jensen and hits him with the smile Jensen's only seen directed at girls about to go down for the count. His hand flutters back to Jensen's face, the backs of his knuckles brushing the freckles under Jensen's eyes.
Oh god. Jensen lungs off the floor and settles on the bed, twisting around Chris, his mouth desperate for anything, anything, and what he gets is Chris's tongue and teeth nipping at him. Chris rubs him through his shorts, worms a hand up the leg and brushes Jensen's balls. The press of denim and Chris's hip and fingers Chris strokes behind his balls are more than enough at this point. Jensen comes in his pants with a chittering sound he's embarrassed about even as it happens.
Chris is a goddamned relentless bastard, too, because he starts jacking himself off with his feet braced on the bed with absolutely no shame. His hips work up on every down stroke and his thighs bunch and flex, straining and shaking, and Jensen feels like maybe Chris is trying to punish him for something because it's more than Jensen can take. He shoves Chris down with his chest and gets his mouth around Chris's cock long enough for Chris to shout his name and come while holding Jensen locked on his cock with a tight hand on the back of Jensen's head.
As soon as he relaxes into a lump, releasing Jensen, Chris starts to laugh low and rough. Chris's laughter could steal souls away from the devil himself.
"You are a ruthless bastard, motherfucker."
Jensen's already hard again.
the angle of his cheek was the math of persuasion
Waffle House morning-afters have a long tradition on the Gulf Coast.
Jensen eats his hashbrowns, scattered and covered and topped, while Chris chit-chats with the couple in the next booth. They're from some hick town in Oklahoma, and Chris's laying the shit on thick.
"Don't be like that, now." Chris smiles at Jensen's "who me?" expression.
"I'm not being like anything," and with anyone else, Jensen could have made that work as a legit comeback. Chris makes a face, rolling his eyes around on the ceiling.
"That’s a pretty serious hickey you got there, boy, think maybe we need to take a couple more days, win some more money, let that clear up before we take you back to your mama." Jensen touches several places on his neck. Shit, hickey?
"Seriously?" Jensen hasn't bothered to shave yet.
"Hmm," Chris replies, sipping his coffee and smiling.
Jensen realizes-WHAP!-that Chris's acting normal, not strained or distant. Chris sits sprawled with his legs open and a hand resting comfortably near his crotch, foot out so the waitress has to step over it, hat resting on the table between the dishes, and come-kiss-me smile all over his face. He's Christian Kane, cool-ass motherfucker.
Score one to Jensen, for fucking it out of his system.
~Brenda's going to write a mirror story, go on now and abuse her for it.
The title of the story is a song title (sung by many people, but once memorably by Emmylou Harris). The section headers are all lyrics:
West Texas Highway - also by many people (and Lyle Lovett in particular)
Boulder to Birmingham - Emmylou
The Chase - KANE, MOFOS!
Texas River Song - Lyle
Biloxi - Jennifer Niceley
Dead Flowers - (come the fuck on, peoples)
Hardcore Troubadour - Steve (god) Earle
SAME AS ABOVE
Same In Any Language (can't remember who sings it)
Miss Ferguson - your pal, and mine, Cory Branan
(she currently can't get her new wallpaper of Jared to work and is bitching about it and crying)
This story is a backstory to Brenda's story Bottom's Up found
he'ah
So, everyone I know has already read this: Jamie, Anna, JJ, and finally Brenda (who wanted it to be better than this, but I'm trying to drink here, also, see my icon for in regards to your last remark).
Gulf Coast Highway
And I'm back in my car and I'm out on the highway, goin' hard, goin' fast, goin' wild
I-45 to 1-10 will take you from the heart of Texas to the heart of Dixie at an almost right angle trajectory of cracked concrete and truck stops. In a reversal of how the old towns were settled next to rivers for transport, the interstate system was built to carry commerce from settled town to settled town--Dallas, Houston, Lake Charles, Lafayette, Gulfport, Biloxi. Anywhere you wanna get, it's always just a little further down the road. All the way to the Atlantic Ocean.
Jensen's standing barefoot in his parents' kitchen when Chris calls. It's almost like kismet, man, because Jensen was just thinking about calling Chris to discuss laying some money down on a Rangers game.
"Howdy." Jensen laughs down the line, pleased just to talk to Chris, pleased with fucking life, man, the whole spin of Dark Angel tangling him up, making him smile so his face's breaking off.
"That kinda day, huh?" Chris chuffs, but his voice's got the tightness of kicked-dog under it.
Jensen cuts to the chase. "She was a bitch, man, you're better off."
"If she was that bad, that makes me even more of a fucking clown, man." Chris tries to laugh it off, but the words totally call him out. Jensen considers laying it out-the fact that Chris does it to himself, that he picks the same heartbreaker who doesn't get him and reads The Rules and shit over and over, but that's not what Chris needs.
"Get your sorry cracker ass down here right this fucking minute and go on a road trip with me, bitch." Jensen firmly believes that road trips can fix cancer and heartbreak and some folk's whole personalities.
"I'm in L.A.," Chris sighs.
Fuck this shit. "You're gonna let a woman defeat you?" Jensen's going for pep rally. "You aren't that guy."
And that strategy backfires: "I think we both know I am."
"Just get out here so we can get you some tail, asshole. Fuck that bitch outta your system." Always works for Jensen.
"Don't ever let anyone tell ya you're not a romantic fucker." Chris laughs, and Jensen can hear the clicking of his ever-present bracelets against the phone.
"Word, bitch, word! I am Mr. Romance. A little tequila, a little music, and the panties fly, dude." Jensen laughs back when Chris lets off a huge guffaw.
The words unsaid between them are I'll pick you up, just like you did me, come on now.
I got on this airplane just to fly
Some things in life are predictable-rain in the fall, grandma's biscuits, and Chris having a woman hanging off his dick at any given moment.
Jensen fills the tank on the rented Ford, and Chris stands on the broken, stained pavement between the glass front of the Texaco and the gas pumps shaking his head and laughing at the antics of the two girls tag-teaming him. One has her fingertips on the brim of his straw cowboy hat and the other keeps touching the line of his exposed bicep. Jensen rolls his eyes. He's hungry, goddamn it, there's a Cracker Barrel around here with his name on it, and these skeazes are between him and some hashbrown casserole.
He snaps the nozzle back into place, wipes his hands on the back pockets of his jeans, and strolls right up to the circus, pretty as you please, teeth-baring smile in place and swagger in his step. He slides right up behind Chris, wraps an arm around his waist and whispers in his ear, "Baby, you leadin' these pretty girls on, now? Don't make daddy spank you."
Chris tips his head back laughing and his hat brushes Jensen's face. His calloused, strong fingers come up to circle Jensen's wrist.
"Being polite like my mama taught me's all, sweetheart," Chris is solid, smooth.
Both of the girls laugh uproariously, nudging and knocking into each other, and one of them whispers "Oh, lordy." They wave good-naturedly and walk off.
Jensen doesn't let Chris go until the girls are in their car. Chris's back sweats through his shirt and Jensen's. His hat still smells like straw after all these years.
"Goddamn. I can't leave you alone for the five minutes it takes to pump the fucking gas, dude." Jensen drops his arm and makes a biting motion at Chris's face when Chris smiles up at him all good ol' boy with his eyes half-closed and a wink comin' on fast.
"Being a pussy-magnet's a curse, boy, what you want me to do about it?" He's laughing, relaxed, and Jensen thinks his masterplan is already in full-effect. Then Chris sighs for no reason as he climbs in the car, and Jensen has to repress groaning. Fuck. Something's wronger with Chris than Jensen had first thought.
A busted neon sign
Houston is horizon to horizon concrete, petrodollars, and roughnecks who work off-shore or at refineries instead of on derricks. It smells like chemicals to Jensen, feels like falling off the edge of Texas. He's never liked Houston one bit.
Chris, however, has a completely different opinion.
"Fuck, man, I love this town." Chris drinks a longneck and watches a pretty girl in a baseball cap and LSU t-shirt kick the ever-loving crap out of a couple toothless rednecks at pool. "Holy shit, did you see how she banked that!" Chris slaps his leg, rocking on the bar stool and knocking into Jensen.
Jensen could whip that chick's ass easy. She's only winning because the guys she's playing are fucking tore up and stupid. Maybe retarded or something, who knows with rednecks. Jensen sets his beer down and moves to grab a pool cue off the rack, call the next game. Chris's smacks him still with an arm across his chest like a mama at a stoplight.
"Dial down the competitive streak. Bustin' out your pool prowess isn't gonna get anybody laid." Chris drops his arm and pokes Jensen in the arm with his bottle. Chris stares him right in the eye from under the brim of his hat, looking through him without a trace of a smile.
"Wasn't thinkin' that," he lies, and Jensen hates being that transparent. Sometimes Jensen lets Chris big-brother him, daddy him, boss him around, and he doesn't really know why. Nobody else talks to Jensen like that or even comes close.
The chick sinks an impossible double-banked combo shot, and Jensen lifts his eyebrows as Chris crows out loud and whistles. When she stands back up, the light over the pool table hits her full on the face, and she's got huge eyes and an up-turned nose, tanned skin and no make-up. Jensen suddenly regrets promising himself he'd let Chris have first dibs for the entire trip, because, damn, girl-next-door has always been his kryptonite.
Chris shouts out, "Girl, come over here so we can buy you ten drinks!"
And because Chris has that sincerity, that magic safe vibe, Miss Texas smiles bright as sunshine through the rain and walks the fuck over.
"I know who you are." She smiles, and Jensen can taste her on the back of his throat. Fuck friendship, because she's got a goddamned backwoods Louisiana accent, and when she pulls her hat off, slick, dark hair tumbles out half-way down her back.
"That so?" Chris's voice drops, and Jensen feels like a grip on a porno, because it's happenin' right there in front of his face, but he's not part of this. "Then you oughta tell me who you are, so it's all fair."
"Amy," says the girl Jensen should be bagging.
"This is my good buddy, Jen, Amy." Chris wraps his hand around Jensen's arm. Amy looks up at Jensen and her eyes sweep his face. Her lips part just a little, and Jensen can't even believe this.
When Amy's three shots down and in the little girl's room, Jensen lifts an eyebrow silently asking Chris what the fuck's going on.
Chris downs his shot. "Give her another round and she won't even mind when I stick around while y'all're at it."
Jensen coughs half his tequila back up.
"Easy, baby, just watchin'." Chris laughs red-tinged sin, and Jensen's so hard he's going to have to jack off in the bathroom before they leave -- or embarrass himself in front of company. "You not man enough? Afraid you'll disappoint everyone involved?"
And goddamn if that's not a dare. "It's like that, then?"
"It's like that." Chris downs his shot. Jensen hears loud and clear I can't fuck anybody else yet, man, snap me out of it.
It's on.
Or it's not on, because Amy's underaged.
It's gonna be on.
the Sabine and the Sulphur hold beauties a'many
The humidity in New Orleans settles into the skin and down the throat into the soul. Jensen can't hardly move in the heat with the fist of God rolling off the river to sap any intention to even think away.
They're drinking in some fucking dive off Esplanade. The place has red lights out front and rowdy-ass locals inside hollering and whoopin' it up-typical down-home. The place could be anywhere from Plano to Memphis to Valdosta with a simple shift of accents from the New Orleans Brooklyn tinged French spiced clip to the North Texas drawl to the Tennessee twang to the southern George creep. Chris isn't interested in frozen daiquiris and drunk frat boys, and Jensen could not agree with that mentality more. Where frat boys roam, so do co-eds, but there are plenty of pretty girls in hardly any clothes right in the no-name bar with the red lights to off-set that loss.
Even in the air conditioning, the humidity doesn't let up. Thick enough to cut with a knife, the old cliché, but fucking true. Jensen's given up on getting dry the whole time they're on the Gulf Coast; he expects mildew to break out on his skin any second.
Chris' hair's sweated curly when he takes his hat off. His face shines red long before he starts drinking. Chris' shirt, sleeves cut off, is plastered to him. Jensen's t-shirt is totally soaked and see-through. The inside of the bar's dark, stained wood with peanut shells on the floor and an old Wurlitzer playing ancient country hits and Zydeco.
The heat's bled Jensen's brain out. He's on the edge of dehydration, so he drinks beer while Chris sweet-talks a punk rock chick with short black hair. In New Orleans, the counter-culture swirls into even the most unlikely places-kids in pvc and chains in church and tattooed physicians giving babies shots and girls in tank tops inked in sharpie in honky-tonks.
Jensen eyes the girl-her tank top reads "F the President" and her bra straps are teal-over Chris's shoulder. She meets his eye and lifts an eyebrow. Oh, a live one, then. He smiles, and she rolls her eyes. Oh, hell no.
"My dumb friend's Jensen," Chris rumbles through laughter. "He got beat with the pretty stick until his brains fell out."
The girl throws back her head laughing, and Jensen sees the flash of tongue ring. Yup, Chris can pick 'em.
"Hey now, I only forgot how to spell my name that once, and mama-sister said that weren't my fault since I was so high on glue." Jensen can already see the direct route into this girl's pants-dot A to dot C to dot X.
She keeps on laughing, and Jensen gets off his stool to stand next to her, lifting the tail of his shirt to wipe his face. She's staring right at him when he drops the shirt back. They don't have to explain themselves anymore than that. He smiles, turns his head to the side to chug his beer, watching Chris out of the corner of his eye.
"So, what's going on here? Do you two have a bet who can pick me up first, or do you want a redneck threesome?" She pounds back a shot and glances between them with a lazy look of boredom.
Chris laughs so hard he almost falls off his stool, and Jensen lifts his eyebrows and blows her a kiss.
Jensen lets his eyes dropped closed a little, bites his bottom lip, and turns on the sex. "Which one would you choose?"
The girl's laughter is deep and zings him where he lives. She presses the back of her hand against her mouth. "Oh, this is gonna be fucking fun!" She slaps the bar and orders the bartender to line up a round of shots.
Her name's Isabelle, and she's not even slightly impressed by their careers. She's a law student at Tulane.
More importantly, after four more rounds, when Jensen picks her up and presses her against the side of a wood-framed house, her black skirt rides up around her hips as sweet as syrup and her legs lock around his back, and he can tell she's watching Chris over his shoulder. Sweat slides down his spine and the backs of his knees, and he strains to hear Chris behind him over Isabelle's breathing. He squeezes his eyes closed when she clenches around him. Chris whispers shit, and Jensen almost comes.
"You're so gorgeous," she whispers as he moves inside her, and she's still laughing, eyes drifting back from Chris to Jensen, and she knows how to work her hips. The ball of her tongue ring sliding against his lip makes Jensen's legs shake.
"Too bad I didn't get to see both of you naked, next to each other, touching each other," she whispers into Jensen's ear as he sets her down. Her lips limn his skin, and Jensen feels lightheaded and drunk and heat-strokey. Her kisses taste like sweat, and when he presses his hand between her legs to get her off, she bites him.
down around Biloxi pretty girls are swimming in the sea
Highway 90 runs from Jacksonville to Van Horn, Texas. It's a vestige of the pre-Interstate South, flowing through every city along the Gulf Coast and is a main thoroughfare through many of them, used just like any other four-lane road. In Mississippi, Hwy 90 wedges between pine woods on the north side and the actual beach on the south side. White sand and green needles, and Jensen sweats out his hangover sitting on a towel in Biloxi in a pair of jeans he hacked up with Chris's pocket knife that morning. How the hell Louisiana and Mississippi manage to be hotter than Texas, Jensen has no clue.
Chris had deposited Jensen on the beach and told him to get a tan while he checked into the hotel. Since Jensen had woken up still drunk and with a back spasm, that had sounded good to him. Girls in bikinis horse around in the surf, and Jensen knows if he had the energy he could have any of them sucking him off behind the frozen banana stand in the time it would take him to say "So, wanna fuck?".
But he's feeling antsy. Maybe for once Chris isn't being straight about something. Jensen hates that shit. If Chris needs to work or fight or fuck something out, he just needs to say so, and Jensen will knock his head against the wall until Chris gets what he's after.
Jensen falls asleep and dreams about Chris on his back deck eating cole slaw and explaining math, but he's talking backwards and Jensen can still understand him. Jensen comes to with Chris blocking the sun, crouching down, his hat set way back on his head. Jensen blinks and reflexively shades his eyes with his hand.
"What the fuck's going on?" Jensen barks before he can curb himself. Chris must have fucked up the situation with his woman, because if she'd just done him wrong he'd be back to normal by now.
Chris tilts his head and makes a humming noise. "What are you asking me?"
And one of the reasons they're as tight as they are is that when it comes to bullshit, neither of them tolerates it for long. "Why the fuck are we in Biloxi?"
Jensen does not say her name, does not scream What are you punishing yourself for? What did you do to be tearing yourself up like this? -- because he's willing to push, but there are limits. Jensen has few, but Chris has very specific ones and Jensen doesn't want to throw down with this kind of hangover.
"To gamble away all our easily-gotten money, man." Chris stands up. "Why else would anyone come to Biloxi?"
Yeah, right. Jensen's going to find out what Chris did. Then Jensen's going to get him over it or die tryin'.
"Yeah, sure, dude." It comes out sarcastic because he doesn't even attempt to hide his annoyance. No one ever said he was great with covering up his feelings.
send me dead flowers to my wedding and I won't forget to put roses on your grave
Chris has a profound sense of irony-and the tacky. They end up a casino shaped like a giant pirate galleon, being served drinks by girls dressed up like slutty pirate wenches. The carpet stretches wall to wall in a repeating pirate map pattern.
Jensen winces around his Jim Beam and tsks. "You hang out with Dave too much, dude."
"The middle class didn't leave you any room to appreciate kitsch, did it, baby boy?" Chris left the hat in their room and is wearing a t-shirt that pulls tight across chest and strains around his arms. His jean are holey and the rivet has long-ago been replaced with a button from a coat or some shit.
They're both wearing flip-flops.
Chris crosses the room to a poker table, his shoes slapping against the soles of his feet loud enough Jensen can hear it over the buzz of the gamblers. They settle in at a table, and Chris refuses to allow Jensen sit next to him, saying, "You steal my luck, sucker, don't even try it."
Chris is a gambler in the same way he's a bronc-rider and a singer-just because he is, with all the trappings falling around him easy as you please. Gamblers are superstitious, so Chris is superstitious when he gambles. On anyone else, it would be pretension; on Chris, Jensen feels like he's being out-done in the authenticity stakes. Jensen isn't used to being outdone. Every time Chris manages it, it stings.
"Fine. Asshole." The waitress comes around to ask for their drink order, and Jensen smiles at her. Her cleavage is out of control, and he peeks at it with a lift of his eyebrow and a joking smile. She laughs. He's so in there.
"Christ, can we get in a couple hands first?" Chris' voice drops and he almost sounds mad. He kicks the chair between them so it rocks against Jensen's.
"Jealous?" Jensen smirks to cover his unease at Chris' temper. The waitress walks off with a roll of her hips and a wag of her finger.
"We both know there's not a person in this casino you could have and I couldn't, so you keep your ego under control and we'll play some cards here." Chris' voice dips low-down, Oklahoma, red clay back road and buckshot. He taps his finger on the baize, and the dealer flips him a card, openly watching the two of them with amusement.
"Are you callin' me out?"
Jensen really does care what's wrong with Chris, why they're in fucking Mississippi, but he also can't pass up a chance to hand Chris his ass on a plate.
"Don't embarrass yourself, junior." Chris cuts him a sideways look Jensen can't quite get a fix on. Jensen's eyebrows come together without his permission and he scoffs, wagging his head. Chris doesn't smile like he normally would in a situation like this, and Jensen's at a loss.
It's on.
wherefore art thou, Romeo, you son of a bitch
Jensen hits a winning streak at stud, and in the thrill of the string of ladies and winking jacks in his hands, he forgets all about knocking the shine right off of Chris's bravado. When he looks up, Chris is sitting at the long bar against the far wall. He sits with an elbow on the back of the high stool, his legs wide open, and a woman leans in to him, her hand high on the inside of his thigh.
Damn it! They hadn't even run any parameters, and that son of a bitch has a girl practically blowing him in public. Fuck that.
"I'm done." Jensen wipes his chips into the huge cup with pirate cartoons all over it and wanders over to set down a cockblock not seen since eighth grade.
When the woman looks up and tosses her hair over her shoulder, Jensen recognizes her. The hot waitress in her civvies.
Son of a bitch!
Jensen steps right up to them, not even trying to be cool about it. Chris raises both his eyebrows. "Jen, I think you met Tammy already." Chris doesn't even try to hide how hard he is, his thick thighs flexing as he shifts his feet on the foot rail of the stool.
"Tammy," Jensen drops his voice and blinks slow at her. She blushes.
he's the last of the hard-core troubadours, baby, what you waitin' for?
At the Imperial Palace, Jensen wins a grand on one hand, but Chris pulls the pretty blonde Jensen has his eye on.
By the time they're at the Isle of Capri, Jensen's up three grand, and Chris's starting to get a little edgy with what Jensen assumes is unfulfilled lust. He's just horking Jensen's chicks and letting 'em go again, like undersized fish. If Jensen didn't have a wad of money in his back pocket, there might have to be some physical violence between them. He's trying to be understanding, and the money goes a long way to make him easy tempered.
The Isle of Capri is a madhouse of pastel neon and rainforest crapola festooned all over the place. Parrots and toucans and whirligigs. Jensen's close to drunk, so it all makes him a little dizzy.
"This place is fucked six weeks to Sunday, I love it!" Chris slaps Jensen on the back and whoops.
"You would, since you're deranged." Jensen's about ready to fight it out, since gambling it out's getting him no closer to what the fuck Chris's problem is, and Chris has apparently sworn off pussy for the rest of his life.
They decide to eat at the buffet before continuing the bullshit parade. Seafood, and more seafood, and crepes. That's pretty much it. Jensen eats crab legs and shrimp and some rice casserole stuff with cheese and shrimp. Chris eats crawfish and something spicy that makes his eyes water as he moans, "Whoooooheeeeeee!".
They also drink three scotches apiece just with the food.
Fortified with booze and sea creatures in their bellies, they settle in at the card table. They play two hands, and then everything goes to shit.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" A high pitched, heavily accented voice drawls from behind them. Jensen whips around in his seat just in time to see Chris reach up to keep a long-nailed female hand from smacking the taste out of his mouth.
"Renee, I know you did not just try to slap my face." Chris's pissed, using his "reasonable" voice. What the fuck? Chris' ex has always been a little bit of a nightmare to Jensen, a ball-buster. But more importantly, when the fuck did she move back to Mississippi? Chris is getting his assed kicked hardcore for this shit.
"I don't even know what the hell you think you're doin' here, but you best get your ass out before I call my brother." Jensen watches blonde hair fly around her face. She looks as gorgeous as ever, as deranged as ever.
Then the other shoe drops right on Jensen's head when Renee points a French manicured finger right in Jensen's face. "Lord knows what you think you're doing with that one, paradin' him around like it's not sick. You're goin' to hell, Christian. Burn in hell, you piece of shit."
Renee does not mince words. She yanks her hand out of Chris's grip and starts pawing through her purse. A security guy comes over and helpfully escorts Chris and Jensen to the cages so they can trade in their chips and then he follows them to the door.
"So I guess there is something you didn't mention." The heat shoves Jensen down into the concrete of the parking lot.
"What the fuck was I supposed to say?" Chris's dander appears to be still way up above acceptable levels. He turns on Jensen and shoots his arm out to stop him. "You tell me how I was supposed to tell you she left me because she thought I was fucking you. Hit me. I wanna hear it."
Jensen's had about enough of the pity party and the lyin'. He also can't take Chris' anger redirected at him, and if this goes on much longer it's going to end in blood and bruised knuckles. He smiles at Chris, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting out his mouth. "How about you fuck her over by making it true?"
Chris waits several ticks, just staring, then throws his head back to laugh. Jensen runs a finger up the visible vein standing out on the inside of Chris's arm. Chris's skin is soft and damp and Jensen can almost taste Chris' scent on the back of his tongue.
The anger's gone, but Jensen doesn't let the joke go, because he's too drunk to keep his mouth shut, and it's Chris. "Come on, kiss me so when that bitch comes bustin' out here to rip into you again she catches us."
Chris's smile's still there, but his eyes settle, half-closed, on Jensen's. "You think you're gon' win the bet pulling me?"
Jensen doesn't wait on yes, because he never hears no, and he totally forgets about Renee and her brother who's probably got a bat, when Chris commits to the kiss. His bracelet tickles Jensen's back as Chris works his hand up Jensen's sweaty spine, and the hand holding Jensen's arm drops to yank him by a belt loop.
Oh, fuck, it's filthy, with Chris sucking and making smacking noises and twisting his tongue up between Jensen's lip and the front of his teeth. And Jensen's instantly hard and confused about it, not wanting to want this at all, because there's no way Chris is taking this further than a bullshit display. He's an actor Jensen keeps looping as Chris kisses him stupid.
Jensen never in a million, not Chris.
But Chris's hand on his ass and cock peeking out of the top of his worn jeans tells another tale, and Jensen would rather have this than some random bimbo or a kitty from a good hand, because this is hitting the lottery and winning an Emmy on the same day. Chris, sweating and slick and fresh like the breeze off the water, oyster shells biting into the bottom of Jensen's feet and Charlie Daniels playing out of some car in the parking lot.
The casino circuit shuttle comes, and they break apart before it pulls up, but even from a distance what they were doing is plain to the world. Jensen doesn't give a shit and stares down the middle aged woman who makes a noise in their direction.
"Don't go menacing closed-minded matrons." Chris plops down in a seat and Jensen settles next to him. They don’t grope or even look at each other on the ride back to their hotel. Jensen doesn't think he could stand to look at him and not lick the crease of his arm. And they are in Biloxi, Mississippi-Jensen likes being alive.
same in any language
Jensen presses Chris face first into the mirrored wall of the elevator. "You should have told me, you fuck." He kisses the salt and damp on Chris's hairline behind his ear.
Chris doesn't answer, for once in his entire goddamned life, and Jensen licks where he was kissing, barely holding himself back from biting, cause once he starts, he knows he isn't gonna stop.
Their floor pings and Jensen hauls Chris behind him with a hand around his wrist, Chris leaning away and laughing. Their flip-flops slap loudly against their feet in the stillness of the garish gold and white hallway.
Chris is laid back in the sack the same way he is the rest of the time. He lets Jensen toss him around, whispering and humming and delighted. Jensen busts the button off Chris's jeans when he yanks too hard.
"Damn it, where did that button go?" Chris leans up off the bed and peers around like he's going to see it immediately.
"Are you fucking kiddin'?" Jensen pulls Chris's jeans down, licks the skin where his belly and hip meet.
"My lucky button, man," Chris moans as he collapses back with his hand coming down on Jensen's cheek.
"Hmmmm," Jensen answers, around the head of Chris's cock. Fuck Chris and his superstitious hillbilly bullshit.
Chris babbles low and sexy enough for Jensen to regret being on his knees on the floor with nothing to rub against. "Ahhhh, Jen, baby, mmmm, sooooo good, ah!" and every variation on 'ah' comes with a lift or a twist of his hips and press of his hand against Jensen's head. Under the salt, Chris tastes like Chris would-sweet and smoky and pure.
Jensen's eyes drop closed when Chris starts to beg without prompting. "Baby, please, ah, harder, just… I'll do anything, please, harder…" and Jensen sucks so hard Chris almost knocks him off with a sharp buck of his hips.
He pulls off and holds Chris down with a hand on his belly. "Chris, you're gonna have to behave. You can pull my hair, but, damn it, don't give me a black eye."
Chris opens his eyes and looks down at Jensen and hits him with the smile Jensen's only seen directed at girls about to go down for the count. His hand flutters back to Jensen's face, the backs of his knuckles brushing the freckles under Jensen's eyes.
Oh god. Jensen lungs off the floor and settles on the bed, twisting around Chris, his mouth desperate for anything, anything, and what he gets is Chris's tongue and teeth nipping at him. Chris rubs him through his shorts, worms a hand up the leg and brushes Jensen's balls. The press of denim and Chris's hip and fingers Chris strokes behind his balls are more than enough at this point. Jensen comes in his pants with a chittering sound he's embarrassed about even as it happens.
Chris is a goddamned relentless bastard, too, because he starts jacking himself off with his feet braced on the bed with absolutely no shame. His hips work up on every down stroke and his thighs bunch and flex, straining and shaking, and Jensen feels like maybe Chris is trying to punish him for something because it's more than Jensen can take. He shoves Chris down with his chest and gets his mouth around Chris's cock long enough for Chris to shout his name and come while holding Jensen locked on his cock with a tight hand on the back of Jensen's head.
As soon as he relaxes into a lump, releasing Jensen, Chris starts to laugh low and rough. Chris's laughter could steal souls away from the devil himself.
"You are a ruthless bastard, motherfucker."
Jensen's already hard again.
the angle of his cheek was the math of persuasion
Waffle House morning-afters have a long tradition on the Gulf Coast.
Jensen eats his hashbrowns, scattered and covered and topped, while Chris chit-chats with the couple in the next booth. They're from some hick town in Oklahoma, and Chris's laying the shit on thick.
"Don't be like that, now." Chris smiles at Jensen's "who me?" expression.
"I'm not being like anything," and with anyone else, Jensen could have made that work as a legit comeback. Chris makes a face, rolling his eyes around on the ceiling.
"That’s a pretty serious hickey you got there, boy, think maybe we need to take a couple more days, win some more money, let that clear up before we take you back to your mama." Jensen touches several places on his neck. Shit, hickey?
"Seriously?" Jensen hasn't bothered to shave yet.
"Hmm," Chris replies, sipping his coffee and smiling.
Jensen realizes-WHAP!-that Chris's acting normal, not strained or distant. Chris sits sprawled with his legs open and a hand resting comfortably near his crotch, foot out so the waitress has to step over it, hat resting on the table between the dishes, and come-kiss-me smile all over his face. He's Christian Kane, cool-ass motherfucker.
Score one to Jensen, for fucking it out of his system.
~Brenda's going to write a mirror story, go on now and abuse her for it.
The title of the story is a song title (sung by many people, but once memorably by Emmylou Harris). The section headers are all lyrics:
West Texas Highway - also by many people (and Lyle Lovett in particular)
Boulder to Birmingham - Emmylou
The Chase - KANE, MOFOS!
Texas River Song - Lyle
Biloxi - Jennifer Niceley
Dead Flowers - (come the fuck on, peoples)
Hardcore Troubadour - Steve (god) Earle
SAME AS ABOVE
Same In Any Language (can't remember who sings it)
Miss Ferguson - your pal, and mine, Cory Branan