Current mood:	accomplished
Entry tags:	fic - spn and cwrps

FIC: We Flow Together (Once and Forever), Part 1

We Flow Together (Once and Forever)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Art Post | Master Post



We Flow Together (Once and Forever)


Prologue

It's summer, Jensen's favorite time of year. His parents mill around on the deck of the party boat, talking to their stuffy friends about their boring, grown-up lives. There isn't anyone around for him to play with besides Danneel, and she's too busy wheedling another ice cream sandwich out of the caterers to pay attention to Jensen, anyway.

Jensen entertains himself for a while, instead, enjoying the breeze and the salt-air even if he'd rather be running around his backyard in an epic game of Cowboys and Indians. The soothing sound of splashing waves against the starboard side of the boat entices him, so Jensen climbs up to slide between the bars of the railing, sitting with his bare feet dangling over the side, sandals forgotten in a pile by the nearest coil of rope. At first, he just wants to get a better look at the water.

It laps lazily at the boat, stretching out forever. Jensen tries to find where it ends, but everything is steely-grey all the way out to the horizon, the ocean curling around the side of the earth. A sense of peace drifts over him, like maybe if he could just get down there, into that water, he would be happy. Like there's a friend out there waiting just for him, underneath the waves.

It's the easiest thing in the world to just let go of the railing. Jensen falls, body slipping between the bars, not scared at all; it's natural, and it doesn't matter that he can't swim. He hits the water, sinking deep with the force of it, but all he feels is an overwhelming sense of safe. And maybe something more. Something brighter.

The water presses in on all sides, Jensen just drifting for snapshot-seconds that last forever. Another little boy floats in front of him all of a sudden, smiling with soft eyes and dimpled cheeks as his hair drifts in a wild cloud around his kind face. Jensen isn't startled or scared – of course there's someone waiting for him; he knew there would be. Reaching out to the boy, Jensen's not worried about anything at all.

His mind is a warm golden hum as the water wraps around him like a hug. The boy takes his hands, his palms feeling dry even under yards of ocean. Jensen gasps when his own body goes dry all over, too, and he blinks when instead of choking down water, he could swear he's breathing air. It's like he's floating in space, except that he can see the ocean all around him, the brush of it over his skin, the dappled light filtering down from the surface. It's beautiful.

He smiles at the boy, and the boy smiles back, squeezing his hands gently. They are best friends.

It lasts only until a strong, wet arm wraps around Jensen's waist, and he's yanked to the surface by his dad, struggling against the water suddenly filling his lungs. He peers frantically into the depths, closing his fingers around nothing but water. The boy is gone.

*

An irritating bang jars Jensen out of his dreams. All that lingers is a warm golden feeling, and the kind of peace he just doesn't get when he's awake.

"Jesus Christ, Jensen!" Danneel yells through his mail slot. He can hear it all the way down the hall. "It's nine o'-fucking-clock and we are supposed to be at rehearsal right this second!"

He rolls out of bed with a thump, all tangled up in his sheets, and lands painfully on his bruised hip. "Fuck," he mutters, and the banging just gets louder.

"I heard that, you lazy bastard. I know you're in there. Roll your pretty little ass out of bed, don your gay apparel, and let's get a move on."

Jensen's sore all over, and the reason why is pretty obvious, considering the deep ache right where it counts. It's not like he can actually remember much of anything, though. Danneel lets up on her incessant beating at the door just as Jensen stumbles into a pair of jeans. He hears some suspicious clicking while pulling on his shirt and sweater vest, and then she appears right behind him in the mirror as he's squeezing Sensodyne toothpaste onto his brush in the bathroom.

"You so got fucked last night," she says with a salacious grin.

"I hate you," Jensen grunts, or at least tries to, through his mouth full of toothpaste foam. If he manages to splatter some on Danneel's pink silk halter, so much the better.

She rolls her eyes and dabs at the spot with her fingers. "You're such a prick."

Jensen spits violently in the sink. "At least my shirt doesn't clash with my hair."

"No, it just clashes with your masculinity." Danneel makes a face at her own lame comeback, but she rallies and tries again. "And anyway, my boobs totally look amazing in this. No one will even notice my hair."

"Except the fags," Jensen says, exasperated. "And I'm sure I don't have to remind you that we make up at least eighty-five percent of the cast and crew."

Danneel puts down the toilet seat and closes the lid, sitting on it with her legs crossed, denim skirt riding up her thighs just enough. "And I'm sure I don't have to remind you that you're only eighty-five percent fag yourself."

"I'd say more than that." Jensen doesn't bother to shave, chucking his toothbrush in the sink and grabbing his shoes and bag from where he flung them on the floor last night.

"Point is," Danneel says, scrambling to catch up, "I look hot, you like you been rode hard and put away wet, and we're really fucking late for rehearsal. Can we please get out of here? I'll grill you about Mr. Right Now once we're on our way."

They're in Jensen's Land Rover—Danneel behind the wheel—and halfway to the theater before Jensen finishes dishing all the lurid details of the previous night. He would've been content to leave it at, "Big dick, hot mouth, I snuck out before he woke up," since that was all he really remembered, but Danneel never lets him get away with brevity where his sex partners are concerned.

"He mentioned no less than three future dates he wanted to go on," Jensen says, groaning as the memory comes back to him. "What is wrong with these people? A hookup is a hookup, the end!"

Danneel tuts him while cutting off a UPS truck and giving a guy in a black Cadillac the finger. "What's wrong with them is that they're normal guys looking for a normal relationship. They want a connection. They want love, Jensen. Or at least more than one night of sex. You're going to run out of cock at some point, and you'll be forced to join the unwashed masses of people capable of committing. Shock, horror, I know."

Jensen lets out an incensed sort of snort. "Bite your tongue, woman. I will not run out of cock. Impossible."

"Fine," Danneel says with a put-upon sigh. "But I'll bet you money you get attached to one in particular, eventually."

*

Rehearsal is still just getting started by the time they finally arrive. Barefoot in the Park goes up in a month, and as far as Jensen is concerned, that's about half as much time as they need to make it even vaguely passable.

"What'd we miss?" he asks Tom, sliding into the seat next to him in the theatre. Danneel settles across the aisle, murmuring to the sexy little brunette understudy Jensen still hasn't been properly introduced to.

"Not a thing," Tom says, and smiles with blinding-white teeth. "Hey, uh. So I was wondering. What're you up to tonight?"

Jensen cocks an eyebrow. "Picking up some dry-cleaning and jacking off to my extensive oeuvre of Matthew McConaughey movies because my subscription to Sean Cody ran out last month," he says, suspicious.

Tom actually blushes at that. Jensen smirks. "Right, well. I ask because I'm having a party. Like, a blow-out kind of party, you know? And I want you to come. If you can. To my party." He cracks his knuckles and shrugs. "You can bring your—whatever. Danny. If you want."

Jensen laughs and turns to stage-whisper across the aisle while the director, David Nutter, gives notes to Katie and Lauren from the opening of Act III. "Hey Danny," he says, and she turns. "Wanna party tonight?" She rolls her eyes and sighs, which to Jensen is a crystal clear Duh. "We're in," he says to Tom.

Tom looks like Christmas came early. Or like the hot trick he's fucking isn't going to.

*

The bass line thumps through Jensen's bones as he makes his way down the breezeway to Tom's apartment. Danneel is teetering along behind him on her stupid Azzedine Alaia stiletto gladiator sandals, so Jensen just knocks and doesn't bother to wait for her; he's wearing sensible shoes and a nice cashmere sweater, and plans on reaping the benefits. "Your neighbors must be the most tolerant people on the planet," he yells when Tom answers the door. "Or else brain-dead."

"Nah," Tom says, grinning. "They're all here." He ushers Jensen inside, and Danneel trips after them. Jensen's first impression is definitely a good one. He's not sure how Tom affords such a kick-ass apartment on the meager pay they get for the show. Not even if he supplements it by waiting tables. Jensen's place is modest by comparison; even so, he can only pay for it because of the trust fund from his parents.

"All right," he says with a grin, clapping Tom on the back. "Your new place rocks, man." It's spacious and airy—or at least it would be if it weren't packed wall-to-wall with the sexiest, sweatiest people Jensen's ever had the pleasure of seeing. At least half of them are shirtless men and could be classified as prime-cut beefcake, and everyone else is dressed in clothes so editorial as to be completely ridiculous. Danneel fits right in with her heels and her electric blue micro-mini. Jensen peels his sweater off, feeling self-conscious.

Danneel unbuttons his shirt and pushes it off his shoulders, too. "Much better," Danneel shouts in his ear.

Tom hands them both drinks in glowing martini glasses and says something Jensen can't even begin to figure out. He lets his hand linger against Jensen's wrist, though, and Jensen meets his eyes with a smile before Tom presses up close to him, their chests sliding together on a sheen of sweat.

Someone grabs Tom by the shoulder before Jensen can speak, and he gets pulled into the crowd. I'll find you later, he mouths, and Jensen raises his glass.

"I don't get you," Danneel says, taking a gulp of her drink. She grimaces and sticks her tongue out, coughing. "What the fuck is this?"

Jensen sips at his, and it burns like industrial cleaning fluid against the roof of his mouth. "I don't know," he chokes out, "but I think it's probably gonna serve me well tonight." He downs the rest and tries not to retch as it scrapes his throat raw and curdles in his stomach. "Well?"

"Well what?" She squints at him unattractively. It's kind of adorable, and he has to laugh, though he suspects it's just the vile cocktail talking.

"Well, what don't you get about me, baby?"

"Ugh," she says, curling her lip. "Don't baby me, Ackles. That's gross. And what I don't get is that you're here for three seconds and you've already got the hottest guy in the room begging for your dick." She leaves her full glass on the nearest countertop rather than drink any more, tightens her ponytail, and pats at the pinned-back bouffant of her bangs.

Jensen shrugs. "I don't think so—he wasn't really begging for it. And you know Tom. He's kind of had a thing for a while now."

"You gonna seal the deal?" Danneel waves at the little brunette from rehearsal; she's wearing a backless dress and some sort of lethally pointed boots. Jensen hopes she and Danneel have some hot bi-curious sex and become life partners, if only so he doesn't have to go shopping with Danneel anymore.

"Who knows," Jensen says, and picks up Danneel's drink, downing it in one long, painful swallow. He can feel the alcohol seeping into his brain already, and the night has only just begun.

Tom finds him again on what passes for the dance floor, which is really Tom's den with the rich hardwood floors cleared of furniture. Jensen doesn't even want to think about what all the sweat, spilled drinks, and violently spiked heels are doing to the finish, but if Tom can afford to rent the place, he can afford to fix it up after it gets trashed.

Jensen's bumping and grinding with a muscle-bound guy he recognizes as a bouncer from Splash when he feels a big hand close gently around the back of his neck. "Hey," Tom says against his ear. "C'mere. Wanna show you something."

Jensen goes easily, limbs loose and ready and skin thrumming with heat and rhythm. "Oh yeah?" he asks, once they've gone upstairs and are winding through a hallway, the music a dampened pulse behind them.

Tom unlocks a door and drags Jensen in behind him, closing them up in the darkness. He flicks a switch, and Jensen blinks in the dim blue light flooding from tall fluorescent tubes on either side of a California king. "This is my room," Tom says, a little awkwardly. He sounds kind of drunk.

"Got that," Jensen says, and sits down hard on the bed.

"You wanna?" Tom asks, and sits down next to Jensen. His eyes are pleading, his dick already obviously hard in his graffiti-print leggings.

Jensen bites his bottom lip and lets his sweaty forehead fall into his sweaty hands. Tom's room is blissfully cool. "I do," he starts, and Tom breathes a shaky sigh of—something. Relief or arousal. "But—" and Tom tenses up.

"But what?"

"You—like me, don't you?" Jensen doesn't raise his head, and his words are muffled into his palm.

"Of course I do," Tom says. "I don't make a habit of inviting guys I don't even like into my room, man. Much less let 'em fuck me." Jensen turns to look at him, and Tom smiles tentatively. "And I am definitely going to let you fuck me."

Jensen closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I do," he says, barely above a whisper. "That's exactly what I make a habit of. What I don't make a habit of is repeats, Tom. And I don't want to—you know."

Tom looks stricken. "Break my heart?"

"Well, I was gonna say be a douchebag, but that works, too."

Tom nods with finality, his face setting into hard lines. "Right. Well. Kind of too late for that, Jensen." He gets up and opens his door, sweeping his arm in an unmistakable gesture. "Get out. Please. You can't fucking—I don't know what your problem is. Am I that repulsive to you? Are you really that up yourself? Could you seriously not even imagine ever wanting to see me again after one night?"

Jensen shrugs helplessly. "I'm sorry, I just—" He's not really sure what he is. Just that he can't imagine having to wake up to Tom's face every day. Or even most days. Tom's hot, there's no doubt about that. And he clearly really feels something for Jensen. But there's this deep, achy part inside that keeps telling Jensen not to commit. Not to fool himself into thinking he could ever really—love.

"No, you know what? I don't need your excuses. Get out. Enjoy the rest of the party. See you at work."

So Jensen leaves, and goes back downstairs, his sternum vibrating with the harsh beat of the music.

He goes through at least four more of the noxious, glowing martinis over the next several hours. He should stop before he gives himself alcohol poisoning, but he's not sure he can.

The couch he's sitting on is swaying back and forth nauseatingly when someone crashes down on it, sprawled across Jensen's lap. He throws up a little bit in his mouth at the jarring loss of equilibrium, and swallows it so he doesn't dribble any on the chick. It tastes really, really bad.

"Hi," the person says. Her voice sounds familiar. "Earth to Jensen. Come in Jensen. Are you fucking dead, you creampuff?" There are some obnoxious slaps to his face, and he blinks the room into focus a little more.

"Nyuh?" he says, eloquently.

"The answer you're looking for is yes. Yes, you are dead." Danneel—right, right, it's Danneel; he knew she seemed familiar—straddles his thighs with her knees, ignoring the fact that her skirt is about as long as Jensen's pinky, and holds his face between her clammy hands. She's wearing a fuck-off huge cocktail ring, and it's scraping against Jensen's skin, and he just wants to go to sleep and never wake up. "Christ, this is an awesome party. What the fuck happened?" She leans over to grab a tall tumbler of ice water off the end table. She smells kind of like wet pussy, and Jensen wrinkles his nose. "I brought you a present," she slurs. "Drink up."

Jensen manages a few gulps of water without puking at all, even in his own mouth; he's pleased. "Tom wanted me to fuck him," he says—or tries to say.

"And?" It's a miracle Danneel understands him, considering there are more molecules of ethanol in his blood right now than actual blood cells.

"And I said no. And he got mad." Jensen holds back a spectacular belch. It sounds more like a growl as it rolls in his throat.

Danneel blinks, nonplussed. "You said no? Jensen Ackles said no to grade A dick meat? This is Tom fucking Welling we're talking about here, right?"

Jensen manages some more water, and his voice slides back into the coherent range. His head still feels like it's floating two feet above his body, though. "A, that is gross. B, yes, I said no. He really likes me, and I think he's a cool guy. I don't wanna have to see him every day at work and have him hate me because I loved'm and left'm, you know?"

"And you didn't even consider just taking the man out for goddamn breakfast tomorrow?" Danneel's breath smells like she's been eating trash, and Jensen is really, really not in the mood for this right now.

"Yeah, I considered it," he snaps, sitting up straight. "And I don't fucking want to, okay? Did you ever think—did you ever think that maybe I just can't? I can't fucking feel that for someone? That there's no one in this entire godforsaken universe that I will ever actually want to spend my life with? What if I can't fucking love, Danny? Ever? What then?" There are embarrassing, faggoty tears in Jensen's eyes; he can feel them. They're going to spill over any second, and he needs to die right now. He seriously just wants to go find Mike and rip off his stash—he always has a stash—and just OD on it and fuck the rest of the world. It's probably the alcohol talking, and Mike may not even be at this insane shitstorm of a party, but that's what Jensen really, truly wants.

Danny pulls his hair really fucking hard, and punches him sharply enough in the shoulder to give him a dead arm. "You are a cunt, Jensen Ackles. A fucking cunt. And I don't know what to do with you. You need to get your shit together, okay? Go get your shit together and have a soul-search or eight. Smoke some dope with the Hare Krishnas or do yoga in Tibet or whatever. You're my boy, and I love you, but I cannot believe you are such a juvenile." She slaps a hand over her mouth and heaves. Jensen pulls back instinctively, but she drops her hand and doesn't actually throw up. "Jesus, I'm fucking drunk. I can't deal with you right now. Fuck off." She struggles up, yanking her skirt down as she pitches forward and back, shins propped against the side of the couch to keep herself upright. "Seriously. Fuck off."

Jensen sighs and ignores the glass of water still on the end table. He grabs a glowing martini glass from the floor next to where he's sitting, instead, and tips it back with a rueful, self-loathing smile. "Bottoms up," he says to no one, and hauls himself off the couch, making his way to the door.

Stumbling out into the street, he ponders his options. A cab is on its way towards him, and there's no good reason not to flag it down.

"Where to?" says the driver, and Jensen presses his cheek to the cold glass of the window, taking deep, steadying breaths.

"Cape Cod," he says, and the driver just laughs. Something makes him say it. Something comfortable and deep that's pulling at him—a memory or a dream.

"Sure, buddy. Where do you really wanna go?"

"Cape Cod," Jensen says again, and slides his wallet out. He waves his credit card. "I got the money."

"Whatever floats your boat," the cab driver says, laughing. "No pun intended."

Jensen lets himself slip into a heavy, sick sort of sleep as the cloudy night sky flies past the windows. He's still shirtless, and he doesn't have his sweater tucked into the waistband of his jeans anymore. The cool air feels good against his damp, flushed skin, and the driver doesn't ask any more questions.

*

The next thing he's aware of is the rough grind of sand against his hands and chest, the grains sticking to his lips and tongue as Jensen splutters. "What the fuck?" he manages, and scrambles upright. The taxi driver lets go of his feet and steps back, and Jensen takes a second to orient himself. "Gotta swipe the card, buddy," the driver says, holding out his hand.

"Right, right," Jensen mutters, and pulls it out of his wallet. The driver takes it to the car and does whatever he needs to do, and Jensen just looks out at the ocean, trying to figure out where he is.

"Um, I think we're on the wrong side," he says when the driver comes back. There's sand down his jeans and in his ears, and he's really annoyed. "Can you—"

"This is as far as I go," the driver says, and tosses Jensen's credit card at his head. "See you, man. I think there's a guy with some boats you can rent down by the shore, if you need. Good luck. Have a nice life. All that shit." He gets back in the cab and drives away without so much as a backward glance.

"Fuck," Jensen says, and slips his wallet back in his pocket. "Fuck."

The sand gets in his shoes, clings to his shins under his jeans, makes his scalp gritty. Everything smells fresh and salty, though, and the breeze off the sea is cold and delicious. Jensen's heartbeat matches the slow pull and push of the waves, and his muscles unknot like he's finally pulling up anchor.

He finds the boat guy where the taxi driver said, and the man takes him out in a crappy little boat with a crappy little engine, but Jensen feels at home. The fuzzy pain of his head melts into a warm, golden sort of haze, wrapping him up close.

"Hey," the boat guy says, breaking Jensen out of his haze, even though he's not speaking loudly. "No one's supposed to be out at this hour. Wonder what they're up to."

Jensen follows his gaze to the big ship, stocked with scientific equipment and scuba divers. "Huh," he says, and thinks nothing of it. Until the ship starts towards them. "Uh." He taps repeatedly at the boat man's shoulder. "Uh! Chuck," he thinks—hopes—his name was Chuck, "Chuck, I think that ship maybe doesn't see us. Or something."

Chuck does something to the motor, presumably to make the sad little boat go faster. But the motor gives a shrieking sort of sigh and then pops dangerously, whirling to a stop. "Oh crap," Chuck says, and looks up at the fast-approaching research ship in utter terror. "Swim for it!" he shouts, and lobs himself into the ocean.

Jensen grips the sides of the boat, white-knuckled. "I can't fucking swim!" he yells after Chuck. "Chuck! Don't leave me! I can't fucking swim!"

Chuck, however, is a fast swimmer for a fat guy and has disappeared from view. Jensen sits frozen, hands still in a death grip on the boat's sides, arms shaking hard, and lips chapped and coated in salt while the boat bears down on him incessantly, and he uses every ounce of willpower he has not to piss himself, and instead use the energy to find his voice.

"Stop!" he shrieks. "I'm here! I'm here and you're about to fucking run me down!" His throat is raw with screaming, but he keeps trying. The ship is so close now that Jensen can make out a short balding guy on the prow. The guy has to be able to see Jensen, but he's not telling anyone to slow down or change course. "Please! I can't steer this boat! I can't swim! Stop! Fucking goddammit—stop!"

The ship doesn't stop, and Jensen hurls himself overboard just in time for the massive steel hull to cleave Chuck's little wooden dinghy right in two. Jensen flails in the water, the icy cold slowing him down to molasses, swallowing him up. The splintered wood flies right at his head, and the last thing he sees is a fuzzy silhouette under the water as a chunk of debris smacks hard into the back of his skull. Everything goes dark, and he sinks into the waves through the black calm.

A dream floats into his consciousness, probably the last distress call of his brain running out of oxygen. Like his life flashing before his eyes or the tunnel with the white light. It's neither of those things, though; it's hands. Big, strong hands, dry and warm where they touch him, though Jensen is buried deep under cold water. The darkness grows gold in his vision, the cold seeping away from his bones. And that's all there is.

*

Birds call softly in the burgeoning light of dawn. It glows pink through Jensen's closed eyes; the sand under his cheek is fine and cool, not yet heated by the day.

His jeans are soaking, caked with salt. They chafe roughly against his skin, behind his knees, against his dick and the soft skin of his belly. He groans and doesn't open his eyes. His head feels like it's being pried open by crowbars digging in at his temples.

Spitting sand out of his mouth with sputtering breaths, he sits up, feeling for his wallet in his back pocket. It's not there—probably sitting on the bottom of the goddamn ocean. He'll have to cancel all his cards, get a new driver's license, and kiss that wad of cash goodbye. No cell phone, either, just his keys digging in sharply at the top of his thigh.

"Fuck," he says, hoarse and croaking as he finally opens his eyes. Slowly, painfully. He groans, looking around—he has no idea where the fuck he is. There's a grassy bank up where the sand of the beach meets the soil, and hidden among the vines and copse of trees is a distinct shape. "Hello?" Jensen calls.

The shape moves. It's a person. A man, though Jensen's contacts are next to useless and scraping raw in his sensitive eyes so he can't be too sure. It only takes him a moment to get them out, letting his eyes water as he blinks back the pain. He drags himself to his feet and starts up the drifted sand, getting closer to resolve the fuzzy blur that's all he can see without glasses. "Hey, I said hello! You! I see you there, man—can you help me?" The strange guy stands up slowly from where his body was obscured by a felled tree trunk, and he finally comes into focus. Jensen's jaw drops; there's no way what's in front of him could be real. He blinks again, rubbing at his sore eyes, but the guy doesn't disappear.

He's the most beautiful man Jensen's ever seen. And completely naked, head-to-toe. His skin fairly glows in the warm light of dawn, bronze and smooth like a flawless seashell—miles of it. He's gorgeously sloe-eyed, with graceful cheekbones and a pink bow mouth, a strong jaw and elegant, sweeping brows. His nose is a sweet little ski-jump point, his chin smooth and cleft. The long column of his neck melts into broad shoulders, shifting with hard muscle, and the delicate scroll of his collarbones. His arms are thick with muscle, too—veined forearms and chiseled biceps—but his wrists look vulnerable and precise.

He's tall—taller than Jensen by almost half a foot, at least. A soft halo of copper-brown curls blows wildly around his face, catching the light, and his hands—god, his hands. They're big, so big, with long, dexterous fingers and distinct knuckles, blunt and reddened. His chest is unblemished; also well-muscled, the bulges of his pectorals and the soft brown of his nipples tempting Jensen to touch, to taste. The firm flesh of his sides tapers down to his narrow waist, the outline of his hard abs, the defined vee of his groin between the tight jut of his hips, and the long, long stretch of his perfect legs. His strong feet burrow into the sand toes-first, and Jensen takes a deep, self-conscious swallow before letting himself stare openly at this guy's truly unbelievable dick—shape, proportion, the heavy weight of his balls—everything. It's all perfect. Beyond perfect. "Oh my god," Jensen says, hardly more than a breath. He's never seen a more gorgeous dick, or a more gorgeous man; he's already hard just from looking, erection pressing painfully against the wet grittiness of his fly.

The guy doesn't move or speak—just stands there, looking like a statue come to life, or a Greek god, or like maybe Jensen swallowed way too much seawater. "Uh," Jensen tries again, once he finds his voice. "Do you, uh. Know how I got here? Have you seen my wallet, maybe? Did you—" big, warm hands, "did you save me?" The guy doesn't say anything at all. He just stands there, staring back at Jensen, his head cocked to one side. "Do you speak English?" Jensen steps forward again, drawn to this guy, an instant, burning buzz under his skin, pulling him. He wants to touch him.

The guy starts at Jensen's movement, eyes wide and muscles tensed before he turns and darts into the trees like a frightened forest creature. "No," Jensen calls, before he even realizes he's going to say it. His stomach sinks like a rock and dread twists through him—he can't lose this guy. Can't.

But then he catches a flash of flawless golden skin, and turns to see the guy running down the hill where the vines haven't grown as thick, making his way across the beach. He was just trying to find a way to get to Jensen. When he gets close—invasion-of-personal-space close, but Jensen can't form words to ask him to back off or find the will to move himself—the guy bites his bottom lip with straight white teeth, looking coyly at Jensen through the sweep of his bangs. Grabbing Jensen's face in his big hands, he captures Jensen's lips in a quick, strong kiss. It tastes like the ocean, and tingles like spice.

Jensen sucks in a surprised breath through his nose and can't smell anything but salt and sand and skin. It's driving him crazy—none of this makes any sense—and as soon as he manages to gather himself enough to stop thinking and start kissing back—to push up close to this man and feel him, chest-to-chest—the guy pulls back. There's a hint of a teasing smile on his lips, sweet dimples brightening his whole face so it almost hurts to look at him. Turning on his heel, he runs into the surf, the muscled expanse of his flawless back and the smooth skin of his perfect, pert ass glinting with water droplets.

Jensen finds his voice, yelling after him, "Wait! Who are you?" He runs to where the surf laps at the beach, foam swirling around his ankles; he waves frantically. "No, no come back, please! Just tell me who you are!"

The guy turns over in the water, smiling coyly at Jensen as he slicks his hair back onto his head. Jensen's desperate and shouting—anything to keep this guy from disappearing. "Please, what's your number? Your name! Anything!" He wades farther out into the waves, cursing every time he refused to take swimming lessons as a kid. "I can't swim! I don't fucking know how to swim! Please come back, fuck, fuck—why didn't I ever learn how to swim? Christ—"

With one more backward glance, the guy slips beneath the waves, disappearing behind a large rock jutting out into the cove. Jensen kicks angrily at the water, at the sand, and his heart gives a sick sort of clench.

He ends up walking three miles by the side of Route 25 before a hippie chick in a broken-down Studebaker finally stops and lets him in. "Where you headed?" she asks with a quirk of her thin lips. "This isn't exactly the sort of place I'd expect to pick up shirtless vagabonds."

"I'm not a vagabond," Jensen grumbles, breathing hard. He's wrinkled all over and salt has dried in white streaks all across his skin. He spreads one of the girl's threadbare towels over the wood-beaded seat cover on the passenger side. "I'm just stupid. And seriously feeling the effects of the nuclear cocktails I downed last night."

The girl laughs, like stepping on a pile of twigs. "Sounds exactly like a vagabond to me." She guns it, sand crunching under the wheels. Jensen doesn't take his eyes off the dark shimmer of the ocean, following it all the way to the horizon, praying for a glimpse of golden skin. Soon, all he can see are buildings and trees, and his hangover hits him like a depressing ton of bricks.

*

Skye-the-hippie drops Jensen off at his apartment and waits until he gets inside to drive away, like she thinks sitting there in her beat-up old clunker will keep muggers from jumping him on his way to the front door. Never mind that it's the middle of the day and Jensen doesn't exactly live in the bad part of town.

In the shower, he lets the warm water wash away the harsh sand and salt, soothing his chafed skin. It's still early, and he'll have time to make it to rehearsal even if he soaks for a while. He tries not to think, not to mull over anything at all from this morning or last night. Needs to forget that any of it ever even happened. His bathroom radio mumbles oldies he's never heard of, and the window over the toilet tank lets in sunlight that filters brightly through the shower curtain—it's easy to let his mind go blank.

When he gets out and dries off, though, Jensen can't help but stand in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door and stare at himself. He idly compares himself to the guy on the beach: his body, his hair, his smile. Jensen's chest aches and there's a stirring in his cock, but he won't let himself miss what he's never had.

He makes a cup of instant coffee to calm the thundering in his head. In a daze, he gets dressed and finds his script and a full Nalgene bottle perched on the arm of his maroon plaid couch. Danneel must've brought his car back for him; it's sitting in his parking spot as usual. The city rushes by in a blur out the window as he drives, and it isn't until he hears the driver's cell phone ring in the car next to him at a red light that he remembers he's going to have to get himself a new one. And that Danneel is probably having a shit fit, not being able to call him.

She's already at rehearsal when he gets there, looking suspiciously hangover-free and wearing a yellow babydoll dress, blue tights that are more runs than denier, and green ballet flats. "Morning," Jensen says, sitting gingerly next to her.

Danneel raises an eyebrow. "What the fuck happened to you? I've been calling you for like. Days."

"Lost my phone," he says, and rummages in his bag, pulling out his script and pencil. "And my wallet." He copies the notes from Daneel's margins and wills his stomach to stand down. His heart is far from in it, and his head is still fucking killing him.

"And—your sense of self-preservation? Where've you been all night? I know we got shit-faced, but you didn't do anything—you know. Really stupid or unsafe, did you?" She's genuinely worried, and her hands are soft on his.

"That depends on what you mean by stupid and unsafe," he starts, but Danneel's cell starts vibrating before he can explain anything.

"What the fuck—I told everyone I know never to call me during rehearsals—" she mutters, but flips it open anyway. "Yeah?" she whispers. "Oh, uh. Yeah. Sure. Just a second."

She hands the phone to Jensen with a suspicious twist of her lips. "It's for you."

Jensen blinks, nonplussed. "What? Who'd be calling for me on your phone?"

"It's the police," Danneel says drily, though there's serious concern in her eyes. "You got a shitload of splainin' to do, Lucy. As soon as you take care of whatever-it-is."

"Jensen Ackles speaking," Jensen says, lips pressed right to the phone. He watches the director at the front of the theater for any signs of impending wrath.

"Mr. Ackles," someone says gruffly on the other end, "this is Sergeant Morgan from the First Precinct. We need you to come to the station at Sixteen Ericsson Place immediately. We have a man in custody on whose person we could find only a wallet containing your identification and emergency contacts, as well as credit cards, insur—"

Jensen's fist clenches tight around the phone, blood pumping hard through every inch of him. "I'll be right there," he shouts, cutting off the cop and forgetting the director giving notes on stage. He tosses the phone to Danneel, grabs his bag, and leaps over the row of seats behind him with energy he didn't know he had left.

"Uh," Danneel says to the room at large as Jensen careens out of the theater, "he's—uh. Jensen's Method, you know, and—" The rest gets lost as the door slams behind him and Jensen runs full-tilt down the sidewalk towards his car, parked way too many blocks away.

He guns it to the police station, running lights and passing on the right and just generally content to mow down anyone in his way. His palms are sweaty and slick against the steering wheel, teeth grinding, muscles tense all over. It has to be the guy from the beach. Has to be.

The police station is dark and pock-marked, walls showing the years with damage and graffiti. Jensen hauls himself up the stairs and bursts into the processing room, crowded with vandals and hookers waiting to be booked and confused people trying to find their lost guinea pigs. Everything is heavy with the smell of people, smoke, and disinfectant. Jensen only notices cursorily, everything coming down to this moment.

"Hey, excuse me," he says, pushing his way to the counter, face almost touching the Plexiglas security barrier. "I'm Jensen Ackles. Here about a call I got—someone you picked up. Can you help me?"

"What was your name again?" a harried man in uniform asks. His bald head reflects the fluorescent light above them.

"Ackles, Jensen Ackles," Jensen says, tapping his fingers anxiously on the counter.

"Did any of you guys call for a Jensen Ackles?" the officer asks, swiveling in his chair towards all the other policemen and women behind the glass. Jensen's twitching, he must be. Why can't they move faster—

"Oh yeah, that's for him. Right over there," a woman says, severe but pretty, her lips quirked up in a half-smile. She points across the crowded room to the corner where the clump of hookers and vandals are sitting. "We had to find him something from the lost and found. Don't know where he was keepin' that wallet of yours, if you know what I mean. You got yourself an exhibitionist who don't speak no English." She laughs under her breath. "Wish there were more where that one came from."

The guy from the beach looks over at just that moment. Their eyes meet. His gentle smile is just as amazing as Jensen remembered it, and he automatically smiles back, big and genuine. His head suddenly doesn't hurt anymore.

The guy's backlit by the light streaming in through the blinds, limned with gold as he gets up and walks towards Jensen. He's not wearing anything at all except for an indecently tiny pair of I ♥ NY gym shorts. The outline of his gorgeous cock is still clearly visible through the stretched knit, and the leg holes ride up in the back, exposing the soft creases where his tight, round ass meets his strong thighs. His chest is still completely bare. Still completely perfect.

"Hi!" Jensen says, overloud and obnoxious, right in the middle of a lull in the ambient noise.

The guy just stares at him, then lets his gaze drop to Jensen's lips with a quirking smile and pulls him in for a kiss before Jensen can say anything else. He rubs his long fingers through Jensen's hair, down the nape of his neck, along the thick muscle of his shoulder; Jensen is entirely dumbstruck.

His lips, his mouth, the glide of his tongue: all soft, tasting salty and delicious, something completely different from anyone Jensen's ever kissed before—ever been around before. It's nothing short of intoxicating, and Jensen is perfectly dizzy. He can hardly take his eyes off the guy when he pulls back for a moment, and the cop says, "I take it you know this man," with humor in her voice.

"Yeah, I do," Jensen manages, still awed. He runs a hand up the guy's arm, feeling the smooth, hairless warmth of his skin with the bare touch of fingertips.

"Who is he?" the cop asks, writing something in a notebook.

Jensen's gaze drifts back to the guy's beautiful face, the high brush of cheekbones limned with gold. "I don't know," he says, entranced.

"Of course," the policewoman says with a fond smile. "Just take him off our hands, would you? Not that I don't like havin' something nice to look at, but we got a lot of paperwork to get through, and every little bit helps."

They kiss once more; the guy winds one strong arm around Jensen's shoulders, the other around Jensen's waist, holding him tightly but gently. Jensen lets his eyes drift closed, thinking of the sea.

"Guess you're coming home with me," he says into the soft curve of the man's neck.

*

The drive home is almost entirely silent. What's Jensen supposed to say to someone who can't say anything back?

"So do you understand me when I talk?" he asks, glancing over when the guy folds his mile-long legs up onto the seat, trying to get comfortable. They didn't bother with a seatbelt because Jensen got the impression he wouldn't like it. Considering he's acting like he's never even seen a car before, it was a probably a safe assumption. "Maybe you're just mute or whatever?"

The guy smiles at him, hopefully but not with any real understanding. He's still clutching Jensen's wallet.

"I'll take that as a no. Maybe you're deaf and can't read lips." At the next red light, Jensen turns to him and enunciates as slowly and clearly as he can, "Can. You. Read. Lips?"

The guy just smiles again, cocking his head curiously to the left. His hair falls over his forehead, and his dimples show on either side of his generous mouth. Someone honks frantically from somewhere behind Jensen.

"Okay, that's a no, too. Um. Usted habla Espanol? Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Parlez-vous Francais?"

Nothing. Just a pleasant, blinking stare. After a moment of silence, the guy reaches across the car and starts brushing his fingers down Jensen's neck, over his shoulders, down his chest. Jensen clears his throat and tries to keep his eyes on the road.

"Maybe you're a feral child who washed ashore after falling overboard off a ship trafficking humans from the far East." He sighs with exasperation. "This is the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to anyone," he adds, mainly to himself. "Are you high on something, maybe? Running around naked and touching—people. Mostly me. Maybe you, like, took so much E you killed the entire language center of your brain."

The guy pulls one of Jensen's wrists away from the wheel, twining their hands together, kissing the pad of each of Jensen's fingers with his soft lips.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything," Jensen mutters, a shiver racing down his spine. "God, I need to get you home. Like right this second."

The guy just looks up at him, eyes dark, hair perfectly tousled and curling around his face, still smiling.

*

Jensen's apartment building has a revolving front door to save on heating and air conditioning, his landlords ever-dedicated on their quest to go green. There's usually a doorman too, though he must be on break at the moment. Jensen pushes through, holding his bag in front of him so it won't get stuck—one too many bad experiences with that—and doesn't realize until he's halfway to the elevator that his new friend clearly doesn't have the first idea how to use a door like that. He's just standing there, watching it spin, until Jensen gestures at him to get in and come through.

He enters it okay, but he blinks in confusion as he turns past Jensen and back out into the open air, bare feet scuffing on the grimy sidewalk. Jensen motions him through again, and this time, when he gets to the right point in the revolution, Jensen reaches in and grabs his arm, pulling him out into the lobby with a grunt. He shakes himself off as Jensen tows him towards the elevator and presses the button, trying not to laugh.

Jensen takes advantage of the wait to stand and stare—he can't help it; the guy's just so fucking inhumanly gorgeous. The guy steps closer, feet leaving condensation marks on the cold tile of the lobby. He bites his lip, smiling coyly, and runs his hands up Jensen's chest, up the sides of his neck, all warm and dry. He leans in like he's about to claim Jensen's mouth in a kiss, but instead he veers to the side with a sly smile at the last second, brushing his lips against Jensen's neck, pressing insistent little licks to corded muscle as Jensen's eyes roll back and he wonders if there's anyone around to see.

The guy is wearing Jensen's jacket after finding it in the car; it's too small but covering the burnished expanse of his back and chest. His wrists stick out the sleeves and it doesn't cover those miles of smooth leg; his police station gym shorts look like nothing but briefs.

Jensen glances around them, a little nervous and feeling over-exposed as the guy ducks his forehead to lean against Jensen's shoulder, pressing his fingers possessively over Jensen's collarbones, his shoulder blades. The doorman is the only other person around, back at his post outside the revolving door, pointedly looking the other direction. When the elevator finally comes, the ding is deafening in the quiet of the lobby.

The guy peers curiously inside at first, before stepping over the threshold. He pulls at Jensen's shirt once he's in, though, and wraps one huge hand around Jensen's bicep, tugging. He immediately backs Jensen up against the wall of the elevator, Jensen's spine thunking into the wood paneling, and kisses him. Jensen can barely find the button for his floor, brainless with wanting this guy—this totally random, probably insane guy—all hot-skinned and eager against him. He finds the button after some fumbling, and presses it just as he feels the hot, thick length of a perfect dick rubbing up against his hip.

The doors close and the elevator jerks into motion. "What the fuck—why did I do that?" Jensen mutters, and laughs into the guy's curious smile while he gropes around for the emergency stop button. "Just a second—" He finds it, jams it hard, and laughs again, low and turned-on, as the elevator grinds to a halt.

The guy's just watching him, mischievous glint in his eyes, gaze trailing down to where Jensen's cock is obviously tenting his grey pants. He licks his lips with intent, and Jensen groans in the back of his throat.

"I don't know what I did in my past life to deserve this," he says, "but I must've saved eight orphanages and at least three buses of nuns from deadly infernos."

Jensen's never really had much in the way of sexual inhibitions, and he thanks all that's holy for it as he palms the guy's gorgeous dick through his indecent shorts. "Fuck," he whispers, "fuck you're perfect."

The guy just lowers his eyes, sucking in a quick, soft little breath as Jensen squeezes and rubs at his massive hard-on. He sways on his feet, and Jensen smiles when he sees his knees lock, when he sees the blush spreading over the guy's high cheekbones. "Like that?" he asks, and the guy doesn't say anything at all. He just whimpers a little in the back of his throat and leans in, nuzzling against Jensen's temple, snuffling against his skin as he traces down Jensen's jaw, behind his ear, down his neck, under his chin. It tickles and sets Jensen's nerves alight, and he swallows back laughter, working the guy's cock the best he's ever jerked anyone, feeling it get impossibly harder, bigger, right there in his hand.

The guy's funny little sniffs turn to licks instead, like he wants to taste every inch of Jensen, like he's savoring Jensen's body, making this last as long as possible. Jensen sighs when he finds a particularly sensitive spot, nipping at it, making Jensen twitch and shiver under his sweet, smiling lips.

He pushes hard against Jensen's shoulders, backing away from the intense pace Jensen's setting, from Jensen's heavy grip. He doesn't say a word, just gives Jensen this look, and Jensen drops his hands to his sides as if the guy had barked a command at him.

He sinks to his knees, lips full and pink and slack, eyes dark, and Jensen tightens every muscle in his body, swallowing hard, and tries desperately not to hump the air or come in his pants like a pathetic teenager. The guy starts at Jensen's fly, fumbling with it at first. When Jensen brings his hands up to help, the guy presses them back against the wall, glancing up at Jensen imperiously. Jensen leaves them there, his heart racing, chest tight with anticipation.

It only takes the guy a few seconds to figure out Jensen's pants, pushing them down to the floor and smiling broadly when he gets his hands on Jensen's skin. He trails his fingers up and down Jensen's legs, feeling the muscles, the contours, the outward curve where his knees bow. He presses his nose to the crease above Jensen's thigh, right where the leg band of his briefs lies snug against him. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, kisses along the soft skin, and brushes his lips through the light hair. His fingertips drag through Jensen's leg hair, too, across his calves and thighs, like it fascinates him. Whereas Jensen is fascinated by the fact that this stranger's legs, chest, arms—everything is sleek and smooth like some sort of water mammal, and Jensen's belly knots with the intense desire to touch him, to feel it under his hands the way the guy is curiously exploring him. He doesn't, though. He keeps his hands pressed tight to the wall, compelled.

The guy drags Jensen's underwear all the way down, allowing his dick to finally spring free, dripping at the tip, desperate-red and bobbing under its own weight. He looks up at Jensen hungrily, silence as good as words, then spans Jensen's hips with his big hands. He brushes his thumbs reverently over the cut of Jensen's muscles, the shadow of his groin, through his neatly trimmed pubic hair. Jensen gasps, eyes falling shut as the guy leans in to nuzzle against the sparse line of hair under Jensen's navel, kissing a trail down to the base of Jensen's throbbing cock while his fingers stroke repeatedly over Jensen's balls, fondling the soft skin of his sac.

Jensen bites hard on his lower lip, opening his eyes to watch the guy turn his head, kissing along the shaft of Jensen's painfully hard dick. It twitches as Jensen tightens up all over, wet, sucking kisses stringing him out and drawing him thin across the space between the two of them. Everything in Jensen tells him to start pumping his hips, to grab this guy's thick, soft hair and choke him with cock. But the wonder in the guy's face stops him. He smiles and huffs through his nose as he tentatively licks across Jensen's slit, which is welling with precome as it seeps in slow, viscous drips down the length of his dick. He catches each drip with his tongue, following it back up to the swollen head, wrapping his lips around the crown and suckling, like he just can't get enough.

He pulls back right as Jensen starts moaning and letting himself relax into it. "Hey," Jensen starts, but before he gets any further, the guy's standing up again, kissing him, sweeping his bitter tongue into Jensen's mouth and keeping him quiet. Jensen hums into their kiss and lets himself go when the guy wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, pressing their dicks together through his shorts. Jensen brings his hands away from the wall, and the guy lets him, lets him grab onto his tight ass, rubbing and kneading as he gets his fingers under the hem of Jensen's shirt, tickling at the sensitive skin of his belly.

Jensen can't help but laugh, and the guy takes advantage of his distraction to press his hands up over his head, Jensen stretching onto his tiptoes to keep his balance. He pulls Jensen's shirt off in one clean tug; Jensen's nose stings from the rough seam of the collar dragging across it. He's hooked up lots of places before, places smaller than this elevator, even, but somehow it's never felt like this. Not by a long shot.

He's totally naked now, but for his pants and underwear pooled around his ankles. The guy takes his time kissing across Jensen's chest, licking curiously at the freckles sprinkled over his shoulders, at his sensitive nipples, at the baby-soft skin at the inside of his elbows. Jensen's about to go crazy with need, about to come completely untouched, when finally the guy has felt and tasted his fill. He drops to his knees again, humming in the back of his throat just like Jensen did, smiling brightly over the dark cast of lust in his eyes.

Jensen's hips jut out in front of him, cock bouncing obscenely next to the guy's face. He just takes it in one enormous hand, jerking it slow and hard, rubbing his other palm over the head, circling and smearing. He brings it to his mouth, pointing the tip of his candy-pink tongue and pushing it against the slit, working it in just a tiny bit.

Jensen moans through gritted teeth, and can't help the abortive thrust of his hips. The guy pulls back, surprised, and Jensen's about to groan in frustration when he just—swallows him. Straight down. Deepthroating like he's been doing it forever. "Fuck," Jensen breathes, and the guy holds down his hips, working his mouth and tongue and fucking throat on Jensen's cock like it's nothing. Like he's never had a gag reflex in his life.

Jensen needs to touch, needs to feel this guy's lush hair between his fingers. The guy lets him this time, hums again when Jensen clenches his hands and gets a good solid grip. He's bobbing his head, sliding back and forth, making every obscene slurping noise it's possible to make. Jensen's transfixed by the shiny-slick length of his own reddened cock disappearing into and reappearing from the tight circle of the guy's perfect lips. Jensen grits his teeth against the churning fullness in his balls, and the guy picks that exact moment to reach a hand up and tug on them, a little more than gently, and Jensen lets out a broken sort of sob and can't help it when he puts one foot up on the bar running around the bottom of the elevator and uses the leverage to start fucking into his face in earnest.

The guy's totally silent through it all, not making any noise but the desperate sucking on Jensen's dick. He's beautifully flushed, lips and chin covered in spit and precome, hair wild in Jensen's hands. He rolls his fingers on Jensen's heavy, aching balls and pulls again, firmly though they're drawn up tight and ready, now. Jensen can't hold off anymore, and that last tug accompanied by him swallowing deep around Jensen's cock sets him off, and Jensen claps a hand over his own mouth as he keens, coming hard and long into the guy's mouth, down his throat.

Jensen tries to pull back, thick spurts of jizz flooding out fast and forcefully, probably about to choke the guy, but he grips Jensen's ass in both hands and yanks him in, still pumping his lips up and down Jensen's cock, milking everything out of him. Jensen watches at first, the guy's perfect, obscene expression pushing Jensen that much harder, making him come that much more. But soon it's too much and his eyes shut tight, face screwed up against the sensation as the guy sucks and licks and swallows him through it.

Jensen opens his eyes gingerly when the guy finally lets Jensen's dick slip out of his mouth, spent and still slick with come. Jensen's panting, must be flushed all over, and if he could lose it again, he would, because he's never seen anything sexier than this man with spunk smeared on his chin, whitening his lips, dripping to land in little globs on his perfect chest. Jensen takes a steadying breath and bites his lips as his cock twitches uselessly. "Fuck," he breathes. The guy just smiles up at him and licks the come from around his mouth, savoring it a little, eyes still hooded. Jensen drags his pants up with a shaky sigh.

There's a big, soaked-in dark spot on the knit of the guy's tiny shorts, his huge dick leaking everywhere, so hard and straining it's pulling the waistband away from his skin as it bulges out crudely. Jensen slides down the wall of the elevator on wobbly legs, making it down to his knees with a punched exhale. He leans his head against that perfect shoulder, breathing heavily into the skin of the guy's neck, letting his eyes flutter shut as he trails his hand down to that amazing cock.

Jensen feels like he can barely wrap his fingers around it. It's slick and throbbing-hot to the touch, and the guy's breaths come thick and hard as Jensen starts to jack him off. Jensen pushes the shorts down out of the way, and goes slow at first, rough, like Jensen's dragging every exhale out of the guy's lungs with the hand on his cock. The guy's face is slack and blissful, still innocent under the debauched flush and the sex sweat beading at his temples.

His balls are already close and tight, like he's about to burst and was holding it in until he got Jensen off. That the guy was so close to coming just from having his mouth on Jensen—it's fucking hot. Jensen doubles the speed of his hand on the guy's big dick and kisses him long and sweet as he groans, feeling the thick sluice of precome under his fingers.

"Yeah, baby," Jensen whispers hoarsely, forehead still pressed to the guy's. "Come on. Gimme that jizz—shoot it all over—"

The guy sobs voicelessly, eyes fixed on Jensen's, hand landing hard on Jensen's shoulder and squeezing tight as his hips piston into Jensen's grip. He comes with a full-body shudder, thick strings of jizz splattering all over Jensen's chest. After what seems like an eternity, it slows to a jerking sort of ooze over Jensen's fingers, come sliding down his wrist in dense wads of white.

Pliant and loose, the guy kisses him breathlessly, smiling that beautiful smile. Jensen lets them both rest for a moment, and just as he's about to haul himself up again, the guy takes Jensen's hand and licks it clean, soft little strokes of tongue that almost tickle. Jensen laughs, quiet breaths of air through his nose, and the guy pushes closer, ducking down to lick and suck at the hot, messy smears on Jensen's chest. Jensen just lets his eyes slide shut and rubs his fingers through the guy's hair, shivering all over when his tongue trails over Jensen's nipples.

It's minutes before Jensen finally sits up, gently pushing the guy away from laying sweet, pointless kisses all over his skin. "The elevator," he says, absently, and grins at the guy's pouty face when he stands and staggers over to the emergency button.

The elevator grinds to a start, and Jensen has never been as glad for the lax security in his building as he is right now.

He pulls the guy up, their hands clasped tight, and kisses him one last time, good and deep, before the doors open with a cheerful ding.

*

Part 2