Useful Illusions: Behind the Line
Title: Behind the Line
Series: Useful Illusions
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: Real people are real and this is really not real. Really. Also very sorry.
Summary: Jensen could get used to this.
Previous Installments
Being Jeffrey Beaumont by kadiel_krieger
Being Misha Collins by elizah_jane
Lady Luck is a fickle bitch.
Life has taught Jensen this, if nothing else really worth knowing. Sometimes the cards fall in your favor. Sometimes they don't.
Today she adores him like air or water or, hell, those little chocolate-covered espresso beans she chews to speed her journey towards the spastic idiosyncrasy that defines her. Today he holds a royal flush and the winning bet on thirteen black and a detailed map of the one-armed-bandits that actually pay.
Today, he's king of the world. Fuck DiCaprio and his pansy fucking face.
Much as he admires Winslet and her considerable attributes, she's got shit on Misha. Especially now, in the small hours of the morning, his own substantial shields drawn back by sleep. Beautiful and profane, his lips parted and swollen slightly by their excesses, the curve of Jensen's teeth stamped in his shoulder. Jensen shifts gently and breathes deep, rolling over onto his side. To ease the crick in his neck, really, that's all. Drinks in what he can while he can, the sated silence twisting its way into places it hasn't any right to be. Misha twisting his way into places he hasn't any right to be.
He could get used to this.
It terrifies Jensen enough to pull him from the warm tangle of sleek limbs. Drives him to ground and his dresser for an old pair of sweatpants that he jerks up over his hips and ties off with a tug. He pads silently down the hall, through the kitchen and out onto the back deck.
The air hits him like a tangible thing, cold and wet, fog sweeping softly against the swell of the long hill in Jared's back yard. He's never quite gotten around to considering it theirs, regardless of whose name is on the mortgage. The idea that someone trusts him enough to happily, willingly sign their name to paper next to his still baffles him on a deep, spiritual level, so he tries not to think about it. Jared, being Jared, acted like it was nothing. A formality. Jensen went along because he didn't have anywhere else to go but an extended stay hotel.
Still, it's Jared's house.
And Jared never got around to buying real patio furniture. Cheap plastic crap is all there is, strewn and stacked haphazardly, dew-soaked, sticky with sap, and streaked with runnels of dirt from lack of use. Overall, it's pretty disgusting, and he makes a mental note to turn the hose on it tomorrow. But for now, Jensen can’t seem to give a shit, because he needs somewhere…away. To think.
The fact that he’s out here at all, that he's allowed whatever-the-fuck this thing is to chase him out of bed in the middle of the night, speaks to just how brittle his armor has gotten while riding Misha’s wake. Misha is dangerous. Not in the way most people think, of course, because that would be far too simple. No, Misha sees things he shouldn't, in places he shouldn't...
"But, no. I don't think that's who you are."
...and it puts Jensen off his game. Because that's all this is. A game. An irresistible force colliding with an immovable object.
It's a hell of a lot easier to convince himself when he's not so very tired. When Misha's somewhere else, not leaving the scent of sweat and sex and a subtle indefinable something all over his sheets. When he has an audience to play to.
Like Jared. Unfortunately for Jensen, Jared’s just icing. Enticing icing, yes, but beside the point in a way that makes him the point.
Fuck. Riddles in his own head now. Fantastic.
Jared. He never imagined, not really. And it's his own fault for bringing Dean home with him. It's part of the reason Jared has a pass behind the lines in the first place. Doesn't mean he hasn't hoped. How could he not, considering the way they bonded crazy-glue tight from the get go. It just never went there and when he thinks hard about it, Jensen’s okay with that. Jared wouldn't have been able to deal, anyway.
Or so he thought. But this changes things. Because Jared wants.
Jensen hasn’t quite figured out what he’s going to do with that particular revelation yet. Something interesting, certainly. Something he probably shouldn't, definitely. He needs sleep before he can begin to flesh it out. Decide what that something might be.
He should be ecstatic. One game well-played and another just winding up.
King of the fucking world, alright.
He feels like Arthur, besieged by shit entirely outside his control, and he just wants to shove the goddamn sword back in the goddamn stone. Because he’s never had the kind of hold on his wayward heart he wishes he did. That's why he buries it so deep.
This is not happening. Not.
The wind kicks up, sharp stinging fingers against his skin that rouse him, make him focus, draw the shutters back into place. Jensen clings to the cold, sucks it into his lungs until it sings on his scalp, tingles in his toes. And then he's back, mostly whole, mostly veiled. Ready to deal with the situation waiting for him in his bed.
But even now, Jensen knows that every time his control slips and he shows the tiniest weakness, the fissures slide open wider. Even newly honed, he can feel something looming just beyond his peripheral vision. It's the kind of something that never ends well.
The kind of something he's powerless to stop once it starts.
Continue
Series: Useful Illusions
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: Real people are real and this is really not real. Really. Also very sorry.
Summary: Jensen could get used to this.
Previous Installments
Being Jeffrey Beaumont by kadiel_krieger
Being Misha Collins by elizah_jane
Lady Luck is a fickle bitch.
Life has taught Jensen this, if nothing else really worth knowing. Sometimes the cards fall in your favor. Sometimes they don't.
Today she adores him like air or water or, hell, those little chocolate-covered espresso beans she chews to speed her journey towards the spastic idiosyncrasy that defines her. Today he holds a royal flush and the winning bet on thirteen black and a detailed map of the one-armed-bandits that actually pay.
Today, he's king of the world. Fuck DiCaprio and his pansy fucking face.
Much as he admires Winslet and her considerable attributes, she's got shit on Misha. Especially now, in the small hours of the morning, his own substantial shields drawn back by sleep. Beautiful and profane, his lips parted and swollen slightly by their excesses, the curve of Jensen's teeth stamped in his shoulder. Jensen shifts gently and breathes deep, rolling over onto his side. To ease the crick in his neck, really, that's all. Drinks in what he can while he can, the sated silence twisting its way into places it hasn't any right to be. Misha twisting his way into places he hasn't any right to be.
He could get used to this.
It terrifies Jensen enough to pull him from the warm tangle of sleek limbs. Drives him to ground and his dresser for an old pair of sweatpants that he jerks up over his hips and ties off with a tug. He pads silently down the hall, through the kitchen and out onto the back deck.
The air hits him like a tangible thing, cold and wet, fog sweeping softly against the swell of the long hill in Jared's back yard. He's never quite gotten around to considering it theirs, regardless of whose name is on the mortgage. The idea that someone trusts him enough to happily, willingly sign their name to paper next to his still baffles him on a deep, spiritual level, so he tries not to think about it. Jared, being Jared, acted like it was nothing. A formality. Jensen went along because he didn't have anywhere else to go but an extended stay hotel.
Still, it's Jared's house.
And Jared never got around to buying real patio furniture. Cheap plastic crap is all there is, strewn and stacked haphazardly, dew-soaked, sticky with sap, and streaked with runnels of dirt from lack of use. Overall, it's pretty disgusting, and he makes a mental note to turn the hose on it tomorrow. But for now, Jensen can’t seem to give a shit, because he needs somewhere…away. To think.
The fact that he’s out here at all, that he's allowed whatever-the-fuck this thing is to chase him out of bed in the middle of the night, speaks to just how brittle his armor has gotten while riding Misha’s wake. Misha is dangerous. Not in the way most people think, of course, because that would be far too simple. No, Misha sees things he shouldn't, in places he shouldn't...
"But, no. I don't think that's who you are."
...and it puts Jensen off his game. Because that's all this is. A game. An irresistible force colliding with an immovable object.
It's a hell of a lot easier to convince himself when he's not so very tired. When Misha's somewhere else, not leaving the scent of sweat and sex and a subtle indefinable something all over his sheets. When he has an audience to play to.
Like Jared. Unfortunately for Jensen, Jared’s just icing. Enticing icing, yes, but beside the point in a way that makes him the point.
Fuck. Riddles in his own head now. Fantastic.
Jared. He never imagined, not really. And it's his own fault for bringing Dean home with him. It's part of the reason Jared has a pass behind the lines in the first place. Doesn't mean he hasn't hoped. How could he not, considering the way they bonded crazy-glue tight from the get go. It just never went there and when he thinks hard about it, Jensen’s okay with that. Jared wouldn't have been able to deal, anyway.
Or so he thought. But this changes things. Because Jared wants.
Jensen hasn’t quite figured out what he’s going to do with that particular revelation yet. Something interesting, certainly. Something he probably shouldn't, definitely. He needs sleep before he can begin to flesh it out. Decide what that something might be.
He should be ecstatic. One game well-played and another just winding up.
King of the fucking world, alright.
He feels like Arthur, besieged by shit entirely outside his control, and he just wants to shove the goddamn sword back in the goddamn stone. Because he’s never had the kind of hold on his wayward heart he wishes he did. That's why he buries it so deep.
This is not happening. Not.
The wind kicks up, sharp stinging fingers against his skin that rouse him, make him focus, draw the shutters back into place. Jensen clings to the cold, sucks it into his lungs until it sings on his scalp, tingles in his toes. And then he's back, mostly whole, mostly veiled. Ready to deal with the situation waiting for him in his bed.
But even now, Jensen knows that every time his control slips and he shows the tiniest weakness, the fissures slide open wider. Even newly honed, he can feel something looming just beyond his peripheral vision. It's the kind of something that never ends well.
The kind of something he's powerless to stop once it starts.
Continue