ICE ICE BABY;
What: Written for kriari on the Dean/Cas ; Jensen/Misha schmoop meme. Archived here. Jensen/Misha, icestorm - Jensen's running late. Car accident.
Word Count: 5,000~
Warnings: NC-17; Language, porn, fluff!
Note: This is my first attempt at RPS. You have been warned.
"There's nothing to protect your virtue now," he goaded, getting into this odd sort of banter that always bubbled up between them, because apparently his coworker's weirdness was contagious.
"You haven't won the keys to my chastity belt yet," Misha pointed out.
This was Misha's fault. Jensen would take that knowledge to his grave, would point a finger at his coworker on his death bed, and would frown at the quirk of his lips, the mischievous smile that said, 'Yeah, I know it's my fault. What are you gonna do about?' Granted, Jensen probably shouldn't have been flying down an icy highway like he was travelling down an airstrip and his car had wings, but that, too, was something he could blame on Misha; something he could shove into the other's lap and say, here, you deal with the guilt.
Misha was good at that. He took guilt and swept it under the carpet, wiped his hands on his jeans, shook the dust from his feet, and kept on smiling.
Jensen couldn't stop frowning.
"If you keep looking like that, your face is going to stick," Misha pointed out. He wasn't one to talk. The second they'd both affirmed that the other wasn't suffering any kind of mortal wound, he'd started grinning like an idiot, and had yet to stop.
Jensen couldn't figure out how a freakin' car wreck in the middle of an ice storm was something to smile about, but apparently Misha knew something he didn't and-- okay, really, it was starting to get old.
"What's so funny?" Jensen asked, unamused.
The other actor fidgeted, drew his legs up until he was curled comfortably in the passenger seat, then twisted his body towards Jensen and practically, almost, laughed in the other's face.
"I told you so," he said by way of explanation, the words lilting in a sing-song tone.
Jensen's right eye twitched. His hands curled around the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, but the soft bite of plastic beneath his fingers wasn't enough to distract him from his own frustration.
And that's exactly what he was -- frustrated. He wasn't angry, or bitter, or anything else that might imply he was going to inflict permanent damage onto the other's wiry being. Temporary damage, maybe, but not something that would last.
Misha was filming with them next week, after all. It would look bad if he came in with a broken leg, or a sprained arm, or twisted fingers.
That was sorta why they'd wrecked, too, in a round-about kind of way. Misha had been over at Jensen's place, practicing lines with him (they didn't do that often, but this episode was pivotal, and Misha had insisted that they work on the "chemistry" between Dean and Castiel -- damned method actors) and the time had simply slipped away, about as solid as a stream. Which, okay, lost time wasn't a really big deal, except both of them had to get their asses to some cast and crew party Eric was hosting, and the weather had progressively gotten worse and worse and worse until Misha had suggested they carpool over, and, well, it hadn't sounded like a bad idea at the time, so Jensen had agreed.
Problem was, Misha could be pretty damned distracting when he wanted to be (when he wasn't even trying, too, and that was just unfair), and Jensen had been speeding, and when Misha had said, "You should probably slow down," in that 'Listen To Me, I'm The Smart One Here' tone of voice of his, Jensen had replied by pressing his foot further down on the gas, and they had taken off at a dangerous rate of speed. The roads were empty because they were icy, which was a miracle really, because once they'd started to round a corner, Jensen lost control of the steering wheel and the car went veering off the road, past the double yellow line, and right into a snow bank that had built up in an inconspicuous ditch.
The airbags deployed, as they were wont to do when stupid people went speeding into ditches, and once the ensuing chaos had settled down and both of them had taken a personal assessment of themselves, they had turned to each other, and asked, simultaneously, "Are you alright?"
Everything was in tact, and they could thank the snow bank for that one, because it had acted as a safety device, cocooning the car in a blanket of thick white snow. They could curse the snow bank, too, or God, or, they didn't know, Kripke, because for some reason, when Jensen tried to start the car back up, the engine made a few halfhearted spluttering noises which faded off into nonexistence.
They'd looked at each other, at the heavy layer of snow surrounding them on all sides -- front, left, right, top, and the back was halfway covered thanks to a chunk of slush dislodging from the top of the snow bank and falling against half of the back windshield -- and had promptly let loose the first expletives that came to mind.
And then Misha had started laughing, and, well, that was that.
"Dude, this isn't funny," Jensen gruffed, crossing his arms and hiding his hands in the outer layers of his jacket. He'd gone with something thick and comfortable, denim and warm.
"You're just saying that because you wrecked the car," Misha shot back, then fiddled around with his pockets for a second before pulling out his cell phone.
Oh. Right. They should probably call someone.
A minute or so passed in silence, save for the tap tap tap of thin fingers pressing the keys on an electronic device. Once the quiet dragged on long enough, and Misha showed no signs of actually getting anything done, Jensen had to ask:
"What are you doing?"
Misha waited a second, backspaced on his phone, then re-typed what he had just deleted.
"Alright, well then-- wait, what?"
Misha shifted, settled his legs into the floorboard once again, then looked up just long enough to throw Jensen a derisively quirked eyebrow.
"Did you really think I would pass up this opportunity to share your stupidity with my minions?"
Jensen wiped a hand down the side of his face. There was so much to say to that, he barely even knew where to start.
"You actually call them your 'minions'? In public. Out loud?"
Misha threw him a grin, his lips quirking upward even as his eyes sharpened. It left him looking dark, devious, and the look threw Jensen for a loop; made him shiver in his seat.
Though that was probably due to the chill that settled into the vehicle like a physical entity, clutching at his body with greedy, needy fingers.
"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Jensen said to himself, then huffed out a sigh and saw his own breath. Damn, it was getting cold. The fact that they'd embarked on this failed adventure around dusk and that the sun had just sunk below the horizon definitely wasn't helping matters. Jensen took a moment to assess the situation, the cold, the few layers that separated him from hypothermia. His eyes flickered over towards Misha, something worried flashing in their gaze when he remembered, quite suddenly, that the damned idiot had donned a thin jacket just before they set out, because, "It might be negative ten degrees outside, but it's guaranteed Eric will have the heat turned up to eighty."
"Damn," Misha said suddenly, snapping Jensen back to reality.
"What?" he asked, then leaned in a bit closer, feeling the bite of the seatbelt pressing against his chest. He shuffled, struggled with the buckle for a moment, then finally unclasped it and let the strap go whizzing back to the left.
"No reception. The phone lines must be down."
Misha was staring at his phone as if it had somehow personally insulted him. With slow, methodical motions, and piercing eyes that said 'Shame On You!', he tucked his cell back into his pocket.
"Well, Ackles. Looks like your reputation is safe for another day."
Somehow, that did nothing to console him.
"So you're telling me we're stuck out here, trapped in a car in the middle of a snow storm, with no means of contacting the outside world?"
The unspoken groan was audible in his voice.
Misha wagged a finger in Jensen's direction.
"Don't get any funny ideas. I still have my rape whistle."
Misha's rape whistle was bright blue, and obnoxiously loud, and Jensen totally won it in a Poker game.
"Cheater," Misha said, but Jensen merely smiled and twirled the whistle around in his fingers.
"There's nothing to protect your virtue now," he goaded, getting into this odd sort of banter that always bubbled up between them, because apparently his coworker's weirdness was contagious.
"You haven't won the keys to my chastity belt yet," Misha pointed out, then rearranged the cards in his hand and settled his features into a scarily well-played poker face.
"No fair. You look like Cas," Jensen said, and nearly stuttered when the other flashed his bright blue eyes towards him, because, woah, he really looked like Cas then.
"Your turn," Misha replied when Jensen didn't say anything for fear of his voice cracking. The tone was off-putting; low, but somehow still all Misha.
The deck of cards they'd found in the glove box was a real godsend. They passed the time while waiting for someone to come rescue them by playing various games. Go Fish, Rummy, Gin -- they had all eventually, inevitably devolved into Poker. They'd emptied their pockets for all the loose change and random items they could find, and now Jensen was up $5.26, one rape whistle, a piece of pocket lint shaped sort of like a rabbit, and a half-eaten Hershey bar.
Why Misha was carrying around candy bars in his pockets, Jensen would never know.
Jensen won. Misha relented the rest of his pocket change with a little shrug, which seemed oddly complacent to Jensen, but it was when the other didn't ask for a rematch that he knew something was wrong.
"Hey," he said, shuffling in his seat, incapable of curling his body and bending his limbs in the same lithe manner the other man could. "You okay?"
Misha shrugged, wrapped his arms around his frame, then let out a short burst of laughter.
"I should've worn a coat," he admitted, absently rubbing the sleeves of his thin jacket in an attempt to warm himself up.
"Oh." Jensen blinked, bit his bottom lip. "Can I--?"
"Hm?" Misha glanced down, back up. "Oh-- yeah, sure."
He held out a hand. Jensen took it somewhat reluctantly, then jolted in surprise when their fingers brushed.
"Woah, you feel like ice."
"Do I?" Misha said blandly, poking at his covered forearm in an absent gesture. "I lost feeling in my arms about an hour ago."
Jensen did a double take, felt like flying forward and throttling the man.
"Why didn't you say anything?" he asked, grabbing the zipper of his own much thicker jacket and tugging it down.
"Didn't really notice it," the other replied, his eyes travelling to Jensen's busy hands. "If you're gonna play the knight in shining armor, you need to think of a better plan."
Jensen was half-way shrugged out of his coat when those words stopped him.
"If you give me your jacket, you'll be worse off than I am now."
Misha, in this instance, was the voice of Logic and Reason. That was how Jensen knew something was definitely wrong.
"Well, what am I supposed to do?" he bit out, his voice teetering between worried and agitated.
The smirk this granted him was subtle but warm; a dark contrast to Misha's half-frozen state. If he suffered much longer in just his little sliver of an over layer, Jensen was certain this mini Ice Age would make Misha extinct. As it stood, he was just an endangered species.
Jensen tried the car again. No luck. He hit the unlock button and tried to bull his way out of the door, but it wouldn't even budge a single inch, it was so thoroughly iced over and closed in. The car was dark, and already the temperature had dropped those few deadly degrees when the sun disappeared. So far, even though they'd been out there for a couple hours already, not a single car had passed them on the road. They hadn't flown too far off the main path, but the snow bank was doing a damned good job of ensuring the car remained well hidden, camouflaged amongst the snow, and wrapped snugly in layer upon layer of white. He figured the other party-goers might get worried, that Jared at least would try to call and then suspect something was up when the phone went straight to voicemail, but at the same token, it wasn't like this event required attendance, and Jensen wasn't a huge partier in the first place, so it wouldn't be such a wild stretch of the imagination that he had decided to hang back and stay home that night. Misha, maybe, might be missed, but everyone knew he was flighty and unpredictable, and that to pinpoint him to a single location would be about as easy as tethering a fly to a piece of string.
With mounting horror, Jensen realized that there was a good possibility they would be stuck there all night, possibly into the next morning, until the snow melted enough for them to manhandle their way out of the car.
And Misha was freezing. He couldn't just ignore that. Sure, the guy was eccentric and sharp-tongued, and could generally look out for himself, but quick wit wasn't going to protect him from the elements, and it would seriously be a bummer if Misha died from hypothermia. How would Jensen explain that?
He swallowed thickly then shook his head at himself, because this was a matter of survival, not embarrassment.
"I've got an idea," he said, unzipping his coat and leaving it hanging off his frame.
"Shoot." Misha's teeth clattered together when he opened his mouth.
"We could, ah, get in the back seat. And then, um--"
Patience oozed off of the other man, but it felt more like a mockery and less like a balm.
"We could share body heat," he finished in a wave of words, each syllable coming one after the other in quick succession.
Jensen wasn't a touchy-feely kind of guy. Every fiber of being protested this idea, but Misha felt worse-off than an ice cube, and yeah, it might've been his own damned fault for not wearing something more weather-appropriate, but that didn't mean Jensen should let the guy freeze to death.
Even though he maybe sort of really, really wanted to.
Misha quirked a brow, his lips tugging up in much the same manner.
"Are you trying to seduce me?"
Leave it to this fucking dickhead to make an awkward situation even more awkward.
"No! You just-- your jacket, and I thought-- no, I'm not trying to seduce you."
"Look, if you want to freeze to death, be my guest."
Misha tugged at the bar on the bottom of his seat, jerked it up as far as it would go, then crawled towards the back of the car.
"I'm just kidding," he said in passing, then slid his way into the back seat and settled comfortably against one of the doors. "I'd rather cuddle."
Jensen tipped forward, bumped his head against the steering will, and sighed a bone-deep sigh. He steeled himself for what he was about to do, blocked out the fact that this was Misha, and who knew what kind of tricky shit that guy could come up with if they were to ever spend so much time in such close proximity to each other; blocked out the fact that he was probably gonna tweet all about this the second they were rescued, and God-knew the fangirls didn't need something like this to encourage their literary activities.
"No tricky business," he said, then maneuvered over the middle console. "I've got your rape whistle."
Misha laughed wholeheartedly, and it was then that Jensen knew he was fucking screwed.
Arms wound around limbs, knees struck flesh, elbows dug into ribs, and all-in-all the entire ordeal was really just uncomfortable. The back seat of the car was too small to accomplish what Jensen had set out to do, and in the end Misha ended up with his back pressed tight against the seat and Jensen covering his front. They stayed frozen like that for several minutes, chest-to-chest, every line and every curve smashed almost violently together.
"Let's share body heat. Good idea."
"Oh, shove it."
"I would, but I don't think I have enough room."
They squirmed in tandem, and the synchronization only managed to annoy Jensen further.
"Will you hold still for one second?"
"Only if you get your knee away from my crotch."
"I'm trying, but your damned leg is wound around my hip."
"I'd take it back, but your arm seems adamant I keep it there."
It was a disaster. Misha was practically suffocating against the back seat, and now Jensen was shivering because his back was exposed to the open air.
"This isn't working," Misha pointed out, to which Jensen groaned.
"I know. I know. Look, lemme just--"
His body locked up when the other sighed and shifted, hot breath fanning across his collar bone.
"Here," Misha offered, then slung his leg the rest of the way around Jensen's hip and lifted himself up. The dip of his hand against the seat made Jensen slide back until his side was flush with the leather. Misha was straddling him, sidling down, slipping lower until his nose was about level with Jensen's jaw, before settling his weight on top of the other. His hands were quick, decisive, as they slid beneath Jensen's jacket, palms spreading against the other's clothed back. Their bodies molded together, tension apparent in every line, and the fit was like a jigsaw smashed forcefully against another piece that was only almost right. But the picture was only a little off kilter, and despite Jensen's misgivings, Misha liked to be sideways, bent backwards, twisted up like a pretzel.
"Better?" he asked, his lips moving against the other's jaw.
"Awkward," Jensen replied.
"Yeah." He smirked. Jensen could feel it settle on his neck, and he didn't know whether to laugh at the sensation, or to truly acknowledge all the weird things that simple little smile was doing to his skin. "Warmer, at least," Misha continued, and Jensen found himself nodding in affirmation. This was most definitely warmer. Hotter. Too hot, even, because the weight pressing into his chest was like fire, and he had the odd, insatiable urge to lean down and bite Misha's ear; he just wanted to sink his teeth into him, as odd and backwards as that sounded. Their situation was primal, though, as old as the world itself. Survival, the continuation of their shared breaths -- there was an intimacy to the act that burned deeper and burned slower than a shot of good whiskey, that spread like wildfire down Jensen's spine and curled up Misha's curved fingers. Jesen would have been happy to ignore the feeling, would have simply suppressed the false emotions (because under such extreme circumstances, there was no way those weird flutterings in his chest could actually be real) but it turned out that Fate was a vindictive bitch who had nothing better to do than ruin his life.
Jensen tilted his head to the left about the same moment Misha canted his head to the right, lips parted, words just barely leaving his throat, when their mouths collided in a gentle brush, and Jensen--
Well, dammit, Jensen slid a hand up Misha's side, gripped him tightly, fingers curling in the thin fabric of his jacket, and he pressed closer, pressed into the sudden heatwave that flared between them as a result of their joined lips. He pulled back, faltered, pressed in again out of what appeared to be instinct, and then jerked his head back as if he'd been burned because, technically, it damned well felt like he had.
"Sorry," he said quickly, voice high and faltering. "That was-- Sorry. I didn't mean--"
He grappled for words when none would come.
Misha's subsequent growl broke his brain a little.
"Sure you did," he countered, and suddenly Misha was just there, his lips hovering above Jensen's own, not pushy or pressing or insistent, but open, and welcome, and available.
"We can't-- we shouldn't."
He didn't budge. Neither did Jensen.
"This is wrong," Jensen groaned, and Misha chuckled.
"Hey, you kissed me first."
"Do you ever shut up?"
Jensen kissed him again, and Misha proved his point by groaning into the other's mouth. Their hands were everywhere, then, pushing and tugging, gripping solid flesh, twisting fabric between desperate fingers. Their extremities were cold -- fingertips, ears, noses, toes. Jensen stroked his hands up Misha's sides, his grip solid now, firm, a steady motion akin to stoking a fire. Misha was like a sprite, wriggling above him, his thin frame somehow overpowering, somehow too much as it pressed deeply against Jensen's hard lines. Their lips broke, breaths panted between them, and suddenly Misha was everywhere, bending like a dancer, coiling like a snake, simply writhing above his coworker in a frenzy of movement. Bright teeth nibbled against the other's jaw, soft lips danced across Jensen's stubble, pressed to his cheek, to his nose, to his fluttering eyelids.
Jensen groaned, taken aback by this unexpected display of tenderness. The heat in his chest swelled, spilled through his body. He dug his fingers beneath the bottom of Misha's shirt, played his blunt nails along the curve of his friend's bare back. The sounds he wrung from the other set him on fire, set his entire body alight with a burn so hot it ached cold. Everything felt frenzied, but at the same token it was slow, methodical, like they had all the time in the world and they'd need it, too; they'd need the whispered sighs and the tenuous touches, the slow drag of teeth along the other's neck, of fingers touching clothing, teasing bare skin, drawing out shudders far more warm and far more welcome than the cold that had been threatening them before.
They melted into each other, soft and sure, trembling and steady, until their bodies were clay and their minds were mush.
Things only started to spiral and derail when Misha thrust his hips forcefully against Jensen's groin, and it became glaringly obvious that hot was not only attributed to their body temperatures.
"Misha," Jensen gasped, the word more like a breath than a name. Misha dug his fingers into Jensen's clothed back, scraped his nails all the way down, prompting the other to arch into his body, then fiddled with the hem of Jensen's shirt before finally, finally, sliding his hands beneath the fabric. He repeated the process, trailed his fingers up Jensen's spine, then drug them down with the blunt laziness of a predator. Each time, Jensen jolted upwards, propelled his body further into the other man's, groaned and sighed when the heat and the hardness overloaded his brain and left him incapable of intelligent thought. Every push up was met with a solid press down. Up, down, up, down. Steady resistance. Misha was growling, a throaty noise rumbling steadily in the very core of his chest, and before Jensen could even get a grasp on how rapidly this situation was coming to a head, the damned bastard started rolling his hips, grinding down, adding friction to the mess.
Jensen clawed at the other's back, scrabbling for some kind of purchase on reality, but in the end it was Misha's lips pressing gently against his temple that drug his hazy thoughts back into some semblance of order.
"This okay?" Misha asked, and his voice was so gravelly, so gruff, it was practically down to Angel of the Lord level.
Before Jensen could come up with a viable excuse why this wasn't alright, he'd already groaned out something that sounded suspiciously like a 'yes', and then Misha's lips were on his again, and the ability to think once again slipped through his fingers.
They tugged and ached and arched and grinded until pretty soon words like, "More," and "Off, get them off," were tossed between them. Misha sat up, straddled Jensen's lap in a way that allowed both their groins to press up against each other, then started grinding against Jensen so slowly, it damn well drove the man mad.
"God," Jensen choked out, then dropped his head back so quickly, he banged it up against the armrest on the side of the door. He didn't notice. His entire being was focused on what was going on Down Below, every nerve ending pinpointed to the pressure rising in his stomach. Misha smirked, curled his fingers around Jensen's thighs, and dragged the other closer, forced him to slide up, forced both of them to stutter over the edge of bliss.
Jensen may have been cold, but this was fucking hot.
He thrust up so harshly, so powerfully, it lifted Misha's hips, jarred them back together like sex itself, and with a moan so tight and trilled, Jensen realized he was about to fucking come in his pants.
"Misha," he groaned out again, and the other man seemed to know, seemed to get the hint, because his hands went to his own hips, undid his button, unzipped his zipper, and then the action was mimicked, lithe fingers dancing along Jensen's groin until the denim of his jeans was pressed down, and his underwear followed suit, and his cock was hard and hot and aching, and Misha's hands were suddenly just there, and-- "Holyshitdon'tstop."
His hips flew up every time the other man stroked down, and Misha's hand was warm and tight and the best damned thing Jensen had ever felt in his entire life, holy fucking shit. He was so distracted by the sensation, by the gentle tug and the knowing press, by the teasing thumb that circled around the slit, spread his precum, made the act wet and slick, that Jensen nearly jumped out of his own skin when he felt something equally as hard and equally as hot press against his dick.
Misha kept one hand between them, kept sliding his hand up and down Jensen's length, but drug his other hand up, up, up until he'd cupped the other's jaw in his palm.
"Look at me," he said, and it wasn't until then that Jensen realized he had clenched his eyes shut. The act of opening them took a lot more effort than he had expected, but once they had fluttered open and his vision had cleared, a shuddering breath ran raggedly through his system before it came out in a single, unhinged sigh.
Misha bent down, rolled his hips, and kissed the corner of Jensen's eye, his tongue edging along the little crows feet he found there before he shifted and did the same with the other. He leaned up, stretched forward and pressed open-mouthed kisses along the other's forehead, left a trail of warmth that cooled rapidly in the car. His thumb was stroking Jensen's cheek, sure and gentle, and his lips were pressing against every inch of skin they could reach, each touch a small eternity away from demanding. By the time he reached the other's ear and started laving the edge of it with the tip of his tongue, Jensen had somehow found the will to snake one of his hands between their bodies, and was treating Misha's cock with the same steady torture that was wrapped around his own. Hips collided, fingers danced, until Misha's breath hitched in his throat and he growled out into Jensen's ear, "Come."
Jensen shuddered, gave a little cry of his own, and did just that, because Misha sure as hell wasn't asking. Every last thread of control unraveled until he was left as nothing but a messy spool unwinding beneath the teeth and tongue and hips and weight of another man. Misha bent his back, thrust haltingly into Jensen's hand, and when he came he smashed his lips against the other's mouth and moaned his release against Jensen's tongue.
Their bodies trembled in the aftermath, limbs hanging limp and unmoving, legs entangled and arms intertwined. Misha's cheek lay against Jensen's chest, his fingers drawing lazy circles along the other's neck, and Jensen's hands slid around his waist, holding him firmly in place. There was a mess between them, sticky and hot and not entirely comfortable, but they were currently boneless and far too relaxed to really care about it.
It took several minutes for Jensen to come down off his high, and when he did, the first thing he noticed was the gentle press of lips tasting his fluttering pulse. He sighed, surprised -- warmed -- by the intimacy of the moment, and let his palms slide up and down Misha's back in a soothing gesture.
Misha smirked against his neck, mouthed the skin for a minute before breaking the silence with a sigh.
"You should wreck more often."
Jensen closed his eyes and groaned.
Later, when their pants were back in place and they'd finally disentangled themselves from the other's embrace, when an ambulance had come flying towards the car and a cop had broken the back window shield with a crowbar just to get them out, when the both of them had been ushered into the back of said ambulance and they were riding leisurely side-by-side, Misha pulled out his cell phone, gave a noncommittal 'hmm' when he realized he now had reception, and started pressing buttons.
Jensen, curious, leaned towards him and peered over his shoulder, then rolled his eyes at what he saw.
'Happy Friday, ass-butts.'