Nobody Sees, Nobody Knows [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Forty-Seven

The teamsters want to party, which throws quite the wrench in my plans for the evening.

Jared, Jensen, Richard, Mark, Seb and I go out with some of the others to check out the area, hit up a few clubs, and interact with the populace. We encounter fans everywhere, who sweep us up in an endless flurry of selfies and autographs and questions.

I realize resentfully that by the time we return to the hotel, my body will be screaming for rest instead of the hot, messy sex I'd been meticulously planning all damn night in my head. But I know we can't ditch the outing without generating suspicion.

Jensen, however, looks about ready to knife himself a bloody banishing sigil when Richard proposes the outing. But Richard's no angel and he's not that easy to get rid of.

So, grumpy and sex-deprived, Jensen trudges along with the group all night, indignant irritation plain on his face, gaze occasionally sliding over to me in misery. I would feel sorry for him if I wasn't more worried that his sulking might draw the others' attention.

We spend the evening too close and yet too far away from each other, smiling and trying to follow conversations, willing away bourgeoning arousals with the discrete heel of a hand in the appropriate place.

On the rare occasions that Jensen does deign to be in some of the pictures with us, he's scowling like he wants to off the entire cockblocking group. Damn, no one can do repressed wrath quite like Jensen Ackles.

The fact that he's designated driver and must therefore remain sober doesn't help to lift his spirits. It's around 1 A.M. when we finally drive back to the hotel, but the city is still wide awake. Through the open window, the cool, night air tears at our clothes in strong gusts and I watch the buildings and city lights rush by in streaks of gold and neon.

Jensen drives like Dean, shifting the gears nimbly, preempting every change in speed as if his body's in sync with the car, air drumming and lip syncing along to the radio. I sit in the passenger seat. Closing my eyes and leaning my head back, I lose myself in thought as we speed down unfamiliar roads.

I wish I could slump over, press my cheek to Jensen's shoulder, fall asleep while the car hums in acceleration, but I know better. Even if the back wasn't crowded with rowdy actors, it would take just one journalist spotting us and the proverbial shit would hit the fan.

Instead, I indulge in my favourite pastime of late: cataloging the way the unique planes of Jensen's nose and cheekbones give a masculine edge to his otherwise unequivocally pretty face. He belts out the lyrics to the songs as he drives, one arm hanging out the window, wind tossing his hair. Until Uncover by Zara Larsson comes on. At which point he promptly switches stations.

We stop at a convenience store when Richard and Seb - who are pretty wasted - complain about feeling sick and having to use the washroom. Jared and the others drive ahead without us; I opt to stay alone in the car with Jensen.

He reaches for the ignition and turns it off, and we sit in silence under the lamplight for a long moment.

"Well, this was a craptastic night," I finally mutter. My head is throbbing with exhaustion.

"Yeah. Not exactly how I envisioned it," Jensen murmurs. "But, maybe, if you're not too tired...we could make it better?"

And hell yeah, that predatory smile bodes well for my immediate sex life. But-

"Listen, Jensen," I sigh, squirming and looking away from his handsome profile in the dark. "If your master plan is to fuck and run..."