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It’s It s Not TV, It’’ It ’s HBO By: Saving Faith Banner Art by: thethe-lastlast-shadow Icon Art by: talulababy Story compiled by: Morgan O’Conner O Conner

Episode One: Wait, We’re Supposed to Do What Now? In the summer of 2009, in a galaxy far, far… er… um… near, the television network CW succumbed to the poor American economy. It folded, people. Like a cheap suit. The kind you buy at a place with warehouse in the name and shopping carts littering the aisles. Shows scrambled, thirty-somethings with illegitimate children and alimony payments who played teenagers on the boob tube freaked the fuck out. Some dude with three names threatened to jump off the Hollywood sign. It was ugly. Like Joan Rivers after botox ugly. But hope was not lost for everyone. Because the Little Show that Could (and Often Did) found solace in the strangest of places. A world of curse words and bared breasts, naked asses and deep, thought-provoking television. Home Box Office, it was called. HBfreaking-O. But the folks at Supernatural decided to just call it home. And that’s where our tale begins. In a land of infinite possibilities. And possibly even a little full frontal, if we’re lucky. That, of course, still remains to be seen. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~*** Jensen knew something was up the second Eric’s number showed up on his cell. It wasn’t like him to call when there was no shooting going on – when Jensen still had three more blissful weeks of downtime before he had to dive back into the grind of sixteen hour work days, eight days a freaking week. But things had been different this summer, what with the CW’s collapse and the surprise pickup by HBO. And when you put all that together in a big old pot with Eric calling him in the middle of a Thursday afternoon, you got something is up. Eric’s office is cold when Jensen shows up, a few minutes late thanks to traffic on the 405 – why the hell does he always forget to avoid that damn highway? The cold air in sharp contrast to the blistering L.A. heat outside as he bypasses the secretary with a smile and a nod and walks into Eric’s like he belongs there. Which he kinda does, being invited and all. “So what was so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” Jensen asks, his voice calm, conversational as he does his best to mask the apprehension that’s making his heart pound like a jackhammer in his chest. Eric looks up from the papers in front of him – scripts, probably, Jensen figures, what with the fact that the writers have been doing their thing for weeks now in preparation of the opening shoot. Looks up at Jensen and smiles. Fake-ly. Like a damn used car salesman.

Son of a bitch, this is not gonna be good, he thinks as he takes a seat across from Eric’s desk, his palms already sweating, his eyes feeling warm and tired even though it’s gotta be, like, sixty degrees in here. “We need to talk about… um… something that the writers and I have been… sort of… ruminating over ever since the… uh… pickup.” He’s using his voice, Jensen realizes instantly. The one he used when he told Jensen they were killing off Sam, and that they needed him to knock one out of the park with the bedside vigil. Or the one he used when he dropped the bomb that Dean was going to hell. The voice. The fucking voice. And Jensen’s got a lump the size of a golf ball settling in the middle of his throat because of it. “Whatever you need me to do,” he says carefully, slowly, trying to make sure his words don’t come out croaking like a teenager in the middle of puberty, “you know I’ll do it, Eric. I trust you.” Eric smiles at those words – the trust you ones, Jensen’s pretty sure – and it makes him feel marginally better. Or, well, if not better, then at least more relaxed. At ease. Or as close as he can come. “Well the new network has given us the opportunity to explore some different… directions,” Eric continues, his words seeming to come easier to him now, far fewer verbal pauses between them to make Jensen’s knees shake like Jell-O. And Jensen’s mind immediately goes to sex. Because, honestly, what does HBO have that the CW doesn’t? Bare breasts and gratuitous sex. Jensen’s never been comfortable with even the crappy Rated M stuff that passes for sex on Supernatural these days. Has never been comfortable faking that in front of cast and crew and freaking camera. So he’s pretty sure he’s not gonna be all too keen on the more gratuitous stuff. And that’s what his mind is stuck on, when Eric finally finishes his sentence. His mind wrapped firmly around the prospect of bare asses and naked boobs when Eric says: “Have you ever heard of angel porn?” ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~*** “So who do you think tops?” Jared asks as they make their way through the Kraft Food Services spread. “Dean or Cas? Because Dean is bad ass, sure, but Cas is an angel and, I don’t know man, I can’t imagine an angel taking it up the ass, can you?” Jensen. Is going. To kick. Jared’s ass.

They’ve only been back on set a week – a freaking week – and it’s all anyone can talk about. The kiss, the kiss, the kiss, like it’s some sort of mythical creature that’s gonna grow out of Jensen’s ass. Okay, bad analogy. It’s really getting on his nerves, though. Today especially because, while the kiss won’t be coming for some time now (something about making people wait and the payoff is better if the race is long or some horse shit like that), today they’re shooting the hug. The kiss’ little baby brother. Fuck, another bad analogy. They’re shooting the scene today, though, of Dean finding Cas after the big Archangel Battle Royale. Rubble everywhere, all hope lost, and then he sees him. Blue eyes shining amongst all the dirt. Harps playing in the background. Shit like that. And even though this isn’t exactly a touchy feely show – Sam and Dean have hugged what? Once? – Dean apparently is so fucking glad to see his angel (Jensen really needs to stop thinking of him as his angel) that he can’t help but wrap the guy in his big, strong, trembling hunter’s arms. Jensen thinks he’s gonna be sick. So it’s worse today, even though most people just whisper about it. People he’s known for going on five years now too damn shy around him, apparently, to congratulate him to his face on finally getting a permanent love interest. But even though those people still whisper, he’s been getting enough shit from Jared and Misha to last him a damn lifetime. Jared he gets. Jared gets overexcited about gummy worms on the food table, so throwing something like this at him? It’s like Brad Pitt walking into a whorehouse and asking the ladies not to touch. Brad Pitt? Where in the fuck did that come from? Anyway, Jared he gets. Jared’s a dick. His best friend, of course, but still mostly a dick. But Misha… Misha he’s a bit confused on. Because he knows Misha’s a fairly openminded individual, that much he understands. But he’s being almost too cool about this whole gay-angel business. And it tends to make Jensen’s stomach clench up in a way he doesn’t entirely comprehend when he thinks about it. For instance, take the scene. The hug. Jensen is out there, giving it his all. Tears in his eyes, his voice all choked up, knocking this shit right out of the damn park. And Misha’s there, too, of course. Doing what he always does, bringing this intensity to the moment that makes Jensen shiver more often than not. Hrm… maybe shiver isn’t the best choice of words there. But whatever, they’re there, they’re doing this, they’re hugging like it’s natural (not like he’s never hugged Misha, of course, so maybe it is sort of natural). And then, when Robert yells cut and the camera shuts off, Misha…

… slaps him on the ass. Hard. With a little butt-cheek-squeeze thrown in for effect. And not just that, but he sort of winks at Jensen as well, his eyes kinda twinkling a little like when a cartoon character is doing something mischievous and says, “nice scene big guy,” before walking away without even a backward glance. It’s… weird. In a way Jensen doesn’t even want to try and categorize. And it makes him sorta dread when the shit, as they say, is gonna get real. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~*** Jensen gets the script about a month later and he knows before he even cracks the seal that this is the one. Episode ten, right before the winter hiatus, and the damn title is Fallen. Son. Of. A. Bitch. His hands are actually shaking as he flips through the pages, his eyes going blurry with black on white as he glazes over the scenes, looking only for the ones with just him and Misha in them. And he knows where it’ll be – knows Kripke’s penchant for cliffhangers and so knows that it’s gonna be on the last fucking page – but he still flips through because… … well, put it this way: Because he can’t breathe so good right now. And because his hands are so sweaty that he doesn’t even need to contemplate licking his fingers to turn the pages. Which is good, he guesses, because his mouth is so damn dry that he wouldn’t be able to lick his fingers anyhow and so… yeah… he’s gonna have to take his time here. It’s a fucking awesome episode. One of their best, he sort of thinks. The angst brought to whole new levels of epic. Cas is struggling with his faith and Dean is struggling with his destiny and Sam is struggling with his zipper for all Jensen knows (he’s skimming those parts, remember?) and then he gets to it. The scene. The kiss. And it’s, much to his eternal fucking shock, actually kind of beautiful. Dean’s sitting on the hood of the Impala, lamenting his life and feeling like an utter failure (what’s new there, right?). It’s raining a little, according to the script, which shouldn’t be hard to get filming in Vancouver. And he’s done. The bottom of the barrel, the end of his rope, the edge of the cliff, kind of like that scene in the hospital last season after Alastair almost killed him only worse, if you can believe it. So. Much. Worse.

That’s when Cas shows up. His angel. The answer to the prayers he doesn’t even know he’s praying. The one he hugged. And they talk, and it’s magical, and there are ponies and freaking rainbows and Cas tells Dean he believes in him (Jensen can just see that part in his mind now, Misha’s eyelashes beaded with tears, his face earnest, sad, open… open). Dean, being Dean, doesn’t believe him. And then Cas touches him, rests his palms on Dean’s cheeks, the love and faith of heaven itself flooding Dean’s body (Jensen can actually feel his own body tingle with the thought) before he presses his lips to Dean’s forehead. Dean’s hands reach up slowly, shakily to cover the backs of Cas’, dragging them down his cheeks softly as Cas’ breath brushes warm against his forehead (that part’s not in the script, by the way, the whole breath thing, but that doesn’t mean Jensen can’t feel it). He doesn’t stop until Cas’ hands are cupping underneath his jaw, though. Dean using his own hands to tip his face up, his lips brushing slightly against Cas’ as Cas whispers, “I have faith in you, Dean. If in nothing else, then in you,” across his fucking mouth. And then… well, you can imagine what happens next. It’s kinda fucking gorgeous, though, if Jensen really thinks about it. The softness and the rain and the dark night and the Impala. And that’s probably the problem – the whole really thinking about it bit – because he’s not supposed to be feeling this way, right? He means, sure, it’s his character that’s doing this. It’s Dean wanting to kiss Cas. But it’s also Jensen feeling almost giddy about it. His stomach cramping up, his heart rate increasing as he imagines Misha’s face above him – Misha’s, not Cas’ – imagines Misha’s lips brushing soft against his own – Misha’s, not Cas’ – Misha’s tongue pressing… Okay, he seriously needs to stop thinking about this shit right fucking now. Stupid HBO and their stupid different directions. Yeah, Jensen needs to not be thinking about this at all. Ever, if he can manage it. And he also needs about a fifth of Jack Daniels fucking stat. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~*** While Jensen is busy getting good and passed out on his bed, working the whole drunken stupor thing, let’s take a little stroll down memory lane, shall we? And how ‘bout we call it: The Road So Far, The Jensen and Misha Edition. Jensen can remember the first time he met Misha, at the read through before the start of season four. And it’s weird, because Jensen rarely ever remembers the first meeting with any co-star, even Jared (though he has a feeling there might have been random humping involved in that one, but he might’ve subconsciously blocked that part out).

He remembers Misha, though. Vividly. Misha was wearing a green t-shirt, a color that probably should’ve clashed horrifically with his unnaturally blue eyes, but one that looked good nonetheless. Or… well… not good. He doesn’t mean it that way. But you know what he means. He looked fine. Noncommittal and manly and stuff. And he also looked wired. Now, Jensen’s a serious actor. A professional. So of course he had read the script front to back multiple times before the read through, that’s just how he does it, and for the life of him he could not reconcile the angel on the page with the bright-eyed dude across the table from him. That was before Misha opened his mouth. Or, technically, before Castiel opened his mouth, because Misha had been talking quite a bit already. His voice dropped about five octaves, Jensen imagines. His brow crinkling up, his eyes going instant-soulful, and it had taken Jensen’s breath away. Literally. Instantly. And it had only gotten worse when they actually had to film the scene. He couldn’t help but stare kinda googly-eyed at Misha every time they were around each other, especially when he was being Cas. What the fans called “eye-sex” was really just Jensen’s awe at how freaking cool Misha Collins was. So cool, in fact, that it didn’t surprise him in the slightest when the news came down the pipe that they were making him a regular come season five. Everyone loved him. Everyone got along with him, wanted to be around him, and he loved each and every one of them back. Some more than others, of course, and Jensen is kind of ashamed to admit how glad he was to be on the list. Not that Misha actually had a list, of course, but you know what he means. Misha liked him back, almost as much as Jensen liked him it seemed, and that made him… proud, he figures, is the best word for it. Yeah, he’s gonna go with proud. Misha was like the man of a million faces, though. Soulful and serious and, like, riveting when it was just him and Jensen. Then ten seconds later he’d turn around and Jared would be there and suddenly there’d be this twelve-year-old boy where Misha had been standing. And it was fun, all of it, because Misha was fun. By the end of the season, Jensen was feeling even more down about the summer hiatus than usual. He loves being with his family and friends, loves getting out of Vancouver and into the sunshine for a while, but he always misses Jay when he’s gone and last summer, Misha just made it so much worse. He got on his plane, though, and went home, and tried not to think of him again until Australia. Where Misha bent Jared over in front of a crowd of screaming fangirls. And where Jensen did not get jealous, he swears. After that came Asylum, and more Misha/Jared antics (what’s with the slash sign?), and Jensen just couldn’t stop thinking about getting back to work, where he generally had

Misha all to himself. Not like he’s possessive or anything like that it’s just… nicer that way. Nicer, at least, until Eric told him about the kissing, hinting at more to come, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean, and until the script came. And Jensen was given words to put with the images that he swears (again) have not been playing in his head since he walked out of Kripke’s crisp sixty-degree office that Thursday in June. That’s all she wrote. The basics. The plot outline. The clip’s reel. The rest is up to your imagination. And now we kindly return you to the drunken wet dream, already in progress. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~*** Misha’s hands are all over him. The rain pouring down on top of them, pooling in Jensen’s wide-open mouth as Misha presses him back into the hood of the Impala. And he knows there are people around – cast and crew and cameras and the whole freaking world – but Misha is ramming his knee into Jensen’s crotch, and Jensen is moaning low in the back of his throat, and so he just can’t seem to find the time to care about anything else. He screams out – like, literally screams out – when Misha rams his hand down the front of Jensen’s jeans, the choked cry of a dying animal escaping his mouth as fingers cold and wet from rainwater grip so tight around his dick that he’s pretty sure he’s going blind. It’s exquisite, the way Misha works him, hard and fast and rough and raw and Jensen is losing it within fucking seconds. Losing everything as his vision comes back to him and Misha drifts into sharp focus above him, a smile spreading wide across his gorgeous fucking face as he says, “see how fun this can be, Jen?” and Jensen nods. Jensen agrees. Because he’s coming hot and thick over Misha’s fist and hot damn he’s right, this really is fucking fun. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~*** Jensen wakes up, hungover and achy, with Misha’s name still blistered across his dry lips. And he’s half afraid to reach down and feel his boxers, because he’s half sure that they’re gonna be dry and sticky from that dream. The one that left him still kinda half hard and completely confused as shit. He must be losing his mind. Something that’s only further proven when he goes downstairs (after a hot shower and a good old fashioned personalized hand job in the steaming water, of course, to clean the pipes) and brings it up with Jay over coffee and donuts at the damn breakfast table. Yeah, losing his fucking mind here.

“So about this kiss,” he says, because he doesn’t know of any other way to bring this subject up. “I’m kinda -” “Freaked?” Jared interrupts, his eyebrow raised slightly in what’s either playfulness or mere curiosity, it’s too early in the morning for Jensen to be able to tell which. “Yeah,” he says shakily, wondering just how obvious he’s been lately. “How’d you know?” “I’ve known you for five years, man. You’re not exactly Finnegan’s Wake.” Jensen knows it’s an insult, something to the effect of him being a not-so-difficult book to crack, but he doesn’t feel like pushing it right now. What he feels like doing is getting some damn therapy from his asshole best friend. “Well, fine, you know I’m freaked. Good for you, Jay. Now do you maybe wanna help me with this or are you just gonna leave me hanging out here, twisting in the freaking wind?” It’s overly melodramatic, Jensen knows it, but he can’t stop imagining Misha’s hands all over him. His lips sucking on Jensen’s neck, his fist wrapping around him hot and tight. And it’s so bad, in fact, that he can even feel his cock begin to stir in his pants again at the mere passing thought of it. And since he really thinks that it wouldn’t exactly be professional to show up for the scene with a never-ending woody, he needs Jay’s help. Showing up that way being both unprofessional and probably completely uncomfortable to Misha, who did nothing to invite Jensen’s creepy ass sex dreams about. Nothing but look nice. And smell nice. And act nice. And touch nice. And… okay… he needs… to… stop… that… now. “Would it help you feel better if you knew that I kissed him?” Jared asks, shaking Jensen so quickly out of his freaking reverie that he’s pretty sure he got whiplash from it. “Come again?” he asks through a throat gone instantly fucking dry. “I said would it help you to know that I kissed Misha,” Jared repeats slowly, enunciating each word like Jensen is special bus kinda stupid. And he’d hit him, probably, if not for the fact that he feels kind of… um… (don’t say turned on don’t say turned on don’t say turned on)… turned on by all of this. Fuck. “Well… um… what was it like?” Jensen finds himself asking, and that is the entirely wrong question pose here. A normal person would have said how the hell did that happen or why were you kissing him or something equally accusatory. But asking for a recap? Yeah, not so much the proper question according to normal social codes. “Man, Jen, it was awesome!” Jared freaking exclaims as he moves to the literal edge of his seat, running his tongue over his lips like he’s right back there, wherever there was.

“Like licking velvet that tastes like… I don’t know… like strawberries and salt and rainwater or something.” Jensen blinks. And then he blinks again. And again. His throat trying it’s damndest to swallow but getting absolutely nowhere in the process because it’s still desert dry in there. “Are you… did it really…” Jensen begins mumbling, but before he can get a complete sentence out Jared bursts out laughing. And not his normal, polite laugh either but the deep, embarrassing, loud belly one. “Dude, I’m just fucking with you!” he says through the dying snickers as he gets up from his seat and claps Jensen on the back hard. “You’re such an easy touch, man. I’m going for a run. See ya on set.” And with that he’s out the door, mumbling the words velvet and strawberries under his breath – under his continued freaking laughter – as Jensen tries to remind himself how to breathe. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~*** The shoot is not going well. Every time they get to that part of the scene – the part of the conversation where Misha is supposed to rest his palms gently on Dean’s cheeks according to the director’s notes, Jensen cracks. He laughs. Or he sneezes. Or he gets so fidgety that the shot is ruined. And they’ve done this eight times now – eight freaking times – and he’s still nowhere closer to being able to finish the scene than he was this morning after he dreamed about Misha’s hand job of fucking doom. “Cut,” Phil screams again, and even though Jensen knows the old dude loves him like a son, he can tell he’s getting annoyed. Like, real fucking annoyed, real fucking fast. And he’s pissed at himself too, of course. Because he’s a professional and because when Eric brought this up with him three months ago he’d said he’d be fine – that if that’s where Kripke wanted to take his character, then he’d just go there, for art’s sake – and now… … well now he’s just being a big goddamn baby, isn’t he? “Can we have a few minutes?” Misha asks, and his voice is so quiet over the rushing air in Jensen’s head that he almost doesn’t hear him. Almost doesn’t catch the calm determination in Misha’s voice. “Take whatever the hell you need,” Phil replies, his voice tired, his face even worse, before shouting, “take five!” at the rest of the crew. “Come with me,” Misha says – doesn’t ask, says – before turning quickly away from Jensen and making his way towards the trailers. And Jensen can’t really put his finger on what it is, but something in Misha’s voice makes him a little scared to follow him right now.

It’s not anger, it’s not agitation, but almost promise. And Jensen can’t help but shake like a freaking leaf as he follows in Misha’s footsteps. “Look, Misha, I’m sorry,” Jensen says as soon as he steps inside Misha’s trailer. The door clicking softly shut behind him as he watches the small drops of rainwater drip down the back of Misha’s neck. Not helping not helping not helping. “Care to tell me why you keep freaking out on me out there?” Misha asks, his face not exactly stern when he turns around to face Jensen again, but pretty damn close. “Look, man, it’s just,” Jensen begins, his body already fidgeting as he tries to look anywhere but in Misha’s eyes. “It’s just I’ve never kissed a guy before and… y’know… the thirty crew members and cameras ain’t exactly making this momentous occasion any easier to handle, if you catch my drift.” Misha sighs deeply, a sound that makes it impossible for Jensen to look away any longer. And he’s startled, a little bit, by how calm Misha’s face looks now. How passive. A small, kind smile playing at his lips as he moves slowly into Jensen’s personal space. Jensen’s pretty freaking small personal space, of course, as he was already almost completely backed up to the door to begin with. Terrific. “There’s no one here,” Misha says, and Jensen cracks his elbow hard into the door behind him as Misha reaches out with one hand and wraps his fingers lightly around Jensen’s wrist. “So?” Jensen asks, the word little more than a teenage puberty boy frog croak. “So,” Misha echoes, dragging the word out to way more syllables than it should rightfully have as he begins to draw small, slow circles around Jensen’s pulse with his thumb. “Kiss me.” It’s a simple request. One that Jensen really, truly, honestly wants to comply with (for art’s sake, of course, remember art?). But for some reason he just… can’t. “I,” he says, but that’s the only syllable he can utter. Over and over and over again like an imbecile. I. “Shhh,” Misha says, and his body is pressed almost flushed against Jensen’s now, Jensen’s heart beating so hard in his chest he’d be surprised if Misha couldn’t hear it. His breath warm across Jensen’s lips as he hushes him, his tongue darting out quickly to lick his lips before he presses them softly to Jensen’s. He holds it, the kiss or whatever you want to call it, for a long time. Like, a really fucking long time. Doing absolutely nothing other than resting his lips against Jensen’s. And

it’s… nice. Comfortable and familiar, almost. And so freaking warm that Jensen’s stomach is doing flip-flops before Misha pulls away. “See, it’s just like that,” Misha says as he takes a few steps away from Jensen, smoothing out the wrinkles on his rain sprinkled trench coat. “Just with, y’know, tongue.” And with those words and a wink that cuts through the tension in the air like a warm knife dissolving butter, Misha pushes his way past Jensen and returns to set. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~*** Jensen doesn’t remember how he got through the scene. At all. The only thing he remembers is the way his skin was buzzing like there was an electric current running over it. Or the way the insides of his thighs burned as Misha – Cas – pressed his way in between his – Dean’s – legs. Or the way that Misha tastes nothing like strawberries or salt or rainwater. Well, maybe a little bit of the rainwater. But that’s not exactly Misha’s fault so much as the weather’s. He’s in a daze through the whole thing, though. Through the whole rest of the night, going out for drinks with Misha and Jay and some of the guys on the crew after the shoot, everyone buying Jensen and Misha round after round after round for a job well done. And he feels good. Warm and tight and happy he feels good. The night’s winding down, though. And Jensen’s feeling way too dizzy to drive which is good, he guesses, because they walked to the bar so he doesn’t have to drive. And Misha’s cheeks are kinda pink as he smiles across the table at Jensen, his eyes a little squinty like Cas only hotter (did he just think hotter?) as he says something to him. Something that sounds like you alright but that feels like you wanna come home with me tonight. Jensen is really. Fucking. Drunk. He nods. Can feel the brain matter sloshing around inside his skull so he’s one hundred percent positive that he’s fucking nodding here. And it makes Misha laugh, whatever it is he’s doing. However he’s nodding. Makes him laugh as he gets out of his seat, way less wobbly than Jensen would probably be at this particular time, and circles around to his back. Linking one arm around Jensen’s waist (making warmth spread all around his liquor-filled belly) and dragging Jensen’s corresponding arm over his shoulder (making his bones ache) as he whispers harsh and ragged in his ear, “time to get you into bed, big fella” (making his cock fucking twitch). It’s not a come on, Jensen knows this. Because Misha is an unabashed flirt with everyone. Guy, girl, animal, light post. So Jensen knows he doesn’t mean get him into Misha’s bed, but Jensen’s body and Jensen’s mind aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now, so when the cold air hits his skin outside, and the two of them turn down the alley in back of the

bar (a shortcut home, and Jensen needs a shortcut now, stumbling fucking drunk as he is) he reacts. Hard. Fast. Rough. He’s got Misha pinned against a dumpster before he even really knows what he’s doing, a small, surprised gasp puffing out of Misha’s mouth about a half a second before Jensen is crushing his lips clumsily to Misha’s. His tongue darting between open-in-surprise lips as his knee slips slowly and surely right up into Misha’s groin. Misha moans into Jensen’s mouth, twisting his hips so that they roll across Jensen’s thigh and he can feel it. Right here, right now, Jensen can feel Misha hardening against him. Fast. And it’s just about the most glorious fucking thing he can imagine. Jensen rips himself away from Misha’s mouth, making a few quick bites against Misha’s throat before he’s on his knees, undoing Misha’s belt and unzipping his fly before Misha can even moan out the words God, Jensen and fuck above him. He’s never done this before. Never even kissed a guy before Misha, and so has most certainly never blown a guy but he knows the basic logistics of it, and something about the sight of Misha hard and leaking about an inch from his lips makes all the rest come fucking naturally to him. When he wraps his mouth around Misha’s cock, his mind clicks off. Or maybe it’s clicking on. Either way the damn thing is clicking, taking him over entirely, lust and ecstasy and all that shit washing over him as he presses his hands hard into Misha’s hips and pins his ass to the dumpster they’re still up against. He goes fast. Anyone can come along at any second (God that’s hot), and Misha is so far past the point of no return anyway that he’s bucking wildly against Jensen’s palms, Jensen’s face (God that’s fucking hot) and so he goes fast. Skillful but fast. Hollowing out his cheeks and swallowing Misha so damn deep that he practically screams above him. Jensen can hear the way Misha cuts himself off – the way he bites back the animalistic noises he wants to make as Jensen continues to suck him off like his life depends on it – and it makes him almost come in his pants just at that thought. But he needs a little bit of help on the matter, drunk and sluggish as he still is, so he unzips his own pants and reaches down inside fast, dragging his palm so hard and dry over his dick that he’s pretty sure it’s chafing. And he’s also pretty sure that he doesn’t give a flying fuck. Misha is moaning again, though, his sounds becoming more broken, quiet then loud then quiet again, and Jensen knows what that means. He expects the warm, thick, salty flow of Misha’s come in his mouth long before it gets there, swallowing it all down like it’s freaking ambrosia as he jerks himself raw into the filthy street beneath him.

“Jensen… Jesus,” Misha huffs out when he’s completely fucking spent, fisting his hands tightly into Jensen’s jacket and hefting him roughly to his feet. Repeating Jesus one more time before he wraps his palm around the back of Jensen’s head and pulls him in for another kiss, swiping his tongue around every inch of Jensen’s mouth like he wants to steal the taste of himself back or something. Which, to be honest, is way fucking hotter than it probably should be. “What the fuck was that?” Misha asks when he’s finally gotten his fill of fucking Jensen’s mouth numb, his face buried in the sweaty skin of Jensen’s neck. And Jensen mumbles into Misha’s ear, his nose tickled by soft, sweaty hair, his tongue playing along Misha’s earlobe, “it’s just like that… just with, y’know, tongue.”

Episode Two: You Want Me to Put My What Where? Jensen wakes up with his eyes stuck together like someone put crazy glue in his Visine. His mouth is dry, his skin feels all numb and sticky, and his head is pounding to this really rhythmless beat like Slipknot decided to take up residence behind his freaking eyeballs. And Jensen hates Slipknot so you can imagine just how glad he is to have them as his own personal brain-band right now. He’s hung over. And it’s not like Jensen has never been hung over before – not like he’ll never be hung over again – but something feels different about this one. Like maybe something happened last night that his alcohol-addled mind isn’t remembering just yet. Something that’s hiding behind the whiskey and the beer and the cold night air, waiting to jump out at him like a coked up mugger in an alley. An alley… Something Jensen can’t put his finger on… Oh dear God. Something Jensen can’t put his finger on. Misha. Shit, fuck, motherfucker Misha. Misha and the alley. Misha and the dumpster. Misha pressed beneath his palms and Misha’s… Jensen leans over the side of his bed and pukes in Technicolor into the bucket Jay must have been kind enough to place there last night. And one might think that he’s puking because of shame or remorse or disgust or even just because he had way too fucking much to drink. But Jensen is really kind of puking because… um… well because… Because he can still sort of taste Misha in his mouth if he tries hard enough, and because he still tastes really fucking good. Even around all the brightly colored vomit, surprisingly enough. And… yeah… he’s puking again. Jensen rolls out of bed eventually with a deep groan, his muscles aching in ways they haven’t since the last stunt heavy shoot they had. And he goes to stand up but the room decides to freaking tilt on him – stupid bastard room – sending him crashing hard to his knees thankfully a few feet shy of his old friend the puke bucket. Crashing to his knees. Wow, that is not helping at all, he thinks miserably as he tries to shove himself back up off the ground, but the world is still doing its best impersonation of a ride at Disneyland so he shuts his eyes and stays put for a few seconds instead to wait it out. Seconds or minutes. Or hours. He’s not really sure which. Because, since he’s on his knees and all, and since his mind is an evil bastard, it has decided to start replaying the events of the evening. The end of the evening only, of course. And so Jensen loses all sense of time in the way Misha had bucked against his grip, or the way he’d been making those fucking animalistic noises that had made Jensen so hard he thought he was going to freaking explode (which he kind of sort of did, he

guesses). Or the way Misha’s tongue had felt, cleaning Jensen’s mouth in a way that was way hotter than something as unhygienic as that should be. And Jensen really has to stop thinking about this shit right fucking now. Because it’s another day. A fresh start. And he’s needed on set in… well, in some amount of time. And Jensen is a damn professional, so he’s just going to get to his feet and get on with the day right fucking now. Or, you know, after another bout of puking, maybe. But definitely after that. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jared is sitting at the kitchen table when Jensen finally makes his way shakily downstairs, and he looks so freaking chipper that Jensen is overwhelmed by the urge to punch him in the face. But since that wouldn’t exactly be the good, best friend thing to do – and because it’d probably clue Jay into the fact that something was amiss – Jensen opts for the standard “g’mornin’” instead. “Good morn-,” Jared starts to drawl as he raises his eyes from the sports section, but he cuts himself off mid-word when his eyes finally rest on Jensen. And even though Jensen didn’t bother paying much attention to his reflection this morning, the look on Jared’s face sort of says it all. “Dude, you’re gonna need, like, three hours in the makeup chair this morning,” he continues with his damn mischievous little kid smile on his face, and Jensen takes one deep, calming breath. Because as far as he knows, nobody but he, Misha and the dumpster knows what they did last night, and Jensen’s not too keen on blowing his cover with loud mouth, King of Gossip Jared if he can help it. “So they’ll be giving me the Jared treatment then?” Jensen shoots back, garnering a little touché laugh from his best buddy the asshole over there as he sidles up to the table and tries not to gag at the smell of Jared’s scrambled eggs. “You look like shit, man,” Jared says after a few seconds of polite silence as if his previous statement didn’t quite cover that fact. And there’s a small hint of concern there amidst all the gloating that weakens Jensen’s defenses slightly. But only slightly, and only until Jay asks: “Did Misha get you into bed okay?” If Jensen had been drinking anything just now, he’s fairly certain it would be sprayed all over the table in front of him. Or he’d be choking on it, coffee in his lungs and stuff. Either way, it wouldn’t exactly be a pretty picture, so he’s glad he was empty mouthed. Empty mouthed. Shit. “Um,” he says, not really sure how to attack this, his brain still moving like it's stuck in mud and all as it is. “I… he… yeah, got home fine. I mean, I woke up here, didn’t I?”

Jensen’s pretty sure he’s blushing right now as he trails off with a laugh that sounds nothing but nervous. He can actually feel the heat rising up his neck, in fact, back across his ears, cutting a hot, prickly path along his hairline. And Jared is just sitting there squinting at him like he thinks Jensen’s maybe lost his mind in the last two and a half minutes or something. And maybe he has. Maybe Jensen has lost his freaking mind. Because he can’t stop thinking about the way it felt to have Misha… “You alright there, buddy?” Jared asks, patting Jensen on the shoulder once roughly and shaking him out of his extremely unhelpful thoughts in the process. “Yup,” he croaks out, “fine and dandy.” And Jensen has to get out of here. Has to get as far away from Jared as fast as humanly possible right freaking now. Because he just said he was fine and dandy, and since Jared’s not a complete moron, and since Jensen’s not an eighty year old woman, he’s pretty sure the jig will be up if he doesn’t find a quiet place to get his head on straight fast. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jensen’s mouth is dry again by the time he gets to set, his eyes trailing over the walls of Misha’s trailer, his mind wondering if Misha’s inside, if Misha’s dressed. Not helping. And he’s so wrapped up in all these unhelpful thoughts that he literally runs head on into the man himself. The one Jensen’s been sort of fantasizing about since he woke up and puked his guts out in a bucket conveniently placed beside his bed. “Woah, where’s the fire?” Misha asks as Jensen’s mind finally registers who’s standing directly in front of him, and his first embarrassing thought are the words in my pants. Really not helping. He’s going to say something cool, he swears. Something totally relaxed in a I’m awesome with the fact that I just gave you a drunken blowjob in public last night, how ‘bout you sort of way, but Misha’s hands are wrapped over his shoulders at the moment. And Jensen knows that he’s just doing it to steady him – to make sure he doesn’t go spilling to the ground from the force of their impact – but the gesture is kind of making him all weak and tingly. Weak and tingly? Jeez, since when did he become a fucking girl? Might as well just say that Misha has him quivering like some Harlequinn romance heroine right now which… um… now that he thinks of it… “Hey Misha,” he spits outs quickly, too quickly actually, his voice going all croaky and uncomfortable in the process. “Sorry, I’m in a… y’know… hurry. Gotta get to the

makeup trailer… running late.” Misha is smiling at him. Not quite knowingly as much as just friendly or something like that, but his lips are curling up in a way that makes Jensen want to, like, fucking bite them nonetheless. And that’s… new. And that’s also really – you guessed it, folks – completely fucking unhelpful. So Jensen gives Misha a little smile of his own, one that hopefully doesn’t look crazy serial killer maniacal, before he steps out from under Misha’s hands and walks away. Swearing to himself or anyone listening inside his head that his stomach isn’t bottoming out to the general vicinity of his ankles the further he moves (reluctantly) from Misha. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Misha is acting like nothing happened. He’s acting like nothing fucking happened. And at first Jensen is freaking ecstatic about that. ‘Cause he’s off the hook, right? He doesn’t have to feel awkward about what he did anymore. About his drunken mistake. Only the further he gets into his first day back on set after the incident (that’s what he’s calling it in his head now, a whopping twelve hours since it happened and he’s already given it a nickname), the more awkward he feels about it. Awkward about how awkward it all isn’t, if that makes a damn lick of sense. Misha is running through his scenes like a pro, though. And Jared has stopped teasing him, if he was even teasing Jensen to begin with (might have just been his own stupid paranoia on that one), and Jensen is trying his best to do the same thing and everyone’s being really sweet to him every time he screws up because he’s still hung over and it’s fine. It really is fine and fucking dandy. And Jensen doesn’t entirely understand why that makes him feel like puking again. Must just be the hangover, right? ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

It goes on for a few weeks like that, everyone ignoring the damn elephant in the room with the name tag Jensen and Misha Had Oral Sex in an Alleyway wrapped around its neck. And as far as names go, it’s a pretty long, obnoxious one. But it sums everything up pretty nice and tight in Jensen’s mind because they have to know. Someone has to know. But even Misha is acting like it was all some figment of Jensen’s imagination. Which isn’t as far of a stretch as he would have once imagined, he supposes. Because he was having wet dreams about Misha before the onscreen kiss, right? And so maybe he just made up the whole thing, figment of his drunken mind style. But it felt… real. And what’s more it felt good. Everyone’s just ignoring it, though. Misha included. And to make matters worse their

characters seem to be ignoring everything that happened as well. Dean sitting on the hood of the Impala, sucking Cas’ tongue into his wide-open mouth, only he’s acting all strained and forgetful around the damn angel as well and Jensen just feels like screaming. Like hopping up on the top of the damn Impala and yelling at the top of his lungs: I sucked Misha off and I’m damn proud of it! Yup. He’s losing his mind. Definitely losing his mind here. But it’s not his fault. It’s so totally not his fault. Because if Misha would just acknowledge what happened, would just open up and talk to Jensen about it, then they could move on. Where would they move on to, you ask? Well, Jensen has a few choice ideas about that one that he’s not quite ready to share just yet, thank you very much. They’re stuck in a freaking tar pit, though, like the damn Brer Rabbit (where the hell did that come from?). And they can’t seem to move forward, or backward, or to either side until something breaks. Until something breaks. Which it always seems to do. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Eric doesn’t even give him the courtesy of a call this time. Doesn’t invite Jensen into his office, doesn’t come up to Vancouver to have a little sit down with him on set, doesn’t even pick up the phone to do it voice-to-voice. He sends Jesnen a damn text message like a shy little teenage girl. One that reads: Network wants a sex scene and we… um… agree… I guess. Episode thirteen. Lucky number. Ha. I’ll be there to direct, I promise. Jensen can feel the please don’t hate me tacked onto the end of the message, or worked in between all the verbal pauses that Eric actually included in the type, and he’s not sure how to react to it. Standing outside of his car, getting ready to head home after a long ass day of shooting, staring down at his cell phone in wide-eyed wonder like the damn thing just learned how to do the Macarena all on its own. Macarena? Seriously? He’s not entirely sure where to go with all this, though. Other than to home and bed right now, bush-freaking-whacked as he is. His mind fucking spinning with the number thirteen and the thought of Misha’s bare skin beneath his palms. Holy crap, he thinks almost miserably as he climbs behind the wheel, this cannot possibly be good. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Misha’s in L.A. when the script comes in, taking a break from the cold, rainy Vancouver weather as Cas takes a short break from the show, one of the five episodes he’s not scheduled for coming right between awkward-post-kiss episode eleven and probablymore-awkward-sex episode thirteen. And Jensen thinks it’s probably a good thing he’s not around because… well, he’s not really sure on the because. What he is sure about is that he needs some time to himself with it. The pages heavy in his hands, almost like lead, as he locks himself in his trailer and prays to whoever you pray to for stuff like this that no one comes to bother him for at least an hour or so. Not surprisingly, it’s another great fucking episode. Written by Ben this time, proving to Eric last season with that torturing-Alastair episode that he can do the drama, and proving to Jensen right now all over again that he fucking rocks. There’s humor in it, of course. Wouldn’t be wish-fish-talking-teddy-bear Ben without a little laugher. But there’s not enough of it to detract from the real meat of the episode. The soft, chewy emotional core of the plot. And Jensen finds himself actually freaking shivering by the end of it, but that might just be because he forgot to turn up the heat in his trailer this morning. Yeah, that’s probably it. Cas is hurt, though, in the episode. Missing from episode twelve because bad shit happened to him, blah blah blah, and Dean finds him early on in episode thirteen, beat to hell, weak, maybe even dying, and he freaks the fuck out. And there’s some Sammy confusion in there, of course. And a lot of feverish Cas trembling on their stupid motel bed as they argue around him (Jensen can almost taste the sweat on Misha’s skin as he reads those parts), and Sam eventually storms out because he can’t deal with irrational Dean (nothing new there) which just leaves… Cas. And Dean. Alone. In a motel room. Jensen’s heart is lodged firmly in his throat by the time Sam walks out the door, his pulse racing as Dean moves over to the bed, sitting down next to Cas – close, but not close enough – and running one palm gently across Cas’ forehead, his fingers trailing up into Cas’ hair slowly as Cas’ eyelids flutter beneath him. “Dean,” Cas kind of moans out, and Jensen swallows hard at that, hearing – no feeling – the way Misha’s voice wraps around that word in his head. And something twitches in his pants as his eyes race madly over the words in front of him. By the time he’s done reading the scene, Jensen is covered in a thin layer of sweat and his cock is fucking throbbing where it’s pressed inside his jeans. And it’s not like he’s never jerked off in his trailer in between takes, but he’s never really done it to angel-porn before. And damn, it has never felt this good.

***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

They start the episode without Misha, Eric showing up on set and wanting to have a good one-on-one with Jensen before they get into filming the strictly Sam and Dean scenes only Jensen doesn’t need it. Doesn’t need the apology or the pep talk or the words of solace. What he needs is Misha, and for some strange reason he seems to be all right with that. Fine and dandy, remember? So when Eric pulls him aside and says, “look… Jensen… I just wanted to say that… y’know… I’m sorry it went this way… and if you’re uncomfortable with this… at all… just tell me and we’ll…” Jensen just wants to wrap the little guy in a bear hug or something. “It’s fine,” Jensen interrupts, practically bouncing on his feet as they stand off to the side of set, Jared eyeing him suspiciously from a few feet away because there isn’t any way in hell he hasn’t noticed the damn spring in Jensen’s step lately. “It’s great character development, right?” Jensen continues, his voice almost too giddy for such a serious topic. But he couldn’t change it if he wanted to because Misha is coming back tomorrow. And the shooting schedule says they’re gonna start him right in on the sex scene, get it out of the way and whatnot. And Jensen… Well, put it this way, Jensen can’t fucking wait to get the… um… awkwardness out of the way. Saying, “it’s all for art,” with a smile spread across his face as he thinks up all the kinky things art can be a code word for now. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jensen has to stop himself from tackling Misha the second he walks off the plane, Jensen volunteering to pick him up and drive him directly to set because he got bumped from his original flight and if they don’t start shooting immediately upon his return they’ll get off schedule and Eric absolutely despises when things get off schedule. He’d volunteered, though, because there was some solo Sam stuff that could be shot and because he thought it would be nice for a friendly face to greet Misha at the airport. All for politeness’ sake, right? And Eric had thought it was a good idea as well because they could “get comfortable” with each other on the ride back to set (his words, not Jensen’s) and then hopefully be ready for some heavy duty making out by the end of the ride. Jensen hadn’t cared about the excuses, he just wanted to see him. He’s waiting outside his SUV when Misha comes strolling up, though. Leaning against the side of it like he doesn’t have a care in the world, trying to look all cool and casual. But his cover is almost blown when Misha smiles at him from about fifty feet away and Jensen’s knees give out on him.

Luckily he was leaning against the car – remember? – so the whole jelly legs syndrome goes likely unnoticed. “So you ready for this?” Misha asks into Jensen’s ear as they shake hands and do the whole manly one-armed-three-pats-on-the-back hug thing. And Jensen can’t be sure but he swears Misha’s body quakes a little bit against his when he replies, “hell yeah I am.”

***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

When Misha whispers Dean, his voice helpless and lost, Jensen’s hand resting lightly on Misha’s sweaty forehead, Jensen’s mind clicks off. And just like that he is alive in the moment. In the script. In the story. He is Dean. Is worried about Cas, his angel (funny how he’s not so uncomfortable with that phrase anymore), scared that he’s going to die, that he’s going to lose Cas and it all just comes naturally to Jensen. Every last bit of it. Which is why he’s not terribly surprised that when he presses his body into Misha’s, it’s like everyone around them disappears instantly. His hand slipping slowly down Misha’s side as he wraps himself over him, his dick pressing harder into Misha’s thigh than it likely should be right now, filming a scene for a television show with his co-star as he is. Misha gasps into his mouth as Jensen goes to kiss him – as Dean goes to kiss Cas – evidently surprised by the interest Jensen seems to be taking in this scene, but he doesn’t care. About anything. Other than the fact that he finally has Misha underneath his hands again, of course. The scene doesn’t go far. It’s not supposed to go far. After all, they’re not making porn, they’re making art, remember? Which means Eric yells cut far too soon for Jensen’s liking. Everyone is kind of staring at them as they extricate themselves from each other. Even Eric’s eyes are wide as freaking saucers when Jensen turns to him and asks, “we need another take?” “Uh… what? Um… nope… I think… think that’s good,” Eric mumbles out and Jensen wants to laugh. Wants to agree with him. Wants to stand up on the fake motel bed and scream that was damm good! But he doesn’t. Mostly because he’s still hard as a rock and he’s not too keen on people seeing that right now. Seeing just how much Jensen enjoyed filming this scene. And he’s pretty sure Misha is right there with him on this.

The blanket clutched tightly over his lap is a dead giveaway. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jensen… isn’t finished. Not by a long shot. But the day and the night just seem to be dragging this time around. Since they’re filming out of order, Dean and Cas aren’t exactly supposed to be acting like they just faded to sex black together ala The Truman Show, only without the ruffling curtains. But every time they’re near each other, in between takes and such, they can’t seem to stop touching each other. It’s not obvious, Jensen doesn’t think. Or at least not blatantly obvious. It’s really just the brushing of shoulders, or the grazing of fingers, stupid stuff like that. But it’s driving Jensen fucking batshit because it’s not fucking fair. And because it’s not fucking enough. Because it totally sucks that they had to stop. And so… yeah… Jensen figures he’s really nowhere near finished with this yet. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

They don’t go out for drinks this time. No one offers to do anything extracurricular after the shoot and Jensen is grateful for that. Because he’s fairly certain he’s not going to be able to wait much longer for this, whatever this is. And judging by the way Misha’s been staring at him all night – his lids heavy, his eyes dark – Jensen’s pretty sure they’re on the same page here. And what a glorious fucking page it is. Because Jensen picked him up at the airport, Misha can’t drive himself home. And it makes Jensen’s stomach lurch when he doesn’t even have to ask Misha if he wants a lift. Misha just following him quietly, almost predatorily to his SUV like he’s already been given the script for this part and he can’t wait to do the take. They drive in silence. In dead fucking silence for what seems like hours, winding their way through the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night while Jensen’s groin starts to burn from the mere presence of Misha at his side. His mind is spinning. Running around in crazy circles as he imagines all the possible outcomes for this evening. Misha on his couch, Misha in his bed, Misha wrapped naked and sweaty around him. And he’s so wrapped up in those thoughts that he almost doesn’t hear Misha speak up beside him. Doesn’t hear Misha say - groan – the words, “pull over,” what feels like mere inches from Jensen’s ear as he wraps his palm over Jensen’s forearm and squeezes. He stops the car immediately, doing exactly as he’s told, turning the wheel so that they

drift off into the woods a short way before he puts the car in park and waits. Misha gets out in one fluid motion, walking around the front of the car, the headlights flashing across his face, making him look almost evil seconds before Jensen cuts the ignition and opens the door. The breath leaving his lungs immediately as Misha slams him hard back into the steel behind him. He might not look like the strongest man in the world, but Misha plays fucking rough. His knee coming up so viciously between Jensen’s legs that he grunts fiercely into Misha’s open mouth while Misha’s hands and arms and body force him so hard into the door that he’s pretty sure he’s going to have door handle shaped bruises on his back come morning. “Get in,” Misha hisses as he pulls away from Jensen, opening the back door and stepping around it like a chauffer waiting for Jensen to make the first move. And he does – he fucking does – because as nice as couches and beds are, the backseat of his nice, new SUV sounds pretty much fucking perfect to him at the moment. Jensen crawls back in quickly, never once letting his eyes stray from Misha’s as he does so. Misha who is leaning up against the open door, one hand resting on top of it, leering at him from a few feet back in a way that looks so damn sexy Jensen’s insides turn to fucking Jell-O. He doesn’t waste any time, sliding in on top of Jensen the second he’s situated and just like that they’re kissing again. Hot and fierce and hard, their tongues tangling, their teeth biting, their mouths sucking like this is a contest that neither of them intends to lose. And it’s hot. Dear lord in heaven is it fucking hot. So hot that Jensen feels like he just might pass out before any clothes even come off. It doesn’t happen that way, though. Thank those same heavens. Because Jensen is wide fucking awake when Misha’s hands slip back over his shoulders, shucking him out of his jacket. Or when Misha’s hands tear at the buttons on his flannel before pushing the t-shirt underneath it up around his neck, his fingers finding and squeezing Jensen’s nipples so fast that he can imagine them having freaking Misha Collins homing beacons attached to them. And he’s most certainly wide awake when Misha undoes the button and fly on his jeans, pushing those and his boxers down swiftly, roughly, before doing the same to his own and there you have it, folks. Skin on fucking skin. Jensen’s never done this before. Obviously. He’s never had another guy’s erection sliding up against his own. But feeling this, here, now, with Misha? Well, it makes him wonder why he didn’t try something like this a long fucking time ago. Because it’s awesome. Like, really fucking awesome. And Jensen is pretty sure he could get used to something like this real easy. They’re moving fast, though. Almost too fast. Their dicks lined up next to each other’s, rubbing hard and rough and wet and sticky alongside one another as Jensen’s heart rate picks up speed and his breath locks up in his throat and his mouth strikes out and finds

Misha, sucking in Misha’s tongue so hard that he shudders on top of him and he loves this. Jensen really fucking loves this. Loves the feel of Misha’s lithe body rubbing up against his. Loves the feel of Misha’s fingers digging hard and deep into his hips, marking him, claiming him. Loves the feel of Misha’s mouth as it sucks on the pulse in his neck. Loves every single thing that Misha is doing to him right now. Pleasure so strong it hurts coiling up deep inside his stomach as Misha commences with those fucking animalistic groans that have had Jensen on edge for months now. He’s close. So fucking close again. Both of them are. The word fuck escaping Jensen’s mouth about a half a second before he’s coming like a gunshot. Spilling out hot and thick between his and Misha’s bellies pressed tightly together. Misha joining in on the fun as well shortly thereafter with a moan that makes Jensen’s hips buck so hard he practically breaks something. His mind drifting strangely across I’ve fallen and I can’t get up as he laughs lightly, exhaustedly, into Misha’s mouth pressed warm and soft against his again. “You okay?” Misha asks as he rests a kiss to Jensen’s temple, and the gesture is so sweet, so gentle, that he’s immediately choked up. “Fine and dandy,” he whispers back, claming Misha’s mouth for himself one more time, his tongue pushing in deep but still gentle, just like Misha, as he begins to wonder vaguely just what the hell is going on here. And wondering, furthermore, what could possibly come next.

Episode Three: And Now For Something Completely Different Scene: Motel Room, Int., Night Dean looks down at Cas, passed out on the bed, and his stomach lurches. His skin is pale – or paler, he guesses, is probably a better description – covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his eyes kinda twitching under their lids like there’s something really bad going on behind them, and Dean’s trying not to panic. Not surprisingly, he’s doing a pretty crappy job of it. “Dean,” Sam says sorta quietly, carefully, like he’s testing the water or something. And Dean had honestly forgotten he was even standing there until just now, intent as he’d been about getting Cas safely into the crappy motel bed with the crappy motel sheets and all. He looks at his brother now, though. Drags his eyes reluctantly from Cas’ body – Cas’ beat to hell body – and looks Sam directly in the eye like he doesn’t have a damn thing to hide. Which isn’t exactly true, of course. Memories of the hood of the Impala and Cas’ lips pressed tight to his kinda making him dizzy more often than not these days. But he still looks innocent, he imagines. Hopes. And that’s just gonna have to be enough for now. “What?” Dean asks hoarsely as he scrubs his hand hard over his face, running it back through his hair and leaving it to rest on the back of his neck, right where Cas’ hand had ended up the last time they saw each other. Pulling him in. Sam hesitates and that… is never good. His eyes kinda darting all over the damn place as he begins to mumble out a few ums and uhs before Dean’s patience is quickly exhausted and he interrupts him. “What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Just spit it out, Sam.” He nods at that, Sam does. Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets and giving Cas one quick glance before he looks at Dean again, squinting a little bit like he’s expecting to get punched for what he’s about to say. Which, duh, can’t really be good either. “I don’t… I don’t think we can… that we should… um… keep him here,” Sam finally spits out and Dean’s head starts throbbing pretty much instantly. “Why is that, Sammy?” he asks slowly, and Dean can hear the exhaustion in his own voice. A week straight of sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Cas and how much of a jerk he’d been after the y’know, leaving him more tired than he’s been since the days right after hell. “Because I think it’s dangerous to be around him right now,” Sam spits out even quicker this time, and there’s more courage in his voice here. Almost like now that Dean’s got him talking, spouting off his crazy notions and insane theories, he’s hit his stride or something. Which only serves to make Dean that much more exhausted. “How you figure that?” Dean asks, not really following where Sam is going with this,

sure as he is that pretty much the only thing that matters to him right now is figuring out what the hell is wrong with Cas and how they can fix it. Everything else is inconsequential, as far as he’s concerned. “Lucifer tried to kill him, Dean. Lucifer. As in the devil? You remember him, don’t you?” Dean smiles at that. Or smirks would probably be a better way to say it. Because he remembers the devil. Very well, in fact. So does Sam. And Dean seems pretty okay with reminding his baby brother of that painful fact here, now that he’s sort of grasping where Sam’s headed with this whole thing. “There’s something going on here,” Sam continues after swallowing once so hard that Dean can hear it clear across the room. His tone a little less sure right now, but his face still dead set on the task at hand. “And if he tried it once, that pretty much guarantees that he’s going to try it again, right?” “And?” Dean asks, one word answer in the form of a question because he’s really not a huge friggin fan of what Sam’s driving at. “And so Cas is like a freaking homing beacon, Dean. One that could likely be leading the devil to us as we speak.” Sam spits the words out even more quickly, roadrunner style, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t go fast he’ll lose his nerve entirely before he reaches the end. And it makes Dean laugh. Maybe internally, probably externally, he can’t really tell. But he’s laughing either way because Sam really must not know him very well to think that he’d get behind something like this. “So what do you want me to do, Sammmy?” he asks, putting an extra stress on the Sammy because he feels like being a dick right now apparently. Crossing his arms hard over his chest as he speaks because he is not budging on this one, no matter what Sam says. “Huh? Want me to leave him out by the dumpster? Or drop him off by the curb at the local angel emergency room? Because he’s sick, Sam. He’s hurt. And I’m pretty sure he won’t make it through this – whatever this is – without a little help.” “Why do we have to be the ones to help him?” Sam snaps back, A-for-effort, but Dean’s still not really paying attention to his pain in the ass little brother right now because he’s already made up his mind on the whole matter. Cas is staying. He needs Dean – they wouldn’t have been able to find him like they did if that weren’t true, Dean’s pretty sure. And Cas has been there when Dean’s needed him more times than he can even count anymore, so there ain’t no way in hell he’s not gonna return the favor. “Because there’s no one else around right now, Sam. I mean,” he says, pausing for a second to wave his hands sorta erratically around the otherwise empty room. “You see anyone else here to help? They obviously know what happened to him” – they being heaven, in case anyone’s wondering – “and they obviously don’t give a crap. Which just leaves us.”

Sam huffs at that – actually friggin huffs like a damn peacock or something – ruffling his feathers all over the damn place as he says, “I still don’t see why he’s our responsibility. He’s an angel, Dean. Isn’t he supposed to be helping us?” Sometimes Dean feels like grabbing his brother by his ginormous shoulders and just shaking the ever-loving crap out of him. And now, not surprisingly, is one of those times. “He’ll die, Sam,” Dean says simply, trying to keep his voice as level as possible when all he wants to do is scream his friggin head off. “He’ll die. You really trying to tell me you’re okay with that?” “We’ll die if he stays,” Sam all but whispers. And Dean replies, “I’m fine with that,” because he is. Surprise, surprise, he is totally friggin fine with that prospect. And if you think that doesn’t scare the holy crap out of him, you’d be wrong. “I don’t get you,” Sam says kinda belligerently, his new attitude sorta shocking to Dean ‘cause he honestly thought they’d moved on to stoic, mopey, sappy dialogue by this point in the conversation. “I mean, what the hell is with you all of a sudden? I thought you still hated the angels, especially after all that green room crap. And now -” “That wasn’t him,” Dean interrupts harshly, his own hackles on the rise again because he can’t seem to stomach Sam lumping Cas in with Zach and the other angel douche nozzles right now. Sam stops dead in his tracks at that, stunned into silence either by Dean’s words or by his dead serious tone. But either way he just stops, and Dean takes that opportunity to set a few things straight. “And if you’re forgetting, Sam,” he continues, taking a few measured steps towards his brother in a way that he swears is not supposed to be menacing. “He risked his life to get me to you in time to try and stop you from…” Dean trails off there. Because no matter how infuriating Sam is right now, he just can’t bring himself to say it. To hurt him like that. To speak the words that Sam fills in anyways. “From raising the devil?” he asks, and his voice is half miserable, depressed, emo-Sam and half indignant, stubborn, bitch-face-Sam. And Dean isn’t entirely sure which one he’d prefer right now, so maybe it’s not so bad that it’s a mixed bag. “Yeah, from raising the devil, Sam. The one that turned around and tried to kill him. So pardon me if I don’t wanna just say screw it and leave him behind to die to save my own ass. Because he…” Dean stops again, trailing of into nothingness once more. Only this time he’s doing it for his own benefit and not Sam’s because he’s not entirely sure he can finish that sentence

without cracking into a million pathetic, useless pieces. But Sam pushes him. Asks, “because what?” And Dean kinda thinks that maybe it’ll be good to get these words out in the open after all. The ones that go a little something like, “because he wouldn’t do that to me, which is more than I can say for just about everyone in my life these days.” He doesn’t mean it as an insult to Sam. Or, well, as a full on insult to him. But Sam takes it that way nonetheless, spitting out the word nice before he just turns away from Dean and storms out of the motel room. And Dean feels a little guilty about that, his stomach cramping into tight knots before he turns to look at Cas again – beaten and bloody and still freaking unconscious – and realizes that maybe it’s a good thing Sam left just now after all. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jared walks out of the shot, exiting through the fake motel room door into the fake outside that looks remarkably like a real soundstage to him and waits for Eric’s voice to yell cut before he circles around the side of the fake wall and joins the crowd of random crewmembers strewn around. The crewmembers being real, of course, not fake. And Eric says, “I think that one’s a keeper,” with something that might be excitement or might just be caffeine in his voice – Jared can so relate to that – as he claps a hand on Jared’s shoulder, having to stretch up to do it like he’s the top shelf in the cupboard and Eric really wants a jar of pickles while Jared smiles warmly back at him. That was the golden one and he knows it, that stupid song from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory playing randomly through his head as he rejoins the gathering already in progress. Only the third take of the bunch and they’d gotten it perfect. Which technically means Jared’s done for about an hour or so at least. Free time to visit Kraft Services or play with his dogs or pass out in his trailer, only he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t want to leave. Because Jared knows what scene is next up on the list. Hell, everyone in Vancouver probably knows what scene is next up on the list. And he’s… well… curious. Not because he wants to see Jen make out with Misha, of course. ‘Cause that would be weird. And more than a little creepy. But Jensen’s been kind of bouncing around a little lately like a kid on Christmas morning and it’s strange, is all. Especially when you take into account how freaked out he’d been about just having to kiss Misha that first time on camera. So yeah, Jared’s a little interested to see how this plays out. Morbidly fascinated, I guess you could call it. Like this is a science project or something. Yeah, a science project, that’s what it is.

This week on the Discovery Channel: The Strange Fake Mating Habits of the Bestus Friendus He finds a place to settle in where he won’t be in the way as the cameras reset for the next scene, watching as Jensen takes a seat on the bed next to Misha, resting his knee up in front of him, pressed flat against Misha’s hip, and that’s… weird. Or maybe Jared’s just reading too much into things, knowing how this scene is going to play out and all. That’s probably it. Reading too much in. But Jensen looks really comfortable next to Misha, the two of them laughing and joking in a way that makes Jared mildly jealous in the stop trying to steal my best friend sort of way. Because Jared was always the one that made Jensen laugh until Misha came along with his awesomeness and his hilarity and his goofy antics and fake moustaches and crazy little kid energy – Jared can really relate to that. And now it’s almost like they’re fighting over him, seeing who can get him to smile the widest or something. And sure, it’s fun. Because Misha is fun. A riot and a half, to be specific. But Jared is just waiting for the day when they go to opposite sides of the room and call Jensen to them like he’s a dog, seeing which one he prefers as they slap their thighs and whistle and offer Beggin’ Strips and stuff. Only Misha would probably use real bacon because he plays dirty like that. What the hell is he talking about? Anyway, Jensen and Misha are chatting it up. That was the original point he was trying to make. And everyone else in the room isn’t paying them a damn bit of attention, working as they are on getting the shot ready to go. Which means Jared is pretty sure he’s the only one who sees it. It’s a blink-and-miss-it moment, something so quick and random that he’s pretty sure he can even convince himself that it doesn’t happen. But it looks a hell of a lot like Misha wrapping his hand over Jensen’s knee. And it looks a hell of a lot like Jensen pressing his fingers into the back of Misha’s hand – the one wrapped over his knee – while his eyes slip shut briefly, lids fluttering as Jensen’s teeth flash out and bite down softly on his lower lip. And, okay, maybe it’s not a blink-and-miss-it moment so much as it’s a close-your-eyesfor-five-full-seconds-and-miss-it moment, but it’s pretty quick. Relatively quick. Sort of almost quick. And it’s also weird on top of that, strange in a way that makes Jared’s throat go instantly dry, his palms sweating like he just got caught passing notes in class as Eric’s voice carries across the small stage. “We ready guys?” he asks, and Jensen turns to face him. His back to Jared now as Misha’s hand returns to the mattress next to him and Jensen says, “sure thing boss,” in a voice that’s so kid about to get ice cream excited it makes Jared feel a little feverish.

Or horny teenager about to get laid excited. Okay… stop that. “All right then, on your marks,” Eric continues as Jensen finds the piece of tape on the ground that’s his starting point for the scene and Misha’s eyes trail briefly across Jared’s before they slip shut. Something almost dark in them hitting Jared like a punch in the gut before his lids cover up whatever the hell it was entirely. There is definitely something going on here. They start filming the scene, though, and Jared sort of gets instantly caught up in it. Jensen is a terrific actor, and they might tease him all the time on set about his manly tear of doom but the truth of the matter is he’s damn good at crying. Jared can remember vividly watching the dailies with him of that episode with the werewolf chick way back when. Jared spending all day thinking about Sadie and Harley dying just so he could work up the tears for his big crying reveal, and what did Jensen do? He let one damn tear slip down his face and ended up stealing the entire stinking scene with it. Bastard. The guy’s damn good at crying, though. And he’s pulling out all the stops here. His voice choked up, his eyes welling up with tears that somehow manage to defy the laws of gravity itself and stay firmly in his eyeballs as he moves in beside Misha – beside Cas – and rests his hand gently on Cas’ forehead. Like, really gently. And Jared has seen Jensen be sweet before. He’s seen him pet dogs and play with babies and trace his fingers along his girlfriend’s cheek when he thinks no one is looking, but this seems different somehow. Seems almost more intimate than all those things put together. And it seems a little bit like the entire room freezes with that realization. “Dean,” Misha says, almost freaking moans, if Jared really wants to think about it, and the temperature seems to spike in the room. Like someone decided to turn the heat up in the trailer on a ninety-degree day just for kicks. Not like Jared knows anything about those sorts of pranks. And Jared wants to look around the room, wants to see if anyone else is picking up on this, but his eyes are kind of locked on Jensen and Misha right now. On whatever the hell is going on between Jensen and Misha right now. And he’s not sure he can pull them away, like he’s watching a train wreck or something. The wheels screeching loud on the lines as Jensen moves again, raising himself up a little bit from where he’s sitting and plastering his body all across Misha’s. It was a joke. It was always a joke. Teasing Jen about who bottoms and pretending he made out with Misha and buying him strawberry flavored chapstick just a joke.

Only it’s suddenly not so funny anymore. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Misha isn’t entirely certain what’s up with Jensen today, picking him up at the airport and saying things in Misha’s ear that had made him shake like an imbecilic little kid. And it’s strange as fuck to him because Jensen isn’t like this. Sure, Jensen had given him a blowjob in the middle of a cold, dark alleyway a few weeks back. And sure, some people might take that as a sign of interest or intent. But Jensen had been drunk. Misha had been pretty hammered as well, but it had been nothing compared to the levels of inebriation Jensen had been working with. And so Misha had just chalked it up to that. The kiss on set and the copious amounts of alcohol and the night air and the electricity of the moment all culminating in Jensen pushing him brusquely into a dumpster that smelled like chicken chow mein and wrapping his lips around Misha’s cock. God, Jensen’s fucking lips. He’d played it totally cool afterward, though. Misha had. Acting like nothing happened because he was determined to work with Jensen’s cues on that one. The last thing he wanted to do was push, even though Jensen had sort of started the whole pushing malarkey. But so when Jensen didn’t say anything about it, neither did Misha, and they both went amicably on their merry way. Misha has dealt with stuff like this before. Will probably deal with stuff like this again. And so he was fine with it. Right up until the whole whispering in his ear bit this morning. There is something here. Something utterly indefinable going on between them and it’s making Misha ache in ways he’d almost forgotten existed. Which is why he can’t help but wrap his hand over Jensen’s knee a little possessively while they converse lazily on the bed in between takes, not really certain what they’re talking about anymore only certain of the way it feels to have Jensen looking down on him like this. Smiling down on him. Digging the tips of his fingers into the back of Misha’s hand and biting down hard on his lip in a way that makes Misha’s groin burn. Misha used to joke about the homoerotic tension between them, but this… this is almost too much for him. He’s grateful that he doesn’t have any lines. Or many lines, at least. Because Misha’s pretty certain he wouldn’t even be breathing right now if that wasn’t an automated activity inside his body. His ears buzzing and his head spinning as he feels Jensen inch closer to him. Wanting to open his eyes so bad and see him even though he can’t – is not supposed to – because the picture inside his head right now just isn’t doing the guy justice. Misha finally gets to his line, finally gets to say Dean like it’s a prayer or a benediction or

whatever cheesy word the script had used for it and he even almost forgets that. Picking up on the cue just in the nick of time, remembering it quickly before he groans out Dean’s name because he can’t help it. Because he really wants to get to what’s next. He feels Jensen press down into him, his eyes still shut because Cas’ eyes are still supposed to be shut, and his breath hitches in his throat, wrapping around the moan rumbling low in the back of his throat as he realizes that Jensen is already at least halfhard. His slowly building erection pressing tight into Misha’s thigh as his lips restrict all ability to breathe, let alone cry out like he wants to. Which is probably good as they’re making a one-hour drama here, not some kinky porn video, remember? Jensen’s tongue is forcing its way into his mouth slowly, though, as his hips roll gently across Misha, and it’s nothing like it was that first night. Or even that first day. Not as awkward as the Dean/Cas kiss, and not as feverish and chaotic as the one in the alley, but rather slow and determined. Jensen’s tongue pulling him in deep, navigating even the farthest reaches of Misha’s mouth as his body begins to shake helplessly beneath the hard, heavy weight of Jensen. He’s supposed to be doing something here, Misha thinks. Something other than trying to tongue-wrestle with Jensen while keeping the moaning to a primetime television minimum. But he can’t seem to remember what exactly that is. Probably because he’s getting hard fast, which means all the blood that should be operating his brain is flooding so quickly to his cock that he’s surprised he doesn’t have a stroke. And wouldn’t that be an interesting way to die. Misha Collins Died On Set Today From a Freak Soft Core Porn Related Aneurysm A tragedy of epic proportions, right? And a seriously fucking embarrassing way to go. Jensen is still fucking his mouth rhythmically with his tongue, though. One hand twisted in Misha’s hair – in Cas’ hair – like it’s supposed to be while the other one… um… moves. Sliding – no, dragging – down Misha’s side in a way that makes him forget that the English language even exists, let alone any of the words that make up this mystical language. And so all he can think is oh. As in, oh dear God, please don’t let me die like this. Or. oh holy fuck, Jensen’s fingertips feel like they’re made of molten lava. Or even, oh shitfuckdamnfucksonofabitchmotherfuck, this better not ever fucking stop. But it does, of course. It does stop. The entire fucking thing. Because they’re not in Jensen’s house, or Misha’s apartment. And they’re not in the backseat of a car or even pushed up against a dumpster in an alleyway. They’re on set, making out in front of about a dozen crewmembers that up until this very second Misha forgot about entirely. And Misha’s hips are bucking up helplessly into Jensen, straining for more pressure

because Jensen’s weight pushing down is just not quite enough. And Jensen’s hand is tugging his shirt from where it’s tucked into his Cas-pants, fabric sliding rough across over-sensitized skin. And Jensen’s fingers are cutting sharp, hot trails up the now bare skin of his stomach and chest and Misha can’t fucking breathe. In front of a dozen crewmembers that apparently might as well be department store mannequins for all he cares right now he can’t breathe. His cock straining so hard in his pants, so goddamn desperate for release, that he’s pretty sure he cries like a dying animal, or that imbecilic little kid again, when Eric finally yells, almost weakly, it sort of sounds like, Misha’s new least favorite word in the English language. The mystic language he was talking about earlier. “Cut.”

***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Eric wonders if maybe he should close his eyes. If he should look politely away, send the rest of the crew from the room, and give these two a little privacy since it sort of looks like they need it. Because there’s acting, and then there’s… whatever the hell is going on here. He’d been worried, right off the bat, about how Jensen would handle this switch in direction. This departure for Dean, you could say. But the change to HBO had opened up a lot of windows, and the writers had all gotten together to discuss the best way to utilize those new openings, and they’d come up with this. You couldn’t deny the chemistry between these two. Jensen could have chemistry with a dining room chair, of course, but there was something different between him and Misha, that was clear from day one. And it was a huge part of the reason why they decided to keep Misha on. Give him eight more episodes in season four than they’d originally planned, and add him on as a series regular – something unheard of in the Supernatural world – for season five. Misha is awesome. The fans love him (the jump in ratings last season speak to that pretty clearly), the cast and crew love him, and so locking him down was a no-brainer. And it only took minor tweaking to fit him into the storyline they already had planned for last year. They just needed to change up the role they had for Anna a little bit and pass it off to Castiel. You see, Anna was supposed to be Dean’s love interest. But more than that, she was supposed to be the angel perched atop his shoulder. The one that carried him through to the end of the season, made him believe in himself, showed him love and compassion – that was all supposed to be Anna’s job. Castiel got it instead, but apparently nobody told the audience that they were taking out the whole love interest part. And no one told Jensen and Misha either, he guesses, because the chemistry between them almost seemed to quadruple at least once things were set in stone and Misha’s name was dry on the contract.

They couldn’t do anything with that on the CW even if they wanted to. They’d joke about it in the writers’ room, or when they were randomly onset with the boys. Hell, Eric even wrote in a wall slam scene into the season finale as a nod to all the fans that believed that Dean and Cas were boinking each other off camera. Because, c’mon, was that wall slam really necessary? Hell no. But it sure had the fans in a tizzy the next day – Eric made sure to check that out online as soon as he could. So they’d had fun with it. Playing up the eye!sex, as the fangirls liked to call it (he will never understand the strange placement of exclamation points in all their internet speak… or he guesses he should say internet!speak) for all it was worth. Knowing all along that that was as far as it would go, because that was as far as it could go. They were safe, right up until they weren’t. When the CW folded, Eric lamented the fact that it hadn’t happened one season later. Because as much as he could possibly love continuing on with Supernatural forever – or at least until they could go out with grace and dignity like Buffy, not with T-1000 and shame like the X-Files, the best cautionary tale in the biz – he really would’ve been just hunky dorey with his five seasons. But it looked like he wouldn’t even get that. Because, let’s be honest, other than the few million crazy chicks and random scattered males across the world that tuned in despite the fact that they were up against Grey’s Anatomy and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, no one watched the show. So why would any network in their right mind snap them up? HBO apparently did not possess this strange thing called a right mind. What they did possess, however, was a desire to see some hot homosexual loving. And it wasn’t like they were forcing it down the writers’ throats – they made that very clear in the initial pitch – it was more like they made such a convincing argument that Eric and Co. just couldn’t bring themselves to ignore it anymore. Dean and Cas were stupid hot together, and if Jensen and Misha were down with it, it would be a crime not to use that to its full advantage. Or something like that. Misha had been easy. Okay, poor choice of words. But he’d been fine with it immediately, not like Eric had expected anything less from him. He didn’t know Misha well – or as well as some – but he could tell pretty plainly that Misha was a laid back sort of dude. Jensen, on the other hand. He would probably take some work. That’s why he’d called him into his office, because he wanted to do it in person. He then later, of course, broke the news of the sex scene over text message, but at least he’d done the original pitch face-to-face. And Jensen had taken it like a pro, not like he expected anything less than that from him. Eric had made sure that he was the one writing the first kiss, and that he was the one directing the sex scene, because he wanted Jensen to be as comfortable as possible. Which he… um… certainly looks right now. His body sort of rocking against Misha’s in a way that wasn’t technically a part of the script as the room goes silent and dead around

them. He almost forgets to yell cut, caught up as he is in the strangely beautiful way Jensen and Misha are coming together – okay, really poor choice of words again. Caught up as he is, though, in watching Jensen actually get into a sex scene for once (something he’s never done before). He can’t be certain, though, but it looks like Jensen’s hand is about to slip past the waistband of Misha’s pants and since that’s definitely not a part of the script Eric yells cut. His voice cracking a little more than it probably should as the room at large breathes a giant, collective sigh of what he hopes is relief. He can almost hear the fangirls groan across the world already. Eric feels a little speechless right now, Dr. Frankenstein’s I’ve created a monster speech goose-stepping through his brain as Jensen peels himself off of Misha and turns to look at Eric. Directly. In the eye. “We need another take?” he asks, and Eric tries to translate that from whatever language Jensen is speaking into English. “Uh… what?” he asks back, his brain still not working up to normal, living, breathing, person speed. “Um… nope… I think… think that’s good.” And it was. It really was. And now Eric feels completely filthy because of it. Completely filthy but even more so intrigued. Because he’s almost afraid of what’s going to happen to his old friend the internet when this episode finally airs. He can just see the headline now: Freak Internet Crash Caused by Angel!Porn Though he’s pretty sure the newspaper writers won’t remember to add the exclamation point in there. Eric might be a pro at internet!speak, but it took him a long time to get there.

Episode Four: The Pros and Cons of Cons (Part One) When Jensen finally drops Misha off at his apartment after about an hour of… um… doing stuff, he’s so delirious he doesn’t even remember how to tie his own shoes, let alone what day it is. It was that good, people. Which is probably why when Misha leans over the center console and wraps his hand behind Jensen’s head, tugging him in for a kiss that’s so deep, so all-freaking-consuming it almost hurts, Jensen forgets what shoelaces even are. Good thing for Velcro, right? “You all packed for the weekend?” Misha almost whispers across him, his teeth nipping gently at the swell of Jensen’s bottom lip as he digs his fingers roughly into the back of Jensen’s skull almost possessively. Something that should probably not be making him shiver like he got caught out in a freaking blizzard but that so totally does. And all Jensen can muster up in response is a helpless little mmmhmmm which could theoretically mean of course I’m already packed for the weekend, why would you ask such a ridiculous question, but which really means I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about but your lips taste so damn good I’m thinking of writing to whoever the hell makes Jelly Belly’s to demand they create a flavor of you. They make freaking buttered popcorn flavored ones, right? And mud and jalapeño and peanut butter and he even saw a puke flavored one once. So Misha shouldn’t be too much of a stretch. His brain is kind of on the fritz at the moment if you couldn’t have figured that out already. So if you’d like to leave a message, he’ll try and get back to you when the synapses are firing properly again. Beep! “You do know what this weekend is, right?” Misha asks in a playful way that makes Jensen’s stomach lurch, his mouth sucking a soft patch on Jensen’s jaw. And Jensen nods his head in response simply so he can feel the way Misha’s cheek drags up and down against his own, burrowing his face into Misha’s neck, rubbing along each other with friction so hot it burns. Because… yeah… he’s not even sure what the meaning of the word weekend is anymore – his vocabulary kind of going the way of caveman grunts and yelps any time he’s in the dude’s presence these days – but he’ll nod his fucking head off for this. Jensen being damn sure of that, as well as of the fact that if Misha doesn’t get out of his car really damn soon, he’s gonna end up half-naked and pressed against the passenger side window. Not that Jensen would ever dream of complaining about something like that, of course. But it’s still something to consider. My, how times have changed. Tomorrow is another early day on set, though (he thinks… what are days again?). And something is going on this weekend, if Misha’s continued insistence on talking right now

is any indication. So as much as he would love to ravage Misha raw atop his custom leather upholstery, utilizing his awesome Tetris skills in order to figure out the most efficient way to get them both off in an extremely tight space, they really should get some sleep. Oh, who the fuck is he kidding? Sleep is for pussies. And Jensen is most definitely not a pussy. Which is why he sort of lunges across the space between them, pressing Misha almost violently into the corner of his seat, his head thunking dully against that window he was talking about as Jensen’s hands work furiously at Misha’s belt, Misha’s button, Misha’s fly and the guy somehow manages to keep right on talking like that’s somehow important right now. “It’s Chicago,” Misha says, his words turning into little more than a thick, heavy, needy groan as Jensen finds flesh already sticky and hard again beneath Misha’s jeans. And Jensen grumbles, “what’s Chicago?” into the hollow of Misha’s throat before biting down hard enough on the skin just above his collarbone to leave a mark, his pulse racing and his body feeling feverish with the knowledge that Misha will be carrying his bruises for days. Days spent in front of about a thousand screaming fangirls, apparently, Jensen remembers now. The realization coming to him at about the same time as Misha’s bucking hips threaten to toss it back out again. And the word shit rockets through his head like whiplash as his body continues the epic struggle with his mind and he rolls his hips along Misha’s, his legs already cramping up from the lack of space, his head feeling numb from the lack of blood, and his dick pressing so hard inside his own pants that everything else just vanishes, including his name. He’s just gonna go by Chief Wants-to-Fuck-Misha from here on out, if everyone’s okay with that. Jensen’s desire crowds so hard and tight inside of him that he suddenly doesn’t care if the whole world sees his damn hickeys on Misha’s neck come this weekend. Which is forward progress, he figures. One giant leap for Jensen-kind when you consider how damn nervous he was to just kiss Misha a few weeks ago. And it’s not like everyone would necessarily know they were Jensen’s hickeys, of course. But it’s still dangerous, in that making out in the janitor’s closet at school sort of way. The secrecy of it all making this whole thing that much more scorching fucking hot. A secrecy that becomes slightly thinner when Misha moans out, “d’ya know what episode aired tonight?” Jensen growls, “don’t care,” so gruff into Misha’s mouth he can feel his body shivering recklessly beneath him as he drags his hand up and down Misha’s cock because he doesn’t. Doesn’t care about anything but his long, hard, slow strokes as he thrusts his own aching erection repeatedly, viciously down into Misha’s thigh and the SUV continues to rock violently with their movements. “It’s the… the kiss,” Misha spits out breathlessly as he comes warm and thick over Jensen’s fist about ten seconds before Jensen’s doing the same in his pants.

And about twenty seconds before the word shit comes flooding through his consciousness again. Thoughts of horrible fucking timing and awkward questions taking him over fast as he tries and fails to get himself back into the driver’s seat. Succeeding only on the fourth attempt as Misha smiles weakly at him like it’s all a big joke. Which, knowing Misha, it probably is. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Eric looks exhausted when Jensen shows up on set the next morning, totally commiserating with how the dude is feeling right now because it took him and Misha a fuck ton of time to even get out of the car last night. And it took Jensen even more time than that to calm his heart rate down enough to fall asleep. Or pass out would probably be a better way of describing it due to the fact that the things that Misha’s hands and mouth and body do to him turn him into a boneless pile of jellyfish goo at every turn. He really wants to screw Misha, he’s decided. More than he’s pretty much wanted to screw anyone ever. And the wait is driving him a little bat shit already. But he’s talking about Eric here, his eyes rimmed in dark circles, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly like he got about as much shuteye as Jensen did. Only his eyes themselves tell a different story – or a more interesting one, at least. All shiny and glittery and freaking chipper in a way that tells Jensen the guy’s night must not have been so bad after all. “What are you grinning about?” Jensen asks him as he walks across set with his bucket of coffee masquerading as a cup in his hand. And Eric actually hugs him when he’s within arm’s reach. Grabs him roughly around the backs of his shoulders and freaking bear hugs him. Saying excitedly in Jensen’s ear, “they liked it! They really liked it!” like he’s in some crappy old Chex commercial. “Who liked what?” Jensen asks sleepily as he stiffens against the hug, not really one for early morning anything, let alone early morning shows of affection, even if Eric is the one doing the affecting. And Eric pulls back at that, his eyes even brighter now somehow like he just won the lottery or something as he replies, “the episode! The kiss! The boards won’t shut up about it and every single one of them loved it!” Jensen is… surprised. As much as he’d been willing to do this whole "slash" thing for art’s sake or whatever, and as much fun as he’s currently having with it, Jensen kind of imagined that it wouldn’t end up going over that well in the end. Sure, there’d be a group of people (straight females supposedly, Eric tells him, and Eric knows these things) that would flip their shit over it. In a good way. But a blanket acceptance didn’t seem terribly likely to him. It’s their last season, though. Maybe. Supposedly. Whatever. So who cares, right? They

might as well go out in a blaze of glory. That had been the popular opinion at the time. But never in a million years did Jensen actually believe the fans would feel this way about it. That’s… um… good, right? Good that the vast majority of the fan base – if not the entire fan base – liked watching Jensen ram his tongue down Misha’s throat? Or, y’know, watching Dean ram his tongue down Cas’ throat. Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe. But it’s good, he thinks. That’s what he’s gonna go with for now even though he really has no idea what to make of any of it. Because the fans now know for certain about this whole angel porn canon whatever. And because Jensen and Misha and crew are heading out to Chicago tomorrow afternoon to be grilled by some of the more rabid sect of those same fans. So he just has to think that’s all a good thing because if he doesn’t… well, let’s just say Jensen doesn’t do well with this particular form of stress. But at least he has Misha to help him out this time around, right? ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Day One – Misha’s Panel of Epic Awesomeness: Jensen spends the entire plane ride not imagining what it would be like to lock Misha in one of the crappy little airplane bathrooms with him and make him groan so loud the entire airplane would hear. Not wondering how Misha’s skin would feel under his hands, hot and sweaty and all his. Or how Misha’s body would fit, pressed into his own, cramped and aching and wanting. Needing. Or even the way Misha’s neck tastes, or his lips, or his tongue, or his cock… Okay, that shit right there? Is not fucking making this plane ride any more bearable. Y’know, not thinking about that stuff and all. Staring across the aisle at Misha, his headphones jammed into his ears, his eyes locked kind of sleepily on the in-flight movie (the Rock running around with a bunch of kids in the remake of that crappy old Disney flick with the dude who played Saruman in Lord of the Rings) while Jared gabs Jensen’s freaking ear off like some ninety year old biddy next to him like he usually does. Talking about… um… something that Jensen stopped paying attention to the moment Misha slid down in his chair, his head tipping back hard into his headrest, his hips rising slightly with the movement before they fell back into his seat. How is it even remotely possible that the mere subtle movement of Misha’s hips can make Jensen half-hard in the middle of a crowded plane? There must be something, like, wrong with him because there’s obsession… and then there’s this, whatever the hell this is. Jared’s talking about football now, he thinks. Or maybe salads. There was something about Romo or romaine in there somewhere, he’s almost positive. But whatever it is gets

washed out in the way Misha stretches sleepily out of the corner of Jensen’s eye. His arms reaching high over his head, wrapping around the top of his seat as those damn hips thrust outward again and Jensen all-but stops breathing. He cranes his head to the side, scratching absently at the left side of his neck like he’s just looking away from Jared because he’s got an itch. One that needs to be… um… scratched right now, if you catch his drift. Do not think about Misha naked in an airplane bathroom, do not think about Misha naked in an airplane bathroom, do not think about Misha naked in an airplane bathroom. Jensen scratches so hard at his neck, though, that he wouldn’t be surprised if he drew blood as the bottom hem of Misha’s t-shirt tugs up with the stretch. Pale skin and a small line of hair that Jensen, by fucking God, knows the freaking taste of exposed to the warm, stale airplane air in a way that makes sweat break out across Jensen’s skin immediately. His pulse picks up speed fast as his eyes continue to linger on Misha’s stomach, the hipbones that Jensen actually fantasizes about digging his thumbs into these days peeking out slightly as well, skin laid out so bare and tantalizing that it’s all he can do not to leap across the aisle and lick it. All of this being so damn hypnotic that it takes Jensen a lot longer than it probably should to realize that Misha has sort of stopped moving. Completely. He drags his eyes up slowly, reluctant to let the skin go just now, trailing up the slightly wrinkled cotton of Misha’s t-shirt (a dark, almost turquoise color that makes Misha’s eyes look fucking magnificent), past his collarbone and the still-visible bruises Jensen left behind the other night, up the neck that Jensen has been making a 3D map of in his head with his tongue, across chin and lips and stubble and nose all the way to Misha’s eyes. The ones that are staring directly at Jensen. Directly at the way Jensen is freaking leering at him. Misha’s head tilted slightly downward and to the side, his eyes kind of heavylidded and veiled but still wide fucking awake. Just staring as his arms remain draped over the top of his seat, making Misha look for all the world like someone decided to tie him up there in order to have their wicked way with him. How in the fuck is Jensen supposed to withstand this? He swallows hard once, forcing himself to keep his eyes locked on Misha’s as Jared’s voice becomes a low hum in his ears. The airplane seeming to spring to life around him at the same time that everything goes dead still. Jensen’s mouth dry and sticky as Misha pulls the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth and rolls his hips slightly, angling them more toward Jensen than they were before. To anyone outside of them, this would all look completely normal. Or, well, maybe not completely normal, but normal enough. Because Misha really just looks like he’s stretching. And Jensen really just looks like he’s got eczema of the neck or something. But Jensen’s eyes are keener, more in tune to Misha than anyone else on this plane he’d be willing to bet, so when Misha bites his lip and twists his hips in his seat, slightly more of a bulge in Misha’s jeans than one would normally see, Jensen gets it.

Boy howdy, does he ever fucking get it. But they’re on a plane. And Jared is sitting right next to him, talking about astrophysics for all Jensen fucking knows at this point. And soon that plane’s gonna land and they’re gonna be swallowed up whole in fucking Fan Land. So even though Jensen gets it, he also knows that he’s not gonna get it. Not from Misha, at least. Not any time soon. And that just fucking sucks. Or doesn’t suck, he guesses, if you catch his stupid, insane, obsessed-with-Misha punning drift. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jensen gets caught up in the hoopla pretty quickly, checking into their hotel and getting their itineraries and being herded around like cattle, and it’s good. For once, the inane distraction of convention business is good because it keeps his mind off of other things. Like the way Misha smells as they walk off the plane together – so close to touching that Jensen can almost feel the static charge between them. Or the way Misha’s face beams with little kid freaking glee when he and Jared start goofing around in the hotel lobby (the one they’re staying at, not the one the convention is actually at because they learned early on that staying under the same roof as the fangirls could be… um… detrimental to their health). Jared actually puts Misha in a half-nelson at one point, though. Rubbing his fist in Misha’s hair in true noogie fashion as something dark and possessive flashes briefly in the fucking pit of Jensen’s stomach. Something that draws a direct connect-the-dots line from Jared’s hands all over Misha, to Misha’s almost uncontrollable laughter, all the way back to Jensen’s fists clenched tightly at his sides. He is going out of his mind. The business of the day absorbs most of that, though. Which is really damn good for all parties concerned because any time he and Misha pass a door at the same time, Jensen can’t seem to stop his mind from wondering what’s on the other side, if the room is empty, if it’s locked, how hard Jensen can slam Misha into the other side of the door without breaking any bones, how fast he can get his hands down Misha’s pants and around his dick, and how long it would be before anyone noticed they were gone. Doors are definitely not Jensen’s friends at the moment. And neither is Chicago, apparently, because he’s fairly certain that if they were back in Vancouver right now, he and Misha would have already learned just how well they fit together by this point. And that’s just a damn shame, if you ask him. Because he’s Chief Wants-to-Fuck-Misha, remember? And the natives are getting really fucking restless. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jensen and Jared plan to watch Misha’s panel from the sidelines, hidden behind the

stupid little curtain thing they have set up, the three of them joking around and having a good time a few seconds before the lights go down in the place and Misha’s hand wraps hot and quick around Jensen’s wrist. It’s a simple gesture, one that he’s pretty sure no one even sees, but it’s one that makes Jensen’s skin fucking buzz nonetheless. Misha’s thumb swiping over his pulse again like it did on the night of the kiss shoot. The night that Misha’s body first pressed against his and the night that everything changed so fast it would make even the most grounded person’s head spin. They’re playing one of the music videos, though. AC/DC drifting through Jensen’s ears as Misha moves slightly to the side so that his hip brushes ever so gently against Jensen’s and he’s instantly hard again. Something about Misha making him react like Pavlov’s dog if Pavlov’s dog was, y’know, a horny, sexed-up dude. Misha’s thumb still doing crazy things against his skin as Jensen shuts his eyes and just gets lost in the moment. Why do they have to be in fucking Chicago right now? The video comes to an end far quicker than Jensen would like it to, finding himself wishing that whoever made it had picked something longer, like “Stairway to Heaven” maybe, as the lights flick back on, the announcer calls out Misha’s name like he’s the starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys and the room erupts in a roar so loud it actually hurts his ears. The fangirls love Misha, and Jensen can totally understand why. Misha lets his wrist go, a small ring of heat and sweat lingering behind as Misha turns his face to him and winks once in a way that Jensen is determined will not make him come in his pants like some just-hit-puberty teenager. His eyes sort of transfixed by the slight sway of Misha’s hips as he jogs up the steps to the stage – there he goes with the hips again, tucked so nice and pretty in a pair of light, ripped jeans that look so damn good on Misha he just wants to fucking paw at them. His eyes transfixed and his heart lodged in his throat as he forgets for the umpteenth time today how to pull oxygen into his lungs. It takes a long time for the cheering to die down, Misha holding his hands up the entire time, his face looking stern like he really wishes they’d shut up already even though Jensen knows for a fact that he eats this shit up. And Jensen finds himself sweating even more now – not because of Misha this time, but because of what’s coming. What he just fucking knows is right around the corner. The kiss episode aired, the internet exploded, and there ain’t no way in hell they’re not gonna get bombarded by questions about it this weekend. And all he can think right now is that he’s glad Misha’s getting it first because Misha Collins is a fucking magician at these things. The way he manages to work crowds like this is nothing short of genius, giving the ladies everything they want even at the same time that he seems to insult them directly to their faces, each and every one of them eating it all up like fucking candy every step of the way. Misha. Is. Fucking. Amazing.

In more ways than one. The crowd finally stops howling a few minutes later, murmurs washing over the masses as Misha turns and looks briefly at Jensen – directly at Jensen in a way that makes his insides burn – before winking again, his entire body language saying don’t worry babe, I got this (where the fuck did the babe come from?), and tracing his eyes over to where the question queue is forming. Not surprisingly, it’s the first fucking question of the night. “Hi Misha, I’m Mags,” a girl’s voice reaches Jensen’s ears. And he’s focusing on the chick’s accent – Scottish, he thinks, very Trainspotting esque – because he thinks that if he does that then he maybe won’t have to hear her words. Hear her say, after Misha’s cordial hi Mags, “so about the kiss.” The room fucking explodes. Again. Only this time it seems worse to Jensen, his chest hollowing out as his stomach drops into his toes and his eyes go blurry around the image of Misha. Just sitting there. Smiling amicably. Like he doesn’t have a single damn care in the entire fucking world. “Um, what kiss would that be?” Misha asks once the cat-calls reach a low ebb as he rests an elbow on his knee, reaching up to scratch his head like he’s honestly confused here. His eyes squinting, his brow furrowing, and his lips pursing out in a way that is so damn adorable Jensen can no longer see straight. “Is this another Michelle Obama question? Because I’ve said before that I won’t talk about that in public.” Mags (that was her name, right?) starts giggling nervously into her microphone at that, and Jensen can almost see the poor thing blushing as Misha’s eyes bore into her. The guy has had that same exact effect on him many times, so he can totally relate. Nervous girl laughter and hard Misha stares filling up the air until she finally spits out, “you know,” the know being dragged out like it’s got about ten syllables all on its own. “The one between you and Dean.” Misha actually slaps himself on the forehead at that, rolling his eyes dramatically as he groans out, “man, stupid! How could I forget that?” and the room – you guessed it – erupts in excited girl laughter and chatter once fucking again. Misha is not gonna make this easy on them, and Jensen wants to fuck him all over the stage because of it. “So,” Mags draws out as Misha just continues to sit there. And Misha is laughing kind of wickedly himself now as he replies, “what do you want to

know about it? How many takes we had to do? How it felt? What Dean tastes like? I’m gonna need some more specifics here.” The room goes dead silent, Jensen almost certain he can hear the sound of crickets chirping, and it takes him longer than is probably healthy to realize that he’s holding his breath here. But Misha’s got them in the palm of his hand already – Jensen can fucking feel it in the air and shit – and that’s just glorious if you ask him. Not like there’s anything about Misha that he doesn’t find absolutely fucking glorious these days, of course. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Misha’s panel goes over really well, like it usually does. No surprise there. He fields the kiss questions like a pro, talks about the switch to HBO like it’s the most fascinating shit in the world, jokes about random crap like the Queen of England and his time spent in the merchant marines playing pinochle with the pope and Jensen finds himself totally freaking relaxed by the end of it. Or, well, the almost end of it anyhow. Because Jared – who he’d almost forgotten was there in the first place – goes out onstage to crash the end of the panel. And it’s not like he’s never done that before – the guy has a penchant for goofing off with Misha in public every chance he gets – but now it’s… different. And any relaxation that Jensen might have been feeling melts away instantly, Wicked Witch of the West style, when Jared bounds onto the stage like an overexcited puppy and wraps his hand over Misha’s shoulder. Jensen loves Jared, he really does. They’ve been like two peas in a very dysfunctional pod for years now and he can’t even imagine his life without the kid. Can’t imagine it and would never want to. And so it never really bothered him before, the way he and Misha dick around (really poor choice of words) in public like this because that’s just Jared. But for some crazy, irrational reason Jensen wants to grab Jared by his long, feathery hair and yank him off the stage right about now. Which would be… awkward. He has no idea what either one of them is saying as he can’t even think an inch past what they’re doing. Jared’s hands seemingly everywhere on Misha’s body (even though he knows that’s not really true), Misha’s eyes looking lustfully back at Jared (even though he really knows that’s not true), and he has a feeling that if he was a cartoon character there’d be steam coming out of his ears right this fucking second. Which is pretty fucking stupid, he figures. Because he and Misha have only screwed around with each other a few times, and a half a dozen orgasms does not a possession make. But fuck is Jensen’s skin just burning at the way Jared’s hands keep grabbing at Misha, and at the way Misha’s lips keep laughing at Jared and so he figures he’s gonna have to do something about this real soon. Once this damn convention is over and he’s back on his own turf, of course.

They tumble off stage together, all smiles and laughs and brightly shining eyes as they make their way back to where Jensen is rooted to the ground. And he must be making a really weird face – something almost scary even – because the color seems to drain right down Jared’s neck as soon as he looks at him. “Dude, are you,” Jared begins to say, but Misha’s hand stops him. Misha’s hand wrapped around Jared’s forearm, which so does not annoy the ever-loving shit out of Jensen. Honest. Misha’s fingers slipping off of Jared’s skin as he tilts his head, his body language informing Jensen that he’d like to talk to him outside. They slip out the back door, spilling out into a thankfully vacant hallway, and Jensen loses his mind immediately in the emptiness. Something almost like rage, and totally like mad, rabid lust bubbling over his skin as he turns on Misha, twisting his fingers in Misha’s shirt – the one that still feels warm from where Jared’s hands just were – before slamming him roughly into the wall behind him. A small, startled puff of air escapes Misha’s mouth before Jensen is all over him. His body rocking rhythmically into Misha’s, forcing him harder into the wall with every thrust, as his knee slips up into the warm hardness of Misha’s crotch. This is insane, doing this. Now. Here. But Jensen can’t seem to process that fact at the moment, the way Misha is just melting helplessly beneath him, bending to every single fucking one of Jensen’s whims making him so dizzy he somehow manages to forget where they are. Nothing existing but Misha’s lips, Misha’s body, Misha’s dick grinding hard down on his knee as their bodies continue to thrust manically into each other. “Stop,” Misha moans out when Jensen finally allows him to have his mouth back. And the weak, needy way he says it only makes Jensen want this that much more. His lips sucking a hot trail down Misha’s neck as the thrusting of Misha’s hips proves to Jensen that the last thing he wants to do right now is stop. And Jensen couldn’t agree more because this might not be fucking, like he really wants to do, but it’s something. And damnit does Jensen need something right now. The world comes slamming back into them, though, a few minutes later. Reality fucking everything up like it usually does. Because Jensen’s life sucks or because he has the shittiest luck in the world or, more likely, because he’s rubbing up against his co-star in the very public hallway at the very public fan convention for the show that they just sort of went publicly gay for each other on (their characters, of course, not them personally). Reality slapping them in the face in the form of one Jared Padalecki, creeping through the door they just plowed out of a few minutes ago, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping open the second he catches a glimpse of Misha and Jensen, wrapped around each other like they somehow got fused together in some freak scientific experiment. “Um,” Jared spits out, his eyes bouncing around like he’s trying to look at anything but the two hot dudes grinding up against each other in the hallway. Not that they’re still grinding, of course, because that would be rude. “They… uh… need Misha for his autographs,” he finishes quickly before disappearing

back into the room without so much as a backward glance. And Jensen would probably slap his forehead at that, not unlike the way Misha had on stage in jest, because he honestly can’t believe he’d forgotten that part, if his hand wasn’t still wrapped tight and hot in Misha’s clothing. Because it’s not like he hasn’t done this about a hundred times by now, right? So he really should know better by now. Misha is evidently killing his brain cells. “I better get in there,” Misha says quietly across Jensen’s cheek, his voice so raw and still full of fucking desire that it makes Jensen’s now-neglected cock twitch almost painfully. “Yup,” Jensen manages to sort of yelp out as Misha slides down the wall a little bit in order to extricate himself from the tangle of Jensen. Jensen doesn’t let him get far, though. Fire surging through his veins once again as he grabs Misha roughly by his arm and spins him around, pinning him to the wall once more as he sucks Misha’s tongue deeply into his own mouth. “One more thing,” he growls when he’s finally done with him – even though he is in no way done with Misha. And Misha just sighs out a little mmmm at that as his groin rubs sort of disconnectedly across Jensen’s thigh. “I’m the only one who gets to touch you.” Misha laughs at that, a hysterical little sound that cuts down Jensen’s spine like a knife. Laughs and says, “yes sir,” in what is quite possibly the sexiest voice known to man – deep like the voice he only uses for Cas – as he salutes Jensen sarcastically, running his other hand across Jensen’s crotch brutally, palming his dick so quickly and so fucking briefly that he feels like crying before disappearing back into the conference room. They really need to get their asses back to Vancouver fucking stat, he can’t help but think. His dick throbbing in his pants as his blood begins to find its way back to his brain, slowly but surely. Because they’re not even halfway done yet and Jensen isn’t sure how much longer he’s gonna be able to contain himself. If you call humping Misha in the hallway containing himself, of course. Which Jensen does.

Banner By: nabichansaotome

Episode Five: The Pros and Cons of Cons (Part Two) They’re sitting at a bar in some random steakhouse in some place that might be Chicago and might just be a suburb, he’s not entirely sure. And it’s not exactly like this is something he and Jensen have never done before – it’s not like they don’t live in the same freaking house, and so share meals and drinks and stuff all the freaking time – but it feels somehow different to Jared tonight. Which, of course, has nothing to do with the fact that he walked in – or out, he guesses – on Misha and Jensen going at it like chimps at the zoo in the middle of a public hotel hallway just a few short hours ago. Nothing whatsoever. Yeah right. The air is strained and thick, though. Tightly pulling at Jared’s skin, making him feel hot and feverish and stretched unbearably thin. His second beer already sweating freely in his hand as he tips the bottle into his mouth, swallowing down the liquid courage as Jensen’s eyes continue to stare almost blankly at the television set above the bar running through ESPN’s plays of the week. He’s trying to look interested, Jensen is. Wide receivers diving for amazing catches in end zones, and hockey forwards making incredible spinning, blind shots in well guarded nets, only Jared knows better. He knows Jensen well enough to be able to tell when he’s just pretending. When his mind is nowhere near the thing he’s watching or reading or fiddling with, as the case may be. And now is most definitely one of those times. They’d told Steve that they’d meet him out for dinner. Steve’s got a lot of friends and family in the Chicago area, and it’s kind of become a tradition over the last couple of years, having a big steak dinner the Saturday night of the convention with all of them. But Jensen isn’t really here – Jared can see that clearly in the slightly dreamy expression that keeps threatening to wash across his face. Gasping in awe at all the appropriate places, timing his reactions to the other on-theirway-to-drunk dudes sitting around them, the ones paying more attention to Sports Center than to their girlfriends or wives or kids, and it’s making Jared kind of itchy. Watching Jensen ignore him while at the same time doing his level best to pretend that he’s doing nothing of the sort. Jared’s only had two beers, but two’s going to have to be enough. “So you and Misha,” he says, trying to sound conversational as he begins to shred the label off his bottle of Rolling Rock. And even though his eyes are trained straight in front of him, Jared doesn’t need to be looking directly at Jensen to feel the way his posture stiffens. His body locking down, pulling in on itself like a wild animal being backed into a corner. Jared really needs to get off all the animal analogies damn quick. “You really gonna make me talk about this now?” Jensen drawls out tiredly as he clinks his ring absently on the Corona gripped tightly in his fist. His voice showing the Texan in him far more when he’s drunk or agitated or worked up in some other fashion, and Jared

really doesn’t want to go too far into contemplation on which one he’s working with right now, mmkay? “No,” Jared replies, hesitating slightly at the way Jensen’s body seems to slacken a little at the missed sarcasm before he swallows hard and continues on with what he wanted to say. “No,” he repeats, his voice louder now, indicating that he means business – which he does, doesn’t he? “Not if you don’t, y’know, want to share this big life development with your best fucking friend.” He doesn’t need the fucking – wow, that sounds bad. Try that one again. He doesn’t need the curse word, Jared realizes that after it’s already out of his mouth. But he apparently can’t help himself. Because Jensen deserves his privacy, sure, but this… damn, this is just something completely outside the realm of okay to be kept secret, isn’t it? Or at least for two people as close as he and Jen. So he’s mad, Jared figures. Pissed that Jensen didn’t… didn’t what? Trust him? Feel close enough to him? Didn’t something enough to freaking tell Jared that he’s, like, fucking around with Misha all of a sudden? That particular thought sending chills straight down Jared’s spine, the words all of a sudden like a taunt as his mind begins to wonder just how long this has all been going on. He’ll deal with that later, he decides, as he turns on his stool, suddenly incredibly conscious of the way Jensen’s body fits in between his legs when he does it, and lets his eyes fall flat on Jensen’s profile. His fingers sort of twitching with the desire to reach out and touch him – just to get his attention, of course – as Jensen continues to stare stubbornly at the television screen like he still cares about what the hell’s going on up there. “Look, Jay,” Jensen says finally, Jared having let the silence settle between them, forcing himself not to do or say anything else until Jensen did. Like playing chicken only neither one of them is behind the wheel of a car right now. Behind the wheel of anything, it sort of feels like to Jared. And when Jensen’s eyes turn to Jared’s face during the pause – the one his mind keeps wanting to call pregnant but that he totally doesn’t want to because that word, now, just seems sort of creepy. But when his eyes turn to Jared’s now there’s something there. Something Jared’s pretty sure he’s never seen before. And something that’s in sharp contrast to the next words out of Jensen’s mouth. “It’s nothing.” Jared knows instantly that Jensen is lying. Because Jensen might be a freaking Houdini at controlling his emotions on screen, in front of a camera, but he’s total shit at it in real life. His face like a poorly constructed mask at times like this, one so old and worn out that it’s completely see through. And so Jared can always tell, without fail, when Jensen is lying to him. Something that doesn’t happen very often, but something that is happening right now, as they speak.

Or as they don’t speak, he guesses. The short, clipped way that Jensen tells Jared that it’s nothing leaving very little wiggle room for continued conversation here. Not that Jared’s willing to give up that easily, of course. He’s nothing if not persistent. Or nothing if not annoying as hell, depending on who’s looking at it. Not that anyone ever calls Jared annoying. “Really?” he asks, tenting his fingers on the bar like some stuck up psychiatrist as he leans a little closer to Jensen, the beer coating his empty stomach in a way that makes him feel lightheaded as he moves. The beer making him feel that way, not the… y’know… closeness to Jensen or anything like that. Jared’s eyes kind of fixated on the sweat beading up around Jensen’s hairline, wondering if it’s there because of the heat, the alcohol, or that elusive freaking something else he keeps cycling back to. “Because it sure didn’t look like nothing to me, Jen,” he continues, sounding a little more accusatory than he really wants to right now. “The way you looked at us when we got off stage…” Jared’s mind replays the feel of his hands on Misha briefly at that, joking around with him like he always does, and the way Jensen had freaking glared at him like he was trying to kill him with his laser eyes or something when they’d stumbled backstage again. “The way you looked when… when…” Jared stammers, remembering poking his head out into the hall, harmlessly, innocently, before seeing… God, before seeing… “Jay,” Jensen interrupts, his voice a little harsher than before, his eyes set like two pieces of green granite or some crap like that. Hard. Immovable. Determined. And Jared is actually kind of proud of himself that he’s moved on from animal analogies to good oldfashioned rock ones now. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Rock crushes scissors, but paper covers rock. To those about to rock, we salute you. That sort of detritus filling up Jared’s mind as he tries and fails not to stare so deeply into Jensen’s eyes that he’s half afraid he might go blind, and totally afraid he might do something else, unable to remember the last time two beers got him so spun around so damn fast. “If I say it’s nothing, then it’s nothing, okay?” he asks. And Jared wants to say no. Wants to tell Jensen that it’s pretty freaking far from okay, taking this conversation to the next level, doing whatever it takes to get the truth out of Jensen. The truth about what’s going on with Misha, and the truth about why Jensen feels the need to freaking lie to him about it. But it’s at that moment that Steve enters the equation, slapping one hand on each of their shoulders in a way that makes both him and

Jensen jump like they’re being hit with separate bolts of lightning from the same angry cloud. “Jeez, you guys sur’are jumpy t’night,” Steve sort of slurs, his voice thick and syrupy with the alcohol he’s evidently already been downing heavily tonight. “I’ve been screamin’ your names all ‘cross th’bar.” Jensen’s eyes drag up to Steve’s at that, the strange expression that Jared couldn’t place dissolving instantly in the grin that just barely touches his eyes. Not like Steve would notice either way, of course, not in his present state. But Jared notices it – notices the damn see through mask again – and it makes him feel like punching something. Or someone. It’s hard to say right now. “Good to see you, buddy,” Jensen says with his well practiced cordiality, wrapping Steve in a huge bear hug. And Jared can clearly hear the relief in his voice. The one that says better than words thank God you showed up when you did. Which doesn’t make Jared want to punch things even more, he swears. Man, does he ever need a freaking drink. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

It’s nothing. The words are still burning through Jensen like acid when he strolls out of the restaurant. Or, okay, maybe stumbles would be a more accurate term for what he’s doing right now, buttressed between Steve and Jared like an old ratty book pressed between two oddly shaped bookends. Did he just use the word buttressed? God, that’s such a… like… Misha word to use. Misha. Jensen wants to breathe the word out into the night air, pressed between his lips until it forms a cloud in the cold air around him. Scream it from rooftops, or bed tops, or any other tops he can find. Holy shit, he is so fucking drunk right now. He wanted Misha to come along to dinner. Wanted Misha not to leave his side at all. Ever again. Something dramatic like that. Because it’s easier to breathe somehow when Misha’s around. Like he’s had asthma his whole life only he didn’t know because his Misha inhaler hadn’t come along until just now. Um… Jensen had wanted Misha there, though. That was his point. He thinks. Had wanted to have him sitting next to Jensen at the bar where he could rest his hand on Misha’s thigh. Or have him leaning across a table at him like the first night, candlelight from the dark

restaurant making shadows dance across Misha’s face. Plus Misha, y’know, lived here before, so he probably knows better restaurants than the one they went to, Steve’s family’s taste having nothing on Misha freaking Collins’. Good taste, good company, and possibly even a good, quick hand job in the bathroom if Jensen had played his cards right. He really needs to get laid. His mind is spinning right now with it all, though. A throbbing ache low in his gut, spidery thin tendrils snaking out in his too long neglected cock as he thinks of Misha. Misha’s hands. Misha’s lips. Misha’s body all his only he’s not. Not here. Not now. Not his. Not anything. He’d told Jared that nothing was going on with Misha. Misha hadn’t been able to come with them, having to stay behind to do his autographs and shit, and he and Jay had beat Steve’s lot to the restaurant by a good half hour, Jensen nursing his beer slowly because he hadn’t wanted to get drunk tonight (at first). Had wanted to stay sharp, awake, alert, at attention enough to take full advantage of the few stolen hours he’d hopefully have with Misha later on. That was until Jared had opened his big mouth and had started asking him questions. About Misha. Ones Jensen couldn’t even answer for himself, and so ones he really couldn’t answer for Jay. Not even having findings of his own on the matter and hence having nothing to share with the class aside from it’s nothing even though he at least knows better than that. Knows better than nothing. And so knows that while a large portion of the desire he’s feeling right now amounts to him just wanting to rake his ragged nails over every inch of Misha he can find, there’s something else there as well. Something that feels remarkably like fuzz on his eyeballs right now as he stumbles his way towards the SUV Steve packed full of family and friends tonight. “Where to next?” Steve asks with a smile so wide on his face it looks sorta painful to Jensen. Like the kind the Joker had carved into his face, only maybe the Jack Nicholson Joker not the Heath Ledger one ‘cause it doesn’t look that painful. Jensen holds up his hands in response to that, waving them a little too much, even though he feels like he’s barely waving them at all, and tumbling a little drunkenly back into Jared for his efforts. Jared who’s leaning against Steve’s car with a look on his face that’s half waiting to puke and half when did the world start spinning so fast and so all fucking drunker than Jensen and in no need for a wayward body to come spilling into him. “I gotta get… get back,” Jensen manages to say, his mind focusing on the way his eyelids seem to want to stick together like glue every time he blinks. And when Steve groans audibly at that, saying something about grandmas on bicycles Jensen continues with, “I promised Jayce I’d sing with him tonight. And if I bail on him again, he’s gonna fill my

ass so fulla bee-bees I’ll be walkin’ crooked for a month.” Jared snorts behind him at that, mumbling out an echo of walking crooked as he twists his fingers around Jensen’s biceps and raises him back to a mostly-straight standing position. But Jensen ignores it because he doesn’t really care about that. Doesn’t really care about anything right now except getting his ass back to the hotel because… yeah… sure… he promised Jason he’d put in an appearance at the show, but more than that Misha is there. Misha is still at the hotel. And even if he knows there’s no chance anything is gonna happen – at least not until the autographs and the concert and the damn dessert party are over – he still kinda just wants to be there. In the same building. Sucking up the same stale air. And he might not know exactly why that is yet, but he knows one thing for certain. It sure as shit ain’t nothing. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jensen is well on his way to sobering up by the time the taxi reaches the hotel. Or if not well on his way then at least on the same damn freeway to Not Drunksville. Being smart like he is, he’d had the cabbie drive through the local McDonalds after he left the restaurant, Steve’s grandma taunts and Jared’s weird stares chasing him into the smelly, overly heated little yellow car. And being doubly smart he’d ordered two large coffees which means now he’s at least passably sober. And also that he really has to pee. He feels kinda like he’s late, though. He always feels like he’s late, but now it feels worse like when you know you have an appointment but even though you forgot to put your watch on that morning you can still just tell you’re fucking it all up and Jensen really doesn’t want to fuck things up right now. Because Jason is a good friend – one of the best – and all bee-bees in the ass joking aside, he doesn’t wanna let him down this time. Jensen sneaks in the back of the back of the back, planning ahead tonight and asking the hotel personnel what the best way to get in unnoticed would be because he’s that fucking smart today, imagining freaking gold stars stuck to his forehead as he loops around to the convention hall and hears the familiar timbre of Jason's voice carrying through the otherwise still, calm air. Misha’s autograph session is obviously over which means Misha is… somewhere. And Jensen knows it’s stupid and superstitious and maybe even a little childish but he can’t shake this feeling every time he comes to a blind corner that when he walks around it, Misha’s gonna be standing there, waiting for him. His hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning up against a wall maybe, ready, willing and able, wearing a smile on his face that’s only for Jensen. He’s not there, of course. Not any of the theres. And Jensen tries really hard not to be disappointed by that as he walks slowly down his new favorite hallway in the whole

entire world, his eyes transfixed by the spot just next to the door where he’d had Misha pressed just a coupla hours ago, their bodies rutting up against each other, their breath hitching in their chests, getting swallowed in deep, hard, needy kisses. And Jensen is already half hard just thinking about it. Just remembering. Which means it’s pretty much the suckiest thing in the history of sucky things that he can’t just text Misha right now, find out where he is, and commence with the fucking already. He can hear Jason’s voice, though, carrying out between songs, trying to hide the disappointment in his own tone in true, sweetheart Jason Manns style as he says, “well it looks like Jensen isn’t gonna make it tonight after all,” and Jensen knows he’s screwed. Not in the way he wants, of course. The way that involves Misha naked and open and willing beneath him. But in the way that the fucking cosmos or whatever is telling him this is his cue. His mark. His fucking introduction and so he swallows down his epic fucking desire, taking one last glance at what he’s already taken to thinking of as his and Misha’s wall before he pushes through the door and steps out onto the stage. Not to sound too freaking cliché or anything, but the crowd goes wild. Jensen’s head throbbing even more from the way the shrill cries of those in attendance bombard his freaking ears, clashing with the booze and the coffee and the long ass day to make one huge fucking conga line of doom in his head as he crosses over to Jason and wraps his arms around him tightly like they’re the old fucking friends they are. He’d be hard pressed to find anyone nicer than Jason in this entire freaking world, and so despite his almost crippling desire to track Misha through the hotel – through the whole freaking Chicagoland area if need be like he’s some prize-winning predator whose head Jensen wants to hang on his wall – his chest still manages to constrict in overall pride and good humor when Jason mumbles a quick yet still more than heartfelt thanks into his ear. Jensen pulls back and smiles warmly at Jason, his hands still resting on Jason’s shoulders like he’s using him as support to remain on his feet which, now that he thinks about it, maybe he is. But he’s holding onto Jason nonetheless, smiling back out at his smiling back friend as some nice, amicable con worker hustles another mic stand out onto the stage. Is that the word he wanted to use? Amicable? Or is he thinking of amiable? Misha would know. He is their grammar technician, after all. Fuck… Misha. Mmmm… fuck Misha. Damnit, he really needs to kick those thoughts right fucking now. Kick those thoughts and think about the task at hand. Yeah, that’s it, the task at hand. The one that involves singing in front of a bunch of fans. Oh. Holy. Shit.

Jensen is suddenly nervous. Like, really fucking nervous, just like he always is at shit like this. He doesn’t do well in front of the adoring masses, never has. He can’t work a room like Jared or Misha, can’t be cool and calm and breezy and funny and shit. He just doesn’t have it in him. And singing… well, let’s just put it this way. If you thought Jensen was awkward talking in front of a crowd of fangirls, that’s got nothing on the way he feels while singing. That’s probably why he doesn’t do it very often. Why he tells Jason that he’ll try to come for the end of the set every stinking time, but why he never really tries to do anything other than get drunk and be a shitty friend. But this time is different, evidently. And he’s already here. Already standing behind his very own mic stand brought up by his either amicable or amiable new friend as Jason strums out a few practice chords and so he can’t bail now without looking like the biggest tool on the face of the planet. Jensen knows how this goes. It’s “Crazy Love.” It’s always “Crazy Love.” Jason will sing the first verse, with Jensen harmonizing in the back. Then Jensen will sing the second verse, with Jason pulling up the rear. And then they’ll harmonize their asses off all the way through the end like a couple of awesomely harmonized robots or something. Robots? Really? Still drunker than he thought apparently. He knows the drill, though. Knows it enough that he should be able to autopilot it right now, shut his eyes if need be, feel the song out, and just do it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, though. Or the caffeine. Or the fact that he still really has to fucking piss like a racehorse here but Jensen’s insides are turning into cramped little balls of intestinal knots so fast he wouldn’t be surprised if his entire insides looked like one giant fucking pretzel right now. Jason starts singing way too soon for Jensen’s liking. The first two lines of the song buzzing by him before he even notices that there’s any sound in the room whatsoever outside of the high-pitched wheezing noise in between Jensen’s ears. I can feel her heartbeat from a thousand miles. And the heavens open every time she smiles. This is it. Jensen’s cue again. The moment when he has to open his mouth and hope not to sound like a complete idiot. And he’s pretty sure he’s gonna bail. Gonna run off the stage like a scared little girl and puke in a trash can like the drunk he apparently is when he sees him. Like a waterfall mirage to a man dying of thirst in the desert he sees him. Sees Misha. Standing in the side doorway about halfway back through the crowd, leaning against the jamb with his hands in his pockets just like Jensen had imagined him and even though he can’t see it from here – can barely even make out that it’s Misha’s face he’s looking at, let alone what expression is on that face – Jensen knows. He just fucking knows that Misha is smiling at him. He feels empowered. Like when Popeye eats his spinach and his muscles get all big and his pipe starts whistling Jensen feels suddenly like he could take over the fucking world or some shit like that. And to someone with the superhuman powers needed to take over the world, singing one little Van Morrison cover song is child’s play.

Jensen can actually feel the pull of the grin on his face when he gets to his verse. Can feel the way each and every muscle flexes with the expression, the way his skin pulls tight over his bones, stretching out as far as it can reach as his eyes remain locked on where Misha’s still standing, hidden in the shadows of the doorway, going unnoticed because everyone else’s eyes are locked up on Jensen and Jason right now. Which is just fine by him, he guesses, because he likes being the only one looking at Misha. The only one knowing he’s there. It feels like a secret, like something only the two of them are sharing as Jason’s acoustic guitar fills up all the cracks in Jensen’s freaking soul, it feels like. Jason’s guitar and Misha’s face filling him up like grout or, y’know, something less ugly sounding. The world sucking in around him, contracting down into the small amount of space around them. The stage, the room, the distance between him and Misha and nothing else. Did he mention he was still kinda fucking drunk here? And apparently Jensen turns into a damn dirty hippie when he’s this freaking inebriated. Who knew? When the song ends, Jensen tips his hat down to the cheering crowd, turning to Jason and wrapping him in another hug before trailing his eyes back to the now empty doorway. And he is a little ashamed at the way his chest constricts at the sight, at the vacant quality of the space Misha’s body all too recently was taking up, and it makes him wonder if maybe he’d dreamt the whole thing. Had imagined seeing Misha standing there, supporting him, his subconscious conjuring up the image in order to get Jensen through the song. That’s a bit of a stretch, though, even to drunk Jensen. He waves at the crowd one more time before slipping out the way he came in. And he’s looking right when he walks out, looking down the long, dark expanse of the hallway to his right. Which is why he’s more than a little shocked when he feels hands grab him kind of fucking roughly from the left. “Damnit, Jensen, so fucking hot up there,” Misha manages to huff out before crushing his lips so hard and fast to Jensen’s he doesn’t even have time to gasp in surprise. Misha’s hands raking up through his hair, pushing the hat off his head before walking him back to the wall – their wall – and kicking Jensen’s feet apart roughly with the sides of his boots so he can settle firmly up against him. Jensen is vaguely aware of the fact that they’re in public. That someone could come along at any minute. Discover them. Maybe even photograph them. But he’s either too drunk or too delirious or just too damn horny to care because he actually whimpers when Misha stops kissing him. A high-pitched, pathetic fucking baby whining sound as Misha pulls away from him. He figures Misha is just being smart, stopping this before it goes too far in this, the aforementioned public place. But the mischievous grin that spreads across his face, lighting up his eyes like Christmas tree lights, tells a different story. One that doesn’t so much say we shouldn’t be doing this here as much as it says we shouldn’t fucking dilly-dally.

Misha’s mind must be fucking melded to his, because Jensen couldn’t agree more. A low, dull, throaty groan escaping him as Misha pops open the button on his jeans, dragging his zipper down so fast that the sound of metal tearing against metal almost makes Jensen come right then. Wanting this so bad all day – all fucking day and then some – that he would do just about anything to keep himself from leaving the game early. He slams his head back into the wall with a sharp thud when Misha’s lips wrap around his cock, his mouth velvety soft and so damn sinful Jensen could scream. Would scream, in fact, if not for the harsh bite on the inside of his cheeks. His hips thrusting forward of their own volition as he hears the small, choked sound of his dick striking the back of Misha’s throat. “M’sorry,” Jensen manages to hiss out, reprimanding himself internally for being so… well… pushy. But Misha just laughs at that, hollowing out his cheeks and vibrating laughter along Jensen’s cock in a way that makes him want to thrust his hips again so bad it actually hurts not too. His orgasm is spooling already in his stomach, though. Moving on him so fast that it makes him see stars. And moons. And fucking planets all the way out to Pluto which may or may not be an actual planet, he never can remember, but who fucking cares right now anyways because Jensen is coming so fast and so hard in Misha’s mouth that he actually has to bite down on the heel of his hand to keep himself from screaming so loud the entire hotel would wake up from it. God, Misha is fucking epic. There’s no possible way of denying that. Sucking Jensen strongly, surely through the shockwaves of his orgasm as Jensen’s body threatens to turn to poorly constructed Jell-O right where he stands. His back slipping down the wall as Misha sucks out every last drop of him like he’s starving for it and damnit that should not be as epically fucking hot as it is. Misha like the perfect little slut, not wasting any bit of Jensen before he finally releases him from his mouth with a wet pop and Jensen concludes his slow but sure slip to the ground. He’s still drunk. He can feel it pounding behind his eyes, making him feel dizzy and disconnected. And the post-orgasm euphoria is not helping either as he tries and fails to get his hands inside Misha’s pants, wanting to help the guy out as much as he does. Tit for tat, you scratch my back, I suck your dick, that sort of thing. But Misha just bats his hand lightly away anyways, resting a soft, wet kiss to the corner of Jensen’s lips before he gets to his feet like he has considerably more bones in his body than Jensen does right now. “As much as I’d love to continue this,” Misha says from above him, his hand carding back through Jensen’s short hair so softly, so affectionately that it makes Jensen shiver. “I’ve got a room full of girls and pies to attend to.” And with that he’s gone. Just, like, gone. Slipping back into the main room as Jensen tries to regain control of himself on the floor, his dick still hanging out of his pants where Misha had left it, his heart still jack-hammering in his chest, and his mind still wrapped around one thing like all he wants to do is beat dead horses around here. Wow, that sounded kinda dirty.

His mind is really only fixated on one thing right now, though, as he wonders if Misha plans to go to the dessert party at least half-hard and smelling like Jensen’s come. Images of Misha palming down his erection underneath the table fucking skipping through Jensen’s mind, making his cock twitch weakly as he returns again to the idea that he really wants to fuck the guy. Wants to feel Misha writhe beneath him in ecstasy. Wants to own everything Misha has, everything Misha is. Wants to mark his body and claim his fucking soul, if that’s at all possible. Wants all of that bad. And so he’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t get to feel himself trapped hot and tight inside of Misha pretty damn soon, he’s probably just gonna explode all over the Chicagoland area. Oh, and he's also sure that he's still gotta take a leak. But that really has nothing to do with Misha and this strange, foreign possessive streak that Jensen's apparently developed as of late. It's just something else to think about, once he regains the feeling in his legs.

Episode Six: The Pros and Cons of Cons (Part Three) About five minutes (give or take) after Misha leaves him blissed out and raw in their hallway, Jensen finally makes his way to a bathroom in case anyone is, y’know, worried about his pee situation. It’s a long pee, too. One that reminds his still-pretty-fuckingdrunk brain of Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. And yes, he watched that movie, and yes, he used to have a thing for Geena Davis and that chick from Tank Girl, so what of it? He relieves himself, though, is the point. So there are no worries there in case anyone was concerned about the poor fella. Where does he go after that, you ask? Well, you’ll just have to tune in and find out, now won’t you. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Mags hates her table at the dessert party. Despite the fact that Dean and Cas (she’s allowed to call him Cas, by the way, but the rest of the girls at the table so totally aren’t because they’re not real fans like her). But despite the fact that Dean and Cas kissed on camera – not off camera like she’s sure they’ve been doing since somewhere around the time Cas visited Dean’s hospital bed in On the Head of a Pin at the very least but on camera – these chicks still won’t believe that they’re screwing each other. They kissed. On screen. For the whole world to see, tin hat wearers and non tin hat wearers alike. And they still insist on believing that it was a fluke. A mistake. Because Dean likes girls and because Cas is an angel and because of a whole boatload of other bunky sorts of things that Mags is getting really sick of listening to. It’s a table full of gen writers, is the problem. Not even a Wincest fan in the bunch to tip the scales, much less a connoisseur of all things Dean/Cas such as herself. And it makes her want to smash the gross, key lime pie they’ve been served into everyone’s faces. But she doesn’t have enough pie to get even half of them, and she’s a little worried about what Misha’s reaction would be when coming upon a table full of people with gooey green pie smashed into their faces anyhow, so she stows those radical, revolutionary ideas as best she can. Vive la revolución de key lime pie no more, apparently. Mags just shuts her mouth instead, listening to the idiots at her table prattle on about their totally Mary Sue OC’s saving Dean’s life and running off to marry and make babies with him in summer homes on lakes or out in the country (as if Dean would settle down in a house in the country with anyone but Cas – sheesh!), trying her best not to gag here. Shutting her mouth and biding her time until Misha comes over and clears this whole mess up for her as he undoubtedly will. Because Misha’s cool like that. Someone who can usually be counted on to tell the truth, except for when he doesn't. Comfortable with any question you throw at him – something Mags learned firsthand today, feeling her face flush with glee and a small tad of embarrassment when he fielded her question about the kiss. So she knows he’ll help a girl out here because that’s what Misha is for. To help a fangirl out.

He gets to their table finally, after smiling and joking and laughing his way around to just about everyone else it seems. And he couldn’t have come at a better time, Mags thinks (with a small internal giggle at her use of the word come – she really reads way too much porn) because the girls are talking about – gasp/gag/vomit – Sam/Ruby het fic. Giggling about it like twelve-year-old girls because they’re apparently progressive enough gen writers to get all fluttery about het even though they don’t have the guts to write it. Mags hates hypocrites. Ruby’s been dead for how long, though? And these girls are still on about it? Give me a flipping break. At least it’s not Dean/Anna, she supposes. Or, even worse, Cas/Anna. But it’s bad enough and Misha’s smiling face sauntering over to their table is like a literal godsend to her. A breath of fresh air, a ray of sunshine in the middle of a storm. A wall!slam at the end of a very long, eye!sex filled season of UST. “Hello ladies,” Misha says as he spins the available chair around and wraps himself across the back of it, his arms crossing the top if it, his chin resting above them. And Mags can’t help but notice that he’s smiling really wide. Like, wider than usual even. She’s seen enough pictures and con vids and interviews to know. And it makes her tin hat spark to catch that. Something’s different about him, and Mags is determined to find out what. She’s gonna have to wait ‘til she gets back to her room, though. ‘Til she can open up her laptop and check the gossip on LJ. Because she has more important business to attend to here, namely shutting these stupid gen girls up once and for all. “So,” Misha starts to say. And even though Mags knows it’s incredibly rude to interrupt someone when they’re speaking – and she would never want to be rude to King Misha – she does it anyway because she’s afraid if she doesn’t the gen-closet-het girls at the table are gonna swarm him with questions about his “relationship” with Anna and what it’s like to be such a young angel (angels are all the same age, you idiots!) and she’ll never get a word in edgewise. “Are you and Dean having sex?” Mags blurts out quickly, her voice squeaking a little bit with shyness. And Misha’s eyes drag over to her so deliberately that it makes her whole body tremble. He is way too hot for anyone’s good. “Only oral,” he says, his tone dead serious, his face completely scrubbed of any emotions. “Angels don’t have anuses.” Mags can hear the audible gasps of the other eleven girls sitting at the table as she begins to bust out laughing, marveling at the fact that every time she thinks she loves Misha just as much as she possibly can he goes and does something that makes her love him that much more. This man is totally unreal. And V and Becks’ theory about Misha being a robot sent from the future to see if the human race is ready for his sexy robot kind seems more and more

plausible with every passing day. “I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Misha says with mock seriousness, staring directly at Mags like everyone else at the table doesn’t even exist. “It’s a horrible condition to have. That’s why he can’t eat. ‘Cause he’s got an in-hole and all, but there’s no out-hole. Very Ken doll. Sad. Totally sad. Not something you should be laughing at.” Mags. Is. Dying. Tears streaming down her face already as she manages to cough out, “would you like me to set up a fund for research?” She doesn’t know where it came from. She’s usually never good with the snappy comebacks. But she is right now, in front of Misha fucking Collins, and she’d get down on her knees and thank Castiel for that if she wasn’t sort of transfixed by the glint in Misha’s eyes at the moment. He cracks a small smile, one side of his lips quirking up briefly like he thinks what she said is funny but he doesn’t want to show it – doesn’t want to let the façade down just yet. His face going utterly blank again before he says, “you know, I think that’s a wonderful idea. I mean, just think of all those angels running around, trying to save the world, and they don’t even have butt holes. Totally fucking unfair if you ask me. Criminal, even. I like this fund idea. A lot. In fact, here…” Misha pauses there, reaching behind his back and pulling out his wallet, opening up the worn leather in order to pull out a five-dollar bill that he then passes to Mags. Raising himself out of his chair and leaning across the table in what is possibly the sexiest thing Mags has ever seen anyone do in the history of forever. She has this mad thought to grab Misha around the wrist and drag him across the table towards her as she takes the money out of his hand, making sure they make physical contact as she does (finger!porn ftw!). But that would be rude. Plus there’s security everywhere. So she just cordially accepts the bill from him instead, folding it neatly and tucking it halfway underneath her plate of unfinished gross key lime pie, and smiles warmly back at him. “You think you could get Jensen to donate?” Mags asks once Misha is settled back into his seat and, yet again, she has no idea where the question came from. It just sort of spurted out of her (heh, spurted, that sounds pretty dirty, too). Misha fumbles in his chair at the question, though. Passing the jerky motion off as someone who just lost their balance. But Mags isn’t looking at his body when he does it (for some strange reason) but at his eyes. Eyes that flash… something… at the mention of Jensen. Which is… fascinating. “I’ll be sure to ask seeing as how it’s such a… you know… good cause and all,” Misha almost stutters out. His voice calm and controlled enough to fool someone who hasn’t seen every single one of his interviews multiple times over but not nearly calm enough to fool Mags, super minion. And her slashy tin hat mind almost explodes at the teeny tiny

slip. As soon as Misha leaves her table, Mags has the almost uncontrollable urge to race up to her room and get online, see if anyone’s on MSN right now, because she needs to talk to somebody. The gen-closet-het writers at her table would be utterly useless at this moment of discovery because if they refuse to see Show!slash, then there’s no way in Hades that they’re gonna humor her on RPS. And Mags is now almost certain that there’s something going on between Misha and Jensen, if she wasn’t before. Which… yeah… she so totally was before. I mean, just look at them. They’re both good actors, sure, but eye!sex of such epic proportions can’t possibly be entirely fake. And so it really doesn’t take a whole heck of a lot to get her mind traipsing down that particular path, apparently. One indefinable look and a small amount of stuttering and she’s at the races. Determined now, more than ever, to find out what’s going on between these two sexy, sexy men. She can’t wait to post this on her LJ and see what her flist thinks. They’re gonna squee their freaking heads off. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Misha can’t help but notice how weird that was, playing back over the way he’d faltered at the mention of Jensen’s name at the dessert party over and over in his head on the cab ride back to his hotel. And he tries to tell himself it was just because he was tired, or more likely just because he’d finished giving Jensen a blowjob only about a half hour previously, but he’s usually better at keeping stuff like that down. Better at keeping personal stuff hidden from the prying hordes. Because let’s face it, fangirls are like hawks. Like vultures, really. And so they’re not exactly the ones you want to share your deep, dark secrets with. They usually ask about Dean, though. That was another problem. Despite the general, sometimes eerie lunacy of them as a whole, more often than not they have, at the very least, a tentative grasp on the difference between fiction and reality. So the questions he gets are usually about Dean and Castiel and their homoerotic tension, not Jensen and Misha and their… well… homoerotic tension, he guesses. And so it had taken him off guard is all. Obviously. And judging by the look on the little Scottish fangirl’s face, she’d caught it. Fuck, this is going to be all over Twitter tomorrow, isn’t it? He wasn’t expecting a Jensen question is the point he’s driving at. And he also wasn’t expecting his insides to turn to fucking lava at the mere mention of the guy’s name. That was new. But he’s just going to blame that on the blowjob as well because he’s too damn tired to think much beyond that. To mull over what this all is. He’s utterly beat, ready to collapse on his bleach white sheets, starched almost to the

point of being scratchy. Ready to curl up under his crappy hotel “comforter” – he’s airquoting it because they usually don’t offer any comfort at all – and just pass out. But as he walks slowly, drowsily down the hall from the elevator to his room, he sees something that likely indicates that he won’t be getting to sleep as soon as he’d originally anticipated. Jensen is there, just outside his door, curled up into a really uncomfortable looking position. His knees pulled up to his chest, his head kind of buried in them, his body squashed up against the wall with his jacket bundled up behind him for cushioning. He’s fast asleep, Misha can tell that from twenty feet out, and his stomach cramps up instantly at the sight of him. And folks, in case you were wondering, Jensen looks adorable like this. Sexy and sweet and hot and cute and just about every other positive adjective you could think of and it makes Misha’s esophagus close up on him like a deflated straw. Misha comes up on him slowly, being really careful not to wake him because he almost feels like he just wants to watch him like this for a while. Bask in it all. He’s never seen Jensen so peaceful before, so vulnerable, and it’s kind of a miraculous discovery to Misha. Something to be appreciated like a fine work of art in a museum. Because Jensen Ackles is all about control. Even when he’s losing control in a filthy alley or a cramped SUV or a hotel hallway, his entire personality is based around the idea of control nonetheless. Being the strong one. The confident one. The calm one. The one in charge (that last one making Misha’s cramped up stomach do flip flops right now). Which is why it’s kind of awesome to see him like this. And which is also why it was a little bit epic to have Jensen slam him possessively into the wall earlier, to tell the truth. Jealousy sparking off of him like electricity as he’d told Misha that he was the only one that got to touch him. That, right there, had gone straight to the core of Misha, if you catch his drift. Seeing Jensen just lose it like that being just about the sexiest thing he’s ever had the pleasure of coming across in his entire life. Well, that and watching Jensen sing essentially to him, the spotlight hitting his face in such a way that it had made him look almost ethereal, to put a lame angelic word on it. If angels were, you know, smoking fucking hot. Which in the Supernatural universe he guesses is kind of true if you believe the web boards. And Misha believes the web boards more often than he’s comfortable admitting. He’s standing over Jensen now, though, fast asleep at his feet, and it’s hard for Misha to pin down exactly what he’s feeling. Exactly what he wants to do here. Because despite the fact that he still kind of wants to just watch him, a part of Misha – a very large part, in fact – wants to reach out and touch him. Wants to run his hands roughly over Jensen’s entire body, his fingers pressing into muscles, riding over ribs and hipbones, nipples, arms, legs and cock. Wake him up and fuck him – or be fucked by him, he’s not entirely particular on that point – right here in the hallway despite the epic fucking exhaustion he’s working with right now. That particular part of Misha’s mind – the fucking part – is making him feel more than a

little feverish at the moment as he crouches down on the ground just to the left of Jensen’s knees, his hands and arms aching from the way they long to reach out to him. And he takes a minute to wonder where all these feelings have come from all of a sudden – all of these desires – though if he wants to be completely honest with himself none of this is exactly sudden to him. To put it lamely, Misha’s had a bit of a crush on Jensen since day one. Kind of hard not to, just look at the guy. And he guesses that’s a large part of the reason why he’d been so hunkey dorey with the whole angel-porn stuff in the first place – because it was a way for him to get his hands on Jensen without having to admit what he was feeling. What he wanted. Desperately. But then things had… changed. And the rest, as they say, is history. Before he knows what he’s doing, Misha is tracing his fingers lightly across Jensen’s cheekbone, one side of Jensen’s face tipped up towards him, towards the light, while the other continues to scrunch against denim that Misha, by God, knows the feel of, becoming well acquainted with the grain of Jensen’s jeans these days. And Misha realizes that he’s holding his breath as Jensen begins to stir a little bit, his face burrowing further into his knees as his body wraps tighter around itself in a stretch that reminds him of some sleepy, oblivious wild animal. God, Jensen is so fucking gorgeous like this. His eyes open eventually, dazed and unfocused from sleep as he rubs his cheek along his knees once roughly, his skin pulling taut, stretching in a way that makes Misha’s crotch burn before turning towards Misha and smiling lightly at him as he says, “hey you,” in this quiet, sexy voice that turns Misha to jelly. “Hey,” Misha says in response, the only word he can think of as he turns his face gently into the palm of Jensen’s newly raised hand, his lips ghosting softly over Jensen’s wrist as Jensen’s fingers tickle lightly at his earlobe and Misha’s own heart begins to pound so furiously in his chest he’s beginning to wonder if there’s any Bayer in the hotel room in case he has a premature heart attack. Misha is always planning ahead. “Missed you,” Jensen continues in the same fucking hot as sin voice, lowering one of his knees just beneath his outstretched arm and opening his legs up before pushing his hand up into Misha’s hair and dragging him sort of clumsily into his body. “Missed you so much,” he repeats, a low moan this time, his breath like hot, sweet fire across Misha’s lips as Jensen licks a burning line across them. Pressing his tongue softy, lazily into Misha’s mouth in a way that tells him Jensen isn’t exactly awake just yet. Not that Misha’s complaining, mind you. Because he’s just now starting to learn the undoubtedly dozens of kisses of Jensen’s. The strong, passionate kisses. The wild, possessive kisses. The desperate, needy kisses. And now the soft, sleepy ones. Each time he learns a new one it’s like he’s discovering some as yet unknown species or something, and Misha feels sort of like he could be comfortable doing this sort of study for the rest of his life.

Holy shit, where the fuck did that thought come from? Misha doesn’t have long to worry about thoughts of the rest of his life, though, because Jensen seems to be waking up a little bit here, the kiss deepening between them as Jensen pulls Misha harder into his body, his knees cramping and his body aching from the way they’re wrapped around each other down here as Jensen’s hips buck up into Misha just shy of enough. It scares Misha sometimes how much he wants this. How much he wants him. Because this is just for fun, right? Something new and exciting to pass the time. Research for their acting and nothing more. Only sometimes… “Can I fuck you?” Jensen asks suddenly, harsh and biting across Misha’s lips, and it takes him by utter fucking surprise. His entire body freezing with the question from leftfield like someone poured ice water into his veins. And for once in his life, he has no fucking clue what to say. Jensen has officially made Misha Collins speechless. Put that in a headline. “Uh,” he breathes out in a small laugh, his chin resting up against Jensen’s temple now as Jensen sucks a patch of skin just above Misha’s pulse. “Maybe… uh…” Misha doesn’t get any farther than that, though. Not before Jensen links a hand behind his lower back and drags their hips together, hissing the word, “please,” into the hollow of Misha’s collarbone as he rolls their dicks, still trapped behind far too much fabric, across each other. Holy shit, does Misha want Jensen to fuck him right fucking now. But Jensen is tired, Misha can tell that. And Jensen is drunk, Misha can really tell that. But Jensen is also thrusting up into him, saying, “please Misha… please… let me fuck you… please,” into Misha’s sweaty skin and so Misha’s having some troubles reconciling all of this right now. The one thing he knows for sure, though, is that they need to get out of this hallway. Right now. Because he might have been okay with blowing Jensen in a similar place earlier, but he’s really not comfortable with doing this in a hallway full of occupied rooms that could become unoccupied at any second, especially if he and Jensen keep up with the escalating moaning they’ve got going on right now. “Let’s get… you into bed… first, huh?” Misha asks in his most pragmatic tone possible. One that’s so raw and frantic and needy that it would put porn stars to shame, he can’t help but think. “And then… see how… it goes.” And Jensen actually fucking whimpers again (that’s been Misha’s undoing before) as he bites down on the collar of Misha’s t-shirt, tugging it back before allowing it to snap out of his mouth just in time to suck Misha into a kiss so deep it makes him lose all track of any coherent thoughts in his head. He loves the way Jensen’s tongue feels gliding against his, twisting in his mouth, riding over the roof, his teeth, tangling with everything like Jensen wants it all. Wants to taste

and suck and touch and fuck every part of Misha just in a kiss. So he’s not entirely surprised that every time it happens – that every time their lips crush together, their bodies brought flush, their mouths making hot, rough, feverish work of each other – Misha gets lost in the moment, whatever moment that happens to be. But he has to get Jensen inside, that thought keeps trying to pound its way through all the other pounding – his heart in his chest, the blood in his head, his dick trapped in his jeans. Because whether it’s sex or not, something’s about to happen here, the way Jensen’s hands are digging clumsily in his pants, his ragged nails scraping over the sensitized skin on Misha’s cock pretty much proving that point to him. So he pulls away. Misha actually manages to pull his mouth away from Jensen’s, miracle of fucking miracles, as a low keen from the back of Jensen’s throat follows the motion and makes Misha weak in the knees before he hooks his hands under Jensen’s armpits and hefts him to his feet. “C’mon big guy, let’s get you in-” There’s another sentence Misha doesn’t get to finish, Jensen bouncing into him like a wayward pinball the second he’s got enough balance to move without tipping over, forcing Misha’s back painfully into the doorjamb as he finds Misha’s mouth again. Heat surging through him, flooding his no-longer-cold veins as Jensen dives so deep inside of him that Misha almost chokes. God, he can just imagine where else that tongue could dive deep inside of him. No matter what Misha says to himself, though, no matter what he’s imagining, he’s fucking lost here. He knew that already. Knew it the goddamn second he saw Jensen passed out next to his door. And so he’s just gonna say fuck it and go with the flow as he fumbles his key card out of his pocket and lets them into the room. It’s a good thing for them that all hotel rooms are relatively the same, because they don’t break the kiss – don’t even open their eyes – as they stumble their way towards the bed, their feet getting tangled at every step, threatening to send them spilling onto the floor (which wouldn’t be so bad either, at this point), before the backs of Misha’s knees hit something solid and he tumbles away from Jensen mere seconds before his body connects with stiff, starched hotel bedding. He doesn’t even get a chance to suck in one single fucking breath before Jensen is on top of him, dragging him up the bed like he’s a rag doll until they’re high enough for his liking. And Misha kind of feels like saying something – maybe telling Jensen how ungodly fucking hot he is like this – only he’s back to not getting a word in edgewise here, Jensen’s hands pawing, fisting, tearing at his clothes sending him into a downward spiral so fast he might just pass out from it if he's not careful. Misha likes his brain. A lot. But he’s come to the realization that he doesn’t really need it all that much in situations such as this one, so it’s probably better to just let it retreat to its corner where it can sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. “God Misha… wanna fuck you,” Jensen groans into Misha’s now naked chest, Misha’s hips bucking up into Jensen when teeth close sharp and tight around one of his nipples,

his hands digging deep into well-shaped, muscular shoulder blades as Jensen sucks his way down Misha’s chest, along his stomach, and all the way to the waistband of his jeans. “Wanna fuck you so bad,” he continues, only the words are muffled now by the way he seems to be chewing on the button of Misha’s jeans, Jensen occupying himself with that for a few seconds before he buries his face in Misha’s still-covered crotch and begins sucking him actually through his fucking pants. Jensen’s mouth, if anyone wants to know, still feels motherfucking epic through two layers of fabric. “Quit talking about it then,” Misha says all breathlessly and shit, his fingers gripping uselessly at Jensen’s sweaty head, hair soft and slick between his fingers, his own head ramming back so hard into the bed his neck hurts from the strain. “Just… fuckin’… do it.” And Misha is pretty sure he’s going to. Even though there’s no lube in the immediate vicinity, no condoms either. And even though he’d be willing to bet a million dollars that Jensen Ackles has never done something like this before, Misha is ninety-nine percent sure he’s going to let Jensen fuck him right now. But first he’s got to get Jen to stop sucking on his crotch. “Here,” Misha says, trying to be helpful as always as he twists Jensen’s head to the side, undoing the button and the zipper as quickly as he can and shoving his jeans and boxers down far enough to give his cock some well deserved cool, free air. “Help me -” He’s going to say help me get them off. As in his pants. Because logistically, there’s no way Jensen’s going to be able to fuck him with his pants wrapped around his thighs. But Misha’s train of thought is kind of interrupted when Jensen licks a line along the soft skin of his pelvis before swallowing Misha so hard and deep he’s pretty sure he’s seeing into the future. Like, The Jetsons future. And damn does it feel fucking good in the future. “Wanna,” Jensen says as he releases Misha’s cock from his mouth, dragging his tongue hard up the vein as he continues with his mantra for the evening, mumbling the words, “fuck you” all along the length of Misha’s dick in a way that makes him feel very much like he’s dying. And he wants to say just do it again. Wants to roll Jensen over, strip him naked and ride him like a goddamn horse if he has to, but Jensen is sucking him down again and it’s really hard to think of anything other than his sinful fucking lips when he’s doing that to you. The guy really does have amazing lips. Jensen is pulling shit out from deep inside Misha, though. Twisting his head and flicking his tongue along the nerves just below Misha’s tip, humming across his skin in a way that just fucking wrecks him. His hips bucking helplessly again in a sloppy rhythm as he grips so hard into Jensen’s shoulders he’s one hundred percent positive there’s going to be

Misha finger shaped bruises there tomorrow. He comes a few seconds later with Jensen’s mouth still locked around his dick, one of Jensen’s hands cupping his balls gently while the other one snakes down to his ass, one somehow-miraculously-slicked finger finding his hole and pressing experimentally inside as Misha just pulses out into Jensen. Tongue still licking and mouth still sucking and lips still holding him tight as Misha seems to fucking come and come and come like he’s caught in some Benny Hill routine that just never ends. Wow, that would be one fucked up Benny Hill routine. The point is he’s coming. A lot. And Jensen seems to be gearing up towards the fucking that he keeps talking about, what with the fact that he’s still twisting his finger sloppily and artlessly in Misha’s ass. And so Misha tries to center himself. Tries to get himself under control enough so that Jensen can fuck him because after that blowjob? Jensen deserves whatever Jensen fucking wants. Things go still all of a sudden, though. Jensen’s mouth and Jensen’s body and the entire fucking world stopping in its tracks as Jensen lets out a muffled little mmmm (muffled, of course, because he’s still got Misha’s cock buried in his mouth) and goes limp. And Misha can’t be entirely sure, but he’s maybe about seventy-five percent positive this time that Jensen just passed out. While sucking his dick. And that, to be perfectly honest, is something new, even for Misha. He twitches his hips a little at first, hoping he can just jar Jensen back to the land of consciousness. But the guy doesn’t move at all. Just groans a little sluggishly along Misha’s dick in a way that makes it twitch back to life even though Jensen just drained it fucking dry. “Jen,” he says, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds considering how quiet he was during that whole thing, his sentences continually being cut short by Jensen’s blowjob powers extraordinaire. But Jensen still doesn’t move, and this time Misha doesn’t even get a groan or a mumble for his efforts. So he grips his fingers into Jensen’s shoulders again and rolls him off his body, unable to stifle the hungry moan that just erupts out of his own throat when Jensen’s mouth slips off his dick. Settling Jensen gently onto his back before scooting himself down the bed in order to be closer to him. He is out like a light. Even worse than in the hallway Jensen is just fucking gone. And Misha can’t help but feel a little guilty at that, running his hand over the denim covering Jensen’s softening erection as he thinks about how disappointed Jen’s going to be about the fact that he fell asleep before getting to fuck him. A strange new world they’re living in. Jensen is asleep, though, and Misha is hit in the gut all over again with what a beautiful sight that is. Long lashes resting softly on his cheeks, his lips open slightly as his

breathing settles into a gentle, rhythmic hum. All vulnerability and gentleness making Misha’s chest ache. “G’night Jen,” Misha whispers as he rests a kiss to Jensen’s forehead, grabbing his shirt from the bed and using it to wipe Jenen’s lips and his own dick clean before tossing it off to the side and curling down next to Jensen’s already sleep warm body. And he can’t seem to stop himself from whispering the answering, “sleep tight,” across Jensen’s cheek, resting another soft kiss to the corner of Jensen’s lips before he rolls Jensen onto his side. Something he does in case Jensen’s so drunk he needs to puke in the middle of the night, of course. Not because he wants to curl their bodies into each other, resting his forehead to Jensen’s so he can fall asleep with Jensen’s warm breath on his face. That’s not the reason at all. Nope, not at all. In case you couldn’t tell already, Misha’s a really good liar. Especially when he’s lying to himself.

Episode Seven: The Pros and Cons of Cons (Part Four) Jensen wakes up groggy and hung over to the sound of “Since U Been Gone,” of all things, ringing in his ears. Shrill musical notes followed by movement on the bed (okay, so he’s on a bed, that’s good to know) and a rough, deep voice mumbling out the word mmyellow. It’s Misha, that’s also good to know. Like, really fucking good to know. Because he doesn’t remember a whole hell of a lot about last night, but seeing as how he ended up in bed with Misha, it couldn’t have been all bad, right? At least he’s not on a park bench, or passed out in a public restroom with his body wrapped around a toilet (not that either of those things ever happened to him, of course), and Misha plus Bed equals Fun Time in Jensen’s mind. So when the alcohol-soaked memories finally start making their way back through his fuzzy hairball of a head, they’ll at least be pretty and shiny and hot as fuck. This day is starting off better than most. “Yep,” he hears Misha say a few seconds later as he twists his head in the pillow it was smashed in, his whole body crying out in agony like he got hit by a dump truck and decided not to wait for the nice shiny gurney to take him away. A yep from Misha that’s followed by another one, and another one, and then a series of uh-huhs and okays before Jensen feels Misha’s hand grip around his shoulder and his body reacts for some strange reason like he gripped around his dick. Jensen’s woken up horny before on a number of occasions. They didn’t give morning wood its own nickname for nothing. But this? This is different. “Jen, you awake?” Misha asks, and his voice is softer than the one he was using for all the monosyllabic answers of a few seconds ago. Monosyllabic? Huh, Misha is evidently a good influence on his vocabulary. “M’awake,” Jensen groans out in response as he tries and fails to roll over, his body evidently full of lead or adamnatium or something like that, hopefully a sign of the epic fucking marathon sex he and Misha had last night. Sex, he thinks. Feels like there’s something there. He can’t roll over, though, is the point he was originally trying to make. And Misha seems to get that because he’s moving on the bed again, draping himself over Jensen’s body in a way that feels so good he could cry or moan or come or something before sticking his cell phone in Jensen’s face and saying, “it’s for you.” It sounds a little bit like there’s a laugh in Misha’s voice, but Jensen’s not entirely sure, still mostly out of it as he is. He takes the phone regardless, though, wanting to whine like a little baby at the cold emptiness his body feels when Misha rolls back off of him and slips off his side of the bed. Pressing Misha’s phone to his ear, feeling comfort wash through his palm at the plastic left warm by Misha’s hand as he says, “mmyellow,” in a direct impersonation of the guy who just left Jensen achy and wanting on the bed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Jared yells in his ear, the sound so highpitched and loud that it makes the phone vibrate against Jensen’s ear. And he has to pull it away from him, away from his pounding fucking head, because he’s fairly certain the decibels Jay is working with right now are high enough to peel paint off walls. “M’sleepin’,” Jensen mumbles back, unsure if Jared will be able to hear his sleep-worn voice from the new distance between his mouth and Misha’s phone. Jensen’s mind getting a little lost around that idea momentarily – Misha’s phone, Misha’s mouth touching Misha’s phone, Misha’s mouth-touched phone just inches away from Jensen’s mouth, Jensen’s lips. Okay, that’s weird, Jensen concedes as he finishes with a, “what the hell are you doin’?” aimed Jared’s way because he’s tired, sick, and horny as fuck apparently, which means he doesn’t really want to be dealing with Jay and his morning person bullshit right now. Jared just shoots back, though, louder than before, “well other than looking all over for you, I’m waiting downstairs in the lobby for the van that’s gonna be here in… oh… like, ten minutes. You know the van, right Jensen? The one that’s supposed to take us over to the breakfast? That one?” Jensen groans really loudly, half at Jared’s still way too loud voice, half at the fact that he apparently has to get up, out of Misha’s bed (he’s pretty sure it’s Misha’s bed now, by the way, memories of camping outside his room coming back to Jensen hazy and slow), and half at the fact that his dick is already throbbing beneath him, pressed into the crappy motel sheets, his hips moving lazily to release some of the pressure. And he’s fairly certain ten minutes is not nearly enough time to properly take care of all that. That’s three halves, isn’t it? Fuck, whatever. “I know the van, Jay,” Jensen says back a little more bitterly than he probably should, sarcasm oozing its way out of his pores. And Jared snorts at him, something that Jensen swears does not make him wish he could punch Jay in the face right now. “Well good for you, Jen. Y’think you could get your prima donna ass down here in the next ten minutes for me so I don’t have to explain to the Creation people where you are exactly and why you’re missing out on their breakfast?” Jared sounds… funny. And sure, Jensen knows he didn’t exactly leave things settled at the restaurant last night. And sure again, Jensen’s not an idiot and hence he hasn’t exactly missed the slightly off way Jared has been acting lately. But there’s something different there this morning, something that could possibly be attributed to the alcohol still leeching into Jensen’s system, fucking up his thinking process. Or something that could be caused by… Well, Jensen’s just gonna have to get back to that particular caused by later. Because the only way to appease Jay right now is to get his sore ass out of bed and downstairs where he belongs and he knows it. And so he says, “I’ll be there in five,” and flips Misha’s phone shut because he’s not in the mood to argue right now. Not in the mood for much of anything, in fact, except staying right where he is and learning all there is to know about the inner workings of one Misha Collins. But that’s

not on the agenda for today, sadly. And that just fucking sucks. He guesses it’s not such a great start to the day after all. “What the hell happened last night?” Jensen asks as he finally manages to roll himself over onto his back. And the sight of Misha, backlit by early morning sunlight, standing next to the bed in nothing but his boxer shorts, his hair sticking out in about a dozen different directions is so ungodly gorgeous it feels like someone just slugged Jensen in the stomach with a wrecking ball. Misha looks so good, in fact, that it actually leaves Jensen breathless as he smiles down at him, slipping into a pair of jeans and laughing like what Jensen said is some kind of joke. “You don’t remember?” Misha asks as he tugs on a wrinkled old t-shirt that Jensen immediately recognizes as his own. And Jensen isn’t sure if Misha’s doing it subconsciously or not, but it does all sorts of crazy things to his insides to see the guy slip into his clothes in such a casual fucking fashion. Each new article of clothing added to his body, despite the heart flutters, making Jensen also want to break things like a petulant little child. “I remember dinner with Jay, lots of alcohol there,” Jensen begins, struggling to remember the events of the night as he pauses to hear Misha laugh softly at his alcohol comment. “Couldn’t have guessed that,” Misha interjects, and he’s still just smiling at Jensen – nothing more, nothing less. And yet Jensen’s blood is surging through his veins, making him feel light-headed and feverish as his cock continues to ache like someone’s been blowing too much air into it and it’s about to pop. Blowing, he thinks disconnectedly. There’s something there, too. “Yeah, what’s the saying? Beer before liquor -” “Makes you sicker?” Misha says, finishing his sentence, and it’s like he’s putting on Jensen’s t-shirt all over again. Fuck, has this guy got him wrapped around his little finger or what? “Anyway, I remember that, then singing…” Singing, he thinks. With Jason, to Misha, Jensen remembers singing. “… then coming to your room. Coming into your room. Then… not much.” “You got most of it,” Misha says with this fake little helpful tone as he circles around to Jensen’s side of the bed and takes his cell phone lightly from Jensen’s half-open hand. Jensen’s pulse sky-rocketing as their skin touches ever so slightly, ever so briefly, before Misha pulls back and pockets the phone. “All you forgot was, y’know, the epic fucking blowjob you gave me before you… well, before you…”

Misha doesn’t need to finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to say another damn word because it all comes flooding back to Jensen like someone blew up the dam. His palms on Misha’s hips, his lips on Misha’s cock, and then… “Shit,” he says under his breath as he shuts his eyes and remembers, waving his hands a little while he talks like he does when he’s nervous. “Did you… did I… did I fall asleep with…” “Yep,” Misha interjects again, and when Jensen opens his eyes Misha is smiling at him. Widely. About two seconds away from laughing his ass off by the looks of it. And Jensen is not entirely sure how to deal with it. “It’s fine, Jen,” Misha says through the tiny giggles he’s letting escape as he leans down and presses his lips to Jensen’s forehead. And whatever he was feeling – whatever mortification (another Misha word) he’s experiencing – dissolves in the way it feels to have Misha’s breath ghost warm across his skin. Fire pooling in his stomach again as he digs his fingers unconsciously into Misha’s hair and just holds him there for a few seconds, resting against his forehead. “Jensen,” Misha all but moans out above him as Jensen wraps his other hand around the back of Misha’s neck, absolutely fucking loving the way he can feel Misha tremble beneath his touch. “We have to go.” And all Jensen can think is that he really wishes they were back in Vancouver right now. Wishes they were anywhere but here, where stupid responsibilities keep getting in the way of what has recently made the transition from want to need if the way Jensen’s body is shaking in time with Misha’s is any indication. “What do you mean we?” he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper into Misha’s chin as he flicks his tongue out and runs it along the stubble collecting there. “You got a hot date you didn’t tell me about?” Misha laughs at that, and it’s like a bolt of electricity straight to Jensen’s groin. Misha has always been the funny one. Misha and Jared and their uncontrollable hilarity. So any time he’s able to make Misha actually laugh at something he says it’s like a monumental victory to Jensen. He fucking loves it. “Eric texted me this morning,” Misha says, his voice under more control now as he breaks the connection, pulling away from Jensen before looking down at him like that was the absolute last thing on the face of the earth that he wanted to do. His eyes wide and supplicating (dude, where do these words keep coming from?) as he runs one of his hands hard down the front of his face and comes up smiling again. A little more forced this time but smiling nonetheless. “Said he wants my sweet ass back on set this afternoon for some solo Cas shoots. His words, not mine.” And Jensen smiles warmly at that – his whole entire body from the inside out as warm as freshly baked bread or some shit like that right now. Smiles and says, “what’s with him

and text messages all of a sudden?” because small talk is the only way he can keep himself from dragging Misha onto the bed and fucking him into oblivion. “I have no idea,” Misha replies, his words deliberate, measured, like he’s having the same problems Jensen is right now. And that only makes this that much harder. “We really do have to go, though,” he concludes, and it makes Jensen’s throat close like he’s caving in on himself, the thought of Misha getting on a plane and heading back to Vancouver without him filling him with so much sudden panic he feels like he might pass out. “Why do you have a Kelly Clarkson ring tone?” Jensen asks, the thought striking him randomly like someone threw a life preserver into the water for him. A way to drag himself up. Drag himself away from the near crippling anxiety he’s feeling right about now. And the look in Misha’s eyes when Jensen asks him the question is so damn cute that it just about ruins the small amount of work Jensen put into this already. “It came… uh… free with the phone,” he mumbles out, his eyes looking like they want to dart away from Jensen shamefully. But to his credit Misha still just keeps right on looking at him, and that, more than likely, is the first pulled thread in Jensen’s unraveling. “How did you know it was Kelly Clarkson?” Misha asks a few seconds later, cutting through the cobwebs of lust in Jensen’s brain. And his heart starts beating erratically for a different reason, a new kind of panic flooding his system as he stutters out his own lame response. “Um… Jay listens to her… all the time. Can’t get the guy to turn her off sometimes.” When Misha laughs this time, it’s kind of booming, the sound echoing off the walls of the room like music to Jensen’s ears. And… yep… he’s coming pretty quickly fucking undone here. “Speaking of Jared,” Misha says once he’s settled down enough to speak, Jensen still remaining motionless and stunned on the bed. “You better get your sweet ass down there before he comes up here and tosses you over his shoulder like he's a caveman and you're his new bride.” “I have a better idea,” Jensen replies, not missing a single beat this time as he sits up higher on the bed, closer to Misha, whatever is going on inside his body managing to wash just about every single trace of his hangover clear from his system quicker than a gallon of black coffee and greasy McDonalds breakfast. “Really?” Misha asks, taking a few steps closer to the bed, his knees butting up against the mattress as he speaks. “What’s that?” Jensen grabs Misha’s wrist so quickly he can actually see Misha’s eyes grow wide in shock, yanking hard on his arm and dragging Misha to the bed before he can even get a breath out, let alone another word. “How ‘bout you skip your plane,” Jensen growls into the soft skin of Misha’s neck as he

pins him to the bed, rolling his hips over Misha’s body in a way that makes them both shake like someone put money in the Magic Fingers. “I ditch the breakfast, and we finish what we started last night?” The way Misha’s body forms to his, going limp and pliable beneath him, fitting into all the cracks Jensen possesses, makes him think that Misha is totally onboard with this idea. Or, at the very least, that he wants to be onboard with it. But Misha’s words don’t really match up to Misha’s tone – the rough, desperate, moaning one spilling off his sweet, soft fucking lips. And Misha’s words don’t really match up to Misha’s movements – the ones that consist of his dick hardening fast up against Jensen’s, something he can feel distinctly through the three layers of fabric separating them as Misha thrusts up into him, his back arching off the bed like he needs Jensen to stay alive right now or something equally lame and romantic like that. “Y’know,” Misha huffs out breathlessly though, his eyes slipping shut as Jensen runs his tongue along his cheekbone, licking his way down to Misha’s earlobe before he sucks it into his mouth in a way that he has learned drives Misha absolutely fucking batshit. “I know Kripke is smaller than you, Conan, but I’m fairly certain,” he continues, the certain jumping up about two octaves, morphing into a high-pitched hiss as Jensen drags his fingers underneath Misha’s shirt – underneath his shirt – and massages them roughly into his nipple. “Fairly certain he knows,” Misha continues some more, his words sounding more shaky with each breath, his hips dragging roughly along Jensen as he wraps one of his legs around Jensen’s lower back and pulls, the denim of his jeans rubbing along Jensen’s bare thighs, burning him with friction that feels fucking awesome against his too long neglected dick. “More than a few ways to dispose,” Misha says, Jensen’s half-gone mind giving the guy major props for even managing to talk right now, let alone form coherent sentences as he digs his fingers into Misha’s hipbones and rams his crotch so hard down into Misha’s body that his eyes spark white. “Of bodies,” Misha finally finishes before he just fucking loses it as well, finally. The fingers of one of his hands digging hard and fast into Jensen’s skull (he will never get tired of that feeling, of this he is fairly fucking certain), as the fingers of his other hand fumble roughly with his own pants, undoing the button and the zip as quickly as possible before shoving his jeans as far down his thighs as he can manage in his present position, pinned beneath Jensen as he is. Jensen catches on quick, forcing his own boxers down past his ass as Misha moans out the words fuck Jensen and their cocks fucking collide, wet and swollen and needy, rubbing up against each other as their bodies lock together, motion syncing up as they thrust violently into one another like they want to break bones here, the air finally quiet between them as Misha stops talking and claims Jensen’s mouth instead. Their teeth clack sharply as Misha yanks Jensen down into him, the kiss somehow different from all the ones that came before it, sloppy and artless like a couple of

teenagers feeling each other out, learning what this kissing business is all about as they continue to rut up against each other. The slick slip and slide of his cock along Misha’s making fire erupt in his stomach so fast he loses track of all his senses except for two. The feel of his tongue wrestling with Misha’s, and the feel of his dick pressing warm between two bellies and another dick that is all fucking his. His mind not even bucking in the slightest bit at that thought – at that claim of possession – as he comes like a fucking rocket all over the damn place. His body ten different kinds of wet as he continues to thrust into Misha, his hips still locked down tight by Misha’s leg wrapped around his back. And then Misha’s coming too, not far behind him, moaning once deeply into Jensen’s mouth in a way that makes him want to curl up and stay here forever. With Misha. “We should… go,” Misha croaks out once they’re both so fucking spent they’re boneless, tangled around each other like two sets of Christmas lights left stuck in a box together all summer long. And Jensen just laughs because honestly? Misha really is an easy touch. “You said that already,” Jensen replies, passing the laugh into Misha’s mouth with a kiss so soft, so deep, so lingering, it makes him ache to break away from it. Thinking with an almost complete certainty that despite his claims that they need to go, if Jensen told Misha he wanted to fuck him right now, he’d probably let him. Would probably let him screw him all fucking day if he asked. And that… well Jensen can’t even describe how that makes him feel. Misha’s right, though. They really should leave. He can almost feel Jared coming up the elevator now, preparing to knock down the door if need be to get to him. And if Misha misses his flight, Eric’s gonna be pissed. So yeah, it really is time to go. And Jensen, surprisingly, is kind of okay with that. Or at least more okay than he would have been yesterday. Because he realized something just now, as he was grinding himself down into Misha. He’s not going anywhere. Misha. Isn’t. Going. Anywhere. And if Jensen needs to be patient a little while longer, he’s pretty sure he can be. Not much, but a little. Because whether or not he’ll ever admit it, Misha is all his. And he’s all Misha’s. And that’s just fucking awesome. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

“I know, I know,” Jensen spits out as he all but bolts out of the elevator, walking right past Jared and his patented bitch face – the one that the fans seem to think is only Sam’s but that Jensen knows is all Jared – and heading straight for the door. It’s been more than ten minutes, Jensen is sure of it, which means Jared’s gonna want to argue with him and he does not want to deal with that right now. To his credit, Jared barely talks to Jensen at all in the car ride across town. Doesn’t bitch and moan the way Jensen so totally knows he wants to. All he does is tell Jensen that he

looks like shit – which is likely true, considering that he didn’t even have time to splash water on his face, let alone shower after a night of drinks and sexual activities, and a morning of more of the same – and leaves it at that. Which is nice of him, Jensen figures, except that just means that Jensen is gonna have to pay for it later. Big time. He’s all wound up inside already, though, Jensen is. His stomach in knots as he imagines Misha hopping in a cab, Misha arriving at the airport, Misha flying halfway across the country as he remains trapped in a hotel with about a thousand fangirls who would flip their shit if they knew what was really going on behind the scenes. If they knew even half of what happened in Misha’s hotel room just this morning. His stomach knotted up because he misses Misha already, something he knows is incredibly pathetic, and knotted up because frankly he’s a little scared. Misha is good at this shit. Jared is as well, but Misha has the apparent added ability to hide the newfound sexual relationship between him and Jensen with great skill and cunning. And Jensen is kind of fucking petrified that he’s not gonna be able to do the same. The day, though, goes well. Better than well, actually. It goes fucking great. Between the breakfast with the overpowering smell of eggs and bacon that makes him want to puke all over the place, the photo ops full of clingy fangirls wearing too much perfume and smiling way too widely draping all over him, and the Q&A panels and autograph lines in the afternoon, everything goes off without one fucking hitch. Jensen doesn’t even get one single question about the kiss, about Cas, or Misha, or any of that shit, and he almost doesn’t know how to process that. Almost doesn’t know how to wrap his mind around the feeling that he just dodged a huge fucking bullet as he leaves the hotel seven hours later with Jared in the same van they arrived in, making their way towards the airport – towards Misha – and the activities of the day turn to a happy, hazy blur in Jensen’s exhausted fucking mind. Not one question – not one fucking question in all that time and he’s done. He’s done. And that’s just fucking terrific. He’s really not done, though. And he really should have known better than to think that he was. Because the second he and Jared are settled in their seats on the plane – after the flight attendants are done doing their schpeal, once they’re safely in the sky and the seatbelt light clicks off, Jared’s mouth clicks right the fuck on. “Are you ever planning on telling me what the fuck is going on with you?” he asks, his voice quiet enough so as not to be heard by the people sitting around them (hopefully), but still forceful enough to make Jensen sit up straight and pay close attention. And when he lets his eyes drag over to Jared, Jensen can tell immediately that he means fucking business here. He’s staring directly at Jensen, his eyes hard and dark and hurt, and Jensen can’t remember the last time he felt this guilty. His skin tightening over his bones as he sucks in one deep breath and says, “I’m sorry, Jay,” in a voice that’s far more wrecked than he meant it to be.

“I don’t,” Jared says, his own voice cracking a little as he begins to blink more than is natural, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he twists his body to face Jensen more easily. “You don’t have to apologize I just… I just wanna know what’s going on with you, man. It’s not like you, hiding crap from me like this.” “I know,” Jensen says quickly, because he does. He’s well aware of how strange it is for him to keep things from Jared. But the fact of the matter is he has no fucking clue how to tell him about this. How to tell him about the way Misha makes him feel, the things Misha does to him (he doesn’t mean the dirty things, just the more intangible things). Has no idea at all how to explain to Jared that from the moment Misha backed him into the door of his trailer, rested his lips on Jensen’s and breathed, he’s felt like a lot of things make sense to him now. A lot of things that Jensen didn’t even know he was confused on until Misha brought it all to light. So he says I know because he does know how weird it is, but he continues with, “but… man, Jay, I don’t know what to tell you,” because that’s the truth, too. “Are you,” Jared begins to ask, sniffing in once loudly and swallowing hard before he allows himself to continue. “Are you, like, sleeping with him?” And the way Jared says sleeping, his voice going low and secretive, his eyes squinting down like that’s not exactly the word he wanted to use right now, makes Jensen feel a little nauseous. But not for the reasons he might have thought it would two months ago. Not because the idea of sleeping with Misha makes him uncomfortable, but because the fact that he isn’t sleeping with Misha yet makes him want to tear his short hair out by the roots. He really has no fucking clue what’s going on inside his own head these days, apparently. “Not yet,” he says, shocking both himself and Jared as well, judging by the way his eyes go as wide as fucking saucers. But despite that Jensen keeps right on going because Jared wanted to know the truth, right? So he might as well give it to him. “Not technically but… I don’t know, Jay. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, being with him. It’s like… okay, imagine the best orgasm of your life,” he says, and Jared actually backs away from him at that, retreating to the furthest corner of his seat as his fidgeting reaches new levels of twitchy. But Jensen, for some strange reason, keeps right on talking. Saying, “and multiply that by about a thousand and that’s how I feel when the guy just fucking touches me,” in spite of Jared’s obvious discomfort. “And yeah, I know you probably think I’m insane. And yeah, you probably think I’m some sort of perverted freak or something Jay, and I wouldn’t blame you for any of that. For thinking any of that. But… I don’t know, I guess I’m just okay with not letting that bother me or something.”

Jensen feels naked. More naked than ever before in his entire life, in fact. And it doesn’t help that he can’t read Jared’s expression at all right now, his face a blank slate as whatever the hell is going on inside his head remains hidden to Jensen’s eyes. Jensen’s pulse skyrocketing to dangerous levels, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat and his throat closing up on him as he just sits and waits. “You,” Jared says eventually, the sound of his voice making Jensen jump like he’s being hit with a stun gun even though it’s barely above a whisper. “You are a freak. But you’re my best friend and… well, fuck, Jensen, it’s not like this is the strangest thing you’re ever gonna do, right?” Jensen could kiss Jared right now. Not literally, of course, because that would be beyond awkward, but you catch his drift. He could kiss Jared right now because of all the things he expected Jared to say if and when he finally copped to this, blanket, casual understanding was surprisingly not on the list. “So we cool?” Jensen asks with a voice so shaky it makes Jared wince a little in what might actually be guilt. And the way Jared claps his hand over Jensen’s chest like he usually does, his palm resting right over Jensen’s heart, answers the question before he even opens his mouth to speak. Before he even says, “yeah, we’re cool.” And before Jensen actually – miraculously – believes him. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jensen doesn’t have to be on set today at all, Eric giving both him and Jared the rest of the night off so they can recoup from the long weekend, but Jensen goes in anyway. Goes in because he thinks Misha is there, and from the second the plane crossed over into Canadian air space his body began bouncing and zinging and tingling with anticipation. With the desire to see him. Misha’s already gone, though, and he’s both sad and happy about that discovery. Sad because he’s, y’know, not there, in front of his eyes, within his reach, but happy because he’s not there. Because he’s at home. Alone. Jensen doesn’t even know how he manages to drive to Misha’s apartment, his blood pounding so loudly in his ears that he can’t hear a damn thing at all, his fingers twisted so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles hurt from the strain. And it’s a good thing he knows his way to Misha’s by heart because he’s evidently on autopilot here. The sky dark now, the sun finally setting completely over the horizon not that long ago, as he speeds his way through the streets of Vancouver. He parks… somewhere. Whipping open his door and slamming it shut again, locking it,

not locking it, as if it matters, before literally fucking sprinting to Misha’s building. Bounding up the stairs because even though Misha is five floors up he can’t stand to wait for the elevator – can’t stand to stop moving long enough – without risking exploding on the spot. His breath is coming hard and ragged as he settles outside Misha’s door, raising his hand shakily to knock weakly on the wood before he grips his fingers deep into the door frame, nails scraping along old, crumbling wood, as he rests his sweaty forehead against the door in front of him. He can hear him moving across the apartment. Jensen can actually hear the soft pad of Misha’s likely bare feet across the hardwood floors of his apartment, and the sound goes straight to his groin. A low moan escaping his throat all but unnoticed as he shuts his eyes as tightly as they’ll go. Biting his lip hard and willing himself not to pass out here from the dizzy spell that seems to have sprung up from nowhere as he waits. He always seems to be waiting these days. The sounds of the locks clicking out of place reach Jensen’s ears and he immediately begins to tremble uncontrollably, imagining Misha pressed against the other side of the door, so close yet still so fucking far away as one word and one word only swims across the forefront of his mind: Finally.

Episode Eight: This Shit is So Hot, Def Leppard Should Write a Song About It Jensen’s patience is completely exhausted by the time Misha opens the door, his body just one big bundle of tense, pulsating fucking nerves as he taps his forehead nervously on the door, beating out a weak rhythm while his fingers cramp up from the way they’re digging in. The way they’re holding him up, clutching the doorframe for dear life because he’s fairly fucking certain that if he lets go now he’s just gonna keel over right here. That without something else to hold him up, something like a warm, hard body to fucking hold him up, he’ll be in a ball on the floor within seconds. Curling up into the fetal position because when he thought this morning that he’d be able to wait as long as it took for Misha, he was apparently out of his fucking mind. He needs him. Like air and food and water and shelter, like truth, justice, and the American fucking way Jensen needs Misha. And this is it. This is fucking it. And now that he’s here he can’t wait another second. So his patience is exhausted, so much so that he’s fairly certain that even if Misha was entertaining an apartment full of guests right now – senators and movie stars and little children – Jensen wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing what he’s about to do. Wouldn’t be able to control any single part of his body long enough to hold back because he’s beyond that now. It’s beyond him. Which means he’s pretty damn grateful when the door finally opens and he sees Misha, blissfully fucking alone. Jensen feels a rush of warm air wash across his skin, the exposed bits on his face and neck tingling with heat as he raises his eyes up, his fingers still digging in – digging in harder, now that he doesn’t have the door to prop him up any longer – as he drags his vision up and down Misha’s body. He’s mostly naked already, Jensen notices, and it’s like fucking Christmas to him to see that. Misha wearing nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt – still Jensen’s t-shirt – pale skin of his legs and arms and neck making Jensen dizzy as he runs his tongue across his lips and stares. Or maybe leers would be a better way to describe what he’s doing right now, like a lecherous old man staring at the cheerleaders at a high school football game Jensen is fucking leering at Misha. Hunger gnawing at his insides like a rabid dog as sweat begins to break out across his skin from all the damn heat. His mind spinning feverishly around how good this feels already, and how he hasn’t even fucking touched the guy yet. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Misha says, the sound of his voice startling Jensen out of his horny coma. And he sounds raw, gravelly, and so fucking sexy that Jensen’s hips actually lurch forward at his words. Everything on his body aching as he releases his fingers finally from the doorframe and moves. It’s like a lunge mixed with a strut mixed with a fucking sashay, Jensen moving quickly, clumsily, fucking artlessly on Misha as he catches sight briefly of Misha’s eyes. Pupils so wide they look almost entirely black reaching his senses before he closes his own eyes tight and forms himself to Misha’s body. One hand grabbing Misha roughly by his hair – unlike Jensen’s, it’s long enough to yank – dragging their mouths hard together while his

other hand links around the small of Misha’s back and pulls. Misha makes this hot as fuck little umph sound as he collides with Jensen, his hands seemingly fucking everywhere on Jensen’s body as he leads him further into the room, letting the door shut behind them with a dull thump that goes straight through Jensen’s bloodstream. And then Misha’s mouth is pulling him in, dragging him along with wet, deep, searing kisses that make his heart feel like it’s about to give out already. He has no idea how he’s going to survive sex with the guy if just kissing him practically sends him into full-on cardiac arrest. Jensen doesn’t think too long on that, though, useless thought as it is. His mind focusing instead on the way the two of them continue to make their way across the room, locked against each other like someone glued ‘em that way as they stumble in the general direction of Misha’s bedroom. Holy shit, Misha’s bedroom, his mind manages to register as his feet tangle in Misha’s and they almost go spilling to the floor. He is on his way to Misha’s fucking bedroom. And that… well that’s just fucking awesome. They plow through the half open doorway, their faces still connected at the tongue, Misha fucking his mouth in a way that makes him weak in the knees (or weaker in the knees, he guesses), as his hands finally settle in the fabric of Jensen’s jacket. Pushing violently backwards, stripping Jensen of his first layer of clothing as he breaks away from Jensen’s lips. Longing filling Jensen’s gut fast as he loses that little bit of contact with him. The longing turns pretty quickly to something else, though. Something like exhausted desire as he rests his head on Misha’s shoulder, his hands slipping down to Misha’s hips, his fingers pushing up under soft cotton, thumbs skating across flesh and bone that Jensen wants to just bend down and lick more than almost anything else right now as Misha’s fingers work at the buttons of his shirt. He can feel Misha shaking against his chest, small tremors in his hands as he sucks on the skin just behind Jensen’s ear, and all Jensen can do right now is breathe. Suck in the smell of Misha, mingling with the scent of himself, latent in the worn cotton of his old tshirt as he massages deep into the muscles riding atop Misha’s hips and allows himself to be stripped bare, one step at a time. When the over-shirt is gone and Misha’s fingers link around the hem of his t-shirt, Jensen’s heart feels like it’s stopped beating entirely. Cold air washing over him, making him break out in goosebumps all over the fucking place as his contact with Misha is broken again, cotton covering his face, obstructing his view as he raises his arms shakily in the air and moves wherever Misha wants to lead him. Jensen’s not touching Misha at all as Misha takes off his own shirt – Jensen’s own shirt, holy fuck that is still so damn hot. Jensen’s entire body feeling empty and cold and miserable for the few quick seconds they’re apart before Misha finishes what he’s doing and presses them back together again. He can’t describe the way it feels to have Misha’s naked chest pressed up against his own. It’s not like anything he’s ever felt before, not like anything he’ll ever feel again,

he’s pretty sure. But it’s a little bit like the way your stomach knots up when you drive down the street of the house you were born in. Being with Misha like this is like coming home to him. And he wants to tell him that. Wants to say something to Misha right now that’ll convey the wild, disconnected shit that’s going on in his head, but he seems to have lost the ability to speak. To form words other than mmm and ahh and something embarrassing that sounds a little like ungh. But it doesn’t matter because Misha doesn’t seem to care about that. Doesn’t seem to mind that he’s turned Jensen into a blubbering pile of fucking goo here as he raises his hands to Jensen’s face, dragging his thumbs once roughly up Jensen’s cheekbones, before pulling him down into another soul-stealing kiss. It’s fucking explosive this time around. Misha backing it with so much fucking fire that Jensen can’t help but be pulled along in his wake, his body melting at the helpless little noises escaping Misha’s throat, vibrating across his tongue. Small, sexy fucking whimpers as he holds Jensen’s face in the palms of his hot, sweaty hands like a vise and pulls. On everything that Jensen has. He feels a little bit like he’s possessed as he shoves Misha back onto the bed hard, another puff of air escaping Misha’s mouth as he scrambles up the bed, staring up at Jensen with a grin on his gorgeous fucking face and a glint in his eyes. Eyes still so dark and lust-filled that it makes Jensen shake all over again as he toes out of his boots and drops his jeans before joining the party already in progress. The way his body feels as he crawls up Misha can only be described as fucking electric. Like someone’s been rubbing Misha along shag carpeting, charging him up with static electricity that’s just fucking pinging all over his skin now. One knee dragging hard and deep into Misha’s crotch, feeling the wetness seeping through his boxers already, as he plasters himself downward and wraps his arms tightly under Misha’s armpits, linking them up his back and behind his neck so he can pull them flush together. His hips begin thrusting of their own accord, Misha bucking up into him, fast and greedy, as they trade moans back and forth into each other’s mouths. But something in the back of his mind keeps trying to tell him to stop. Keeps trying to remind him that this – no matter how fucking hot and glorious – is not what he came here for and so he better just fucking stop before he comes all over the place and ruins the fun. So he does. He stops. And he’s not surprised in the slightest fucking bit how it actually physically hurts him to do that. “Jensen,” Misha whispers out hungrily as Jensen tries to push himself up to his knees, Misha’s leg wrapping around his back, pulling him back down again as his hips buck up and his cock drags hard across Jensen’s stomach. And this feels so good – still so fucking good – that the desire coating his entire body makes him dizzy.

“No,” Jensen bleats out as he presses one palm into Misha’s hip and drags the other one up Misha’s thigh, twisting Misha’s leg off of him again before pounding Misha’s hips so hard down into the bed he groans so loud Jensen can feel his entire body shake with the noise, vibrations running through Jensen’s palms making his vision blur. “Stay… still,” Jensen warns, his voice so ragged it sounds like he just woke up from a weeklong bender. And his eyes are transfixed by the sight of Misha sucking his bottom lip between his teeth at the order, his hips rolling once weakly against Jensen’s strong hands before he settles down with a soft, helpless moan that has Jensen wondering how in the fuck he’s still managing to hold his shit together here. He wants this, though. Has wanted this for a long time now, in fact. Much longer than he’s even willing to admit. And he’s been so patient – so damn patient – that he’s not gonna let all that hard work go to waste just because his dick is so fucking ready to get off it feels like it’s gonna explode. Misha pounds his head back into the bed hard as Jensen maneuvers himself out of his boxers, the word God slipping past Misha’s lips like a fucking prayer as he reaches out and rides his hands up Jensen’s stomach. Fingers twisting over his sides, trying to pull him down, pull him in. But Jensen’s not ready yet, not by a long shot, so he wraps his own fingers hard around Misha’s wrists and thrusts them into the mattress. “I said stay still,” he growls out as he runs his palms up Misha’s arms, cutting a path across his skin, sweat collecting everywhere already, before dragging them roughly down Misha’s sides, hooking over the elastic of his boxers along the way before tugging them clear off Misha’s body. Jensen has never seen Misha naked before. Not entirely, anyway. He’s seen him in enough states of undress to make a pretty clear picture in his head of what Misha would look like, a collage of sorts cut and pasted across his brain, but this is different. This is so much fucking better that when his eyes are finally able to take in the sight of Misha Collins, bare-ass naked, laid out beneath him twisting and writhing and sweating and wanting he almost comes right then and there. His breath hitches hard as he sucks it into his lungs, shutting his eyes tight to the scene lain out before him, willing his body to settle the fuck down. Pressure pulsing out everywhere, making his bones vibrate as he takes a few more deep, calming breaths before risking opening his eyes again. It hurts to see Misha like this. Pain so good and all-consuming to let his eyes trail across Misha’s body, his fingers massaging absently on all the gorgeous fucking skin set out like Christmas dinner beneath him. Bare and tight and hard and hot and sweaty and all fucking his. And suddenly he’s scared. Like, fucking petrified. Because as much as he wants this – as much as he knows he fucking needs this – he’s still never done this before. And new experiences, no matter what they are, tend to scare the ever-loving shit out of him. “Y’okay?” Misha asks what’s either a minute or an hour later, Jensen’s sort of lost track of time here, hypnotized as he is by the calm, pale expanse of Misha’s skin. And it startles him, the addition of sound to the silent movie scene. Startles him so much that he

actually jumps. “Hey,” Misha says, his voice calmer, softer, but with lust and desire still tinting the tone as he traces his fingers up Jensen’s arms. A gentle tickling sensation that makes his cock twitch where it’s hanging beneath him, straining outward like it needs to touch. “M’fine,” Jensen manages to whisper, mostly the truth as he bends down slowly and presses his lips to Misha’s hipbones. Dear lord in heaven Misha’s fucking hipbones. The taste of salt settling warm over his tongue as he sucks on the skin there, Misha’s dick hard beneath his throat where it paints a sticky, wet line against him. He settles his body into a more comfortable position, his lips and mouth and tongue still working the same spot, bruising the skin as Misha’s fingers dig hard into the back of his head, chewed-down nails scratching rough along his scalp as Jensen wraps his hand around Misha’s dick and tugs. “God, Jensen,” Misha moans as his hips begin to thrust again, moving in time to the rhythm of Jensen’s palm raking hard and fast along the length of him. And Jensen wants to see him – wants to watch Misha’s face as he comes undone, nothing like it in the world – but he can’t seem to stop sucking Misha’s skin raw. Making a trail of hickeys along his pelvis like a map as Misha continues to moan so damn pretty with the way Jensen is working him he feels like he’s losing his mind. Jensen shivers at the warmth spreading over his fist when Misha comes, the word fuck hissing out of Misha’s mouth like its got about ten syllables as his body tenses up with the orgasm. Coming all over Jensen’s hand, all over his own stomach, making a gleaming, sticky mess that Jensen just wants to lick up like a hungry animal. He doesn’t, though. He just continues to stroke Misha, from hard to soft, working him through the pleasure as he gets back to his knees, leaving Misha’s hipbones pink and raw and wet from spit, sweat, and come as Jensen allows his eyes to rove over what he’s done. What he does to Misha. Jensen feels like his own cock is going to turn to lead pretty soon if he doesn’t do something about it fast, a heavy weight deep in his stomach as he watches Misha’s eyes open slowly, blinking up at Jensen like he’s been in the dark for a week and Jensen is his first glimpse at the sun. And he’s struck all over again with how beautiful Misha really is. Inside and out, as chick flick as that sounds. Lying beneath him, blissed out and ready like he’s the offering and Jensen’s the Greek god. He really needs to get some new material here. Misha gulps hard, though, when Jensen begins swirling his fingers in the mess on his stomach, the muscles there twitching beneath Jensen’s touch, and Jensen is slapped in the fucking face again with the fact that he’s never done this before. And sure, he can probably figure out the basic logistics of it, but it’s honestly so far beyond the realm of his own knowledge that he’s scared again. Staring at the come swirling on Misha’s skin and trying his level best to swallow down the nervous butterflies that seem intent on choking him to death here.

He’s instantly calm, though, when Misha’s fingers circle his wrist, their eyes connecting with the touch in a way that feels very much like a warm wave washing over him. And it reminds him of that first night – that first kiss – when Misha had cornered him in his trailer and swept his thumb over Jensen’s erratic pulse, just like now. Misha nods once at him, his lips pursed tight together, his eyes more clear than before, and Jensen finds himself nodding right back because he trusts him. More than anyone else, for some reason, Jensen trusts Misha. And that just makes what’s about to happen that much more epic. He guides Jensen’s fingers between his legs, Misha’s palm opening up over the back of Jensen’s hand as he twists his hips and presses Jensen into the flesh of his ass. Their fingers moving together, seeking out white hot heat, Misha leading him every step of the way until he’s there. Pushing inside as Misha clenches beneath him, his face screwing up in what looks like pain at first. A sight that almost sends Jensen running for the hills before the muscles in his cheeks relax and he smiles. A smile that turns Jensen into a pile of warm, melted butter. The second finger goes in easier than the first, and by the time Jensen gets to three he doesn’t even need Misha’s help anymore. Which is probably a good thing because Misha seems to be fucking out of it right now, his dick hardening again as he twists erratically with Jensen’s touch, fucking himself back on Jensen’s fingers in a way that turns Jensen on way more than anything else has in his entire life. Misha’s come is almost completely dry on his belly when Jensen collects the last bit of it that he can and slicks his dick up with it, another soft whimper escaping Misha’s lips as Jensen’s fingers slip out of him with a little plop that makes his whole body tremble. And before he knows it Misha is guiding him again, grabbing Jensen roughly by his ass and lining him up before shoving Jensen so hard and deep into his own body tears actually spring to Jensen’s eyes. He’s never felt tightness like this before, a hot, wet, searing heat wrapped around his cock so tight that his lungs refuse to suck in air. And he wants to thrust – more than anything does he want to just thrust roughly, manically, violently into Misha’s ass – but he’s afraid again. His stupid fucking subconscious telling him to be careful, warning him not to hurt. The fear, not surprisingly, leaves him again when Misha’s hands touch his body, though. One of them gripping hard behind his neck, pulling him down for an awkwardly angled kiss as the other one digs into Jensen’s ass and thrusts him fast inward as Misha arches his back and bucks back out, the combined sensation of all of those things making Jensen’s eyes spark white. Their kiss doesn’t last long, mostly because once Misha gives him the go ahead, so-tospeak, Jensen can’t seem to focus on anything other than the way his dick feels rubbing inside of Misha. Muscles still wrapping around him tightly, fucking gloriously as he settles in and finds his rhythm. He doesn’t think he’s gonna last long like this. Has no idea how he can. Because Misha’s face is twisting to the side, and Misha’s teeth are biting at the bed sheets, and Misha’s

fingers are digging into the soft skin below his ribs, and Jensen is fucking him into oblivion, just like he wanted to. His thumbs massaging the marks he left behind on Misha’s hipbones as he watches in wide-eyed fucking wonder as Misha drops one of his hands to his own dick and begins stroking himself. The angle is bad again, leaning over Misha as he is, and he’s got sweat dripping into his eyes, clouding his vision, but the way Misha’s hand looks wrapped around his own swollen, leaking cock makes something dark pool all the way through Jensen’s thighs. His pace quickening, becoming more frantic, more desperate as he pounds into a spot inside of Misha that makes him cry out in ecstasy and come all over himself. All over again. And that’s it for Jensen. That’s the straw that broke the camel’s fucking back as he swears he blinks out of consciousness for a second, orgasm blindsiding him, slamming into him so hard it feels like his bones are shattering to dust. The room swimming around him, his focus shot to shit, before he gives up on the whole seeing bit and shuts his eyes to the world. Resting his head hard and sweaty into Misha’s shoulder as he leans in and lets the orgasm ride him for all he’s worth, coming in Misha’s ass in a never-ending stream that leaves him breathless and wrecked. When he’s finally done, when he’s finally fucking spent, Jensen collapses into a boneless heap on top of Misha, a low grunt escaping Misha’s mouth as he’s crushed beneath the dead weight of one Jensen Ackles. “Um… Jen,” he says, the words like a quiet question. And Jensen mumbles out a little mmhmm because frankly, he’s not really capable of much else at the moment. “Uh… can’t breathe,” Misha replies, his voice sounding even more strained this time, and Jensen is on the move immediately. Exhaustion screaming in his ears, bitching him out for moving at all right now as he slides off of Misha – slides out of Misha, more like it – and settles into his side. Burrowing into Misha’s body and wrapping one arm lazily over his still-sticky stomach in a way that he swears isn’t possessive in the slightest bit. “Missed you,” he mumbles into the side of Misha’s neck, his tongue flicking out just as lazily as his arm, lapping at the beads of sweat still sharp and salty there. And the way Misha’s fingers run through his hair at that makes him shake like a proverbial fucking leaf all over again. Proverbial, he thinks with a small internal laugh. Misha would be so proud of me for using a word like that. “Missed you too, Jen,” Misha whispers into the top of his head, his breath warm against Jensen’s sweaty scalp, a soft, soothing breeze that makes Jensen epically fucking sleepy instantly. And Jensen wants to say more. Wants to tell Misha everything he’s feeling right now. All of the stuff he couldn’t explain to Jared on the plane, and all of the stuff he’s pretty sure he couldn’t even explain now anyway. But he wants to say it nonetheless. Wants to open

his mouth and hope that the words come to him because Misha deserves to know how Jensen feels for him. He deserves to know that Jensen feels for him. So he says, “Misha,” in a voice that sounds even more tired than it feels, willing himself to talk because it feels like the right thing to do. But he doesn’t get much farther than that, Misha breathing a warm hush into his skin as he rolls Jensen tighter into his body. One of Jensen’s legs hooking over Misha’s thigh as they entwine themselves, tangled up like a salted pretzel, clutching at each other’s bodies like they were just tossed from the Titanic and their bodies are the only remaining piece of driftwood in the ocean. Yeah, he really does need some new material. Misha hushes him, though. His fingers digging in beneath Jensen’s chin, tipping him up and drawing him into a slow, soft, lazy kiss that courses through Jensen’s veins like warm, soapy bathwater. Calming. Soothing. Comforting. Their tongues moving sluggishly against each other as Misha draws small, idle circles in the skin beneath Jensen’s hair. “Go to sleep,” Misha whispers as he pulls away and presses a kiss to each of Jensen’s shut-tight eyelids. Something that he would probably think is girly and lame coming from anyone else, but something that he finds so damn endearing coming from Misha he almost can’t stand it. And Jensen replies, “’kay,” because he doesn’t want to disappoint Misha. Doesn’t want to say no to him on anything ever again, after what he just let Jensen do to him. His face burrowing into Misha’s neck, soaking in the smell of him, trying to burn every last detail of this moment into his memory as he allows exhaustion to take him over finally. His mind slipping away like water swirling down a drain as he’s pulled willingly into a deep fucking sleep.

Episode Nine: The One In Which Misha/Stan Becomes My New OTP Eric isn’t paid to guess. He isn’t paid to read minds. He isn’t paid to hold hands. He isn’t paid to be the Dr. Phil or the Judge Judy or the Mario Lopez of the Supernatural world. He’s paid to make Show as interesting as it can be (that’s another thing he learned from his fandom, by the way, using Show as a proper noun, without the definite article the attached). He’s paid to bring viewers in and keep them there, though, without all the fuss of trying to navigate the wacky ins and outs of his stars’ personal lives. So when Jensen comes up to him on the last day of filming Once More with Feeling (and no, that’s not an homage to the musical episode of Buffy, thank you very much, because Eric would never swipe anything from Buffy… or X-Files… or anything like that… he never even watched those shows). But when he comes up to him on the last day of filming the “sex” episode and asks him casually why Lucifer would want to kill Cas, Eric doesn’t think anything of it because he’s not paid to think anything of it. Even though he can remember pretty damn distinctly what the air had felt like on set just the other day, Jensen’s hands going off script, so to speak, which is definitely something that Eric has not been replaying in his head on his little sick fascination loop ever since. Not been replaying. He’s also not paid to give spoilers out for free, though, all willy nilly. But he’s got a soft spot for Jensen – has had one pretty much from the day he saw the dailies from Dead in the Water and he realized the kid could act the snot out of a minimally used Kleenex brand facial tissue. Which is why he answers him. That and, you know, because he’s really proud of his killer idea. And when he has an idea he’s proud of (like the grace!tree from last season which he still can’t figure why people didn’t like), he just bursts to share it. “Oh, you’re gonna love this!” he starts off with, a standard sales pitch. Because even if Jensen doesn’t love it, Eric knows he has a better chance of convincing him that he does if he leads off with a not so subliminal message. Total opposite technique of those people who take a bite of something and say man, this tastes like shit before offering you the rest. “Cas and the devil have a backstory!” Eric likes exclamation points, and anyone that has a problem with that can suck on a lemon. “What do you mean a backstory?” Jensen asks tentatively, and Eric has to fight the urge to pat him on the head like a little kid because seriously? Jensen is kind of adorable when he’s all bright-eyed and inquisitive like this. “Like a history,” Eric says as he takes a mini cheese steak sandwich from the Kraft Services table, watching Jensen poke absently at a stack of barbeque ribs with his plastic spork as he stares back at Eric like he’s on the edge of his seat. If he was sitting.

“So Cas and the devil used to date?” Jensen asks, his spork now dipping in the bowl of mashed potatoes, swirling barbeque sauce in the corner in a way that reminds Eric of a bloody chef gag he’s always wanted to use on Show. Jensen’s eyes squinting down like he’s managed to resist the power of Eric’s you’re gonna love this claim of doom and destruction already. And Eric replies, “when you put it that way, of course it’s gonna sound stupid,” in a tone that’s probably defensive. But he’s pretty sure Jensen can’t tell that because he’s saying it around a mouthful of french fries and everyone knows that french fries hide any emotion necessary. They’re like the crunchy, salty mask of the mouth. “They had a thing,” he corrects, feeling his own face scrunch up around his words before adding, “a relationship,” onto the end. Yeah, that sounds better, he thinks, feeling pride swell in his chest. Jensen doesn’t seem to agree with him, though. Because he almost immediately says, “oh, that makes it sound so much more plausible,” in this sarcastic tone that he usually only uses on Jared, from what Eric’s been able to glean. And it almost makes Eric start to worry about the upcoming episodes that have already been written because it’s kinda too late to go back on them now. Especially since he’s been leaving little clues about it all season long. “Trust me, Jensen,” he says soothingly, averting the panic attack of a moment ago and clapping his hand on Jensen’s shoulder while his other hand drifts unconsciously towards the fresh baked peanut butter cookies on the edge of the table. “It’s gonna work. I read it in a fic once -” “A fic?” Jensen interrupts, and Eric would slap himself in the forehead at that – at his own stupidity – if he weren’t busy stuffing cookies into his jacket pocket right now. He keeps forgetting, though, that these guys don’t know the things he does. That they’re not well versed in fandom lingo. And he really needs to learn to be better at remembering that. “Yeah, a fic, like a fanfiction. A story written about Show… about the show. Anyway, this chick wrote this story that had this really rich backstory between Cas and Lucy… fer… and the readers ate it right up. I mean, they loved it! And if it works in fanfic, it stands to reason it’ll work in RL, right?” “RL?” “Real life,” Eric says with another mental slap to the forehead. “Sorry. The point is it’s gonna work. I promise. Have I ever led you astray before?” The look on Jensen’s face when he asks that question makes Eric want to spit out the words don’t answer that before Jensen can open his mouth, but he doesn’t. Mostly because Jensen is talking again and it would be rude to interrupt. “Are you shitting me?” he asks, his eyes scanning the immediate area like he’s looking for hidden cameras or Ashton Kutcher jumping out of a giant birthday cake or something.

And Eric laughs deeply at that because honestly? Jensen can be really funny sometimes. Not that the fangirls would ever know that, what with Jared the Jolly Green Giant and Misha the King of Twitter running around the playground. But funny nonetheless. Why do you think Eric was so gung-ho about airing the “Eye of the Tiger” gag on national television, instead of saving it as a dvd extra, despite Jensen’s protests on the matter? Because the world needs to know that Jensen Ackles can hold his own in the loony bin. “No, I’m not shitting you, Jensen,” he says with a laugh that doesn’t quite reach belly depths but that comes pretty close. Which is probably a good thing, considering the amount of food he’s stuffed down his throat in the past ten minutes. “I’ve done extensive research into this on LJ and so I know what works and what doesn’t. And this? This’ll work.” “El jay?” Jensen pipes in, his face still looking like he’s sucking on that lemon Eric mentioned earlier. “Live Journal. It’s a website. Good for research. I go there and to Wikipedia at least a dozen times a day. I even have my own screen name, so I can lurk more easily. It’s the_kripkeeper. Like it?” “Isn’t that a little obvious?” Jensen asks, and he’s got a small smile tugging at his lips now, like he’s almost willing to play along here finally. And Eric finds himself patting Jensen on the shoulder once more because there he goes being all cute and oblivious again. Eric really needs to get Jensen a laptop with a wifi card or something like that for Christmas. Maybe even set him up with MSN messenger. “It’s like a double fakeout, man. They all already think I’m a lying liar who lies anyway, so I figured if I used a derivative of my own name, there’s no way they’d actually believe it was me. See? I’m smart. Beating them at their own game.” “Who are you, and what the hell have you done with Eric?” Jensen asks after a silence that borders on awkward, and that just settles it. Eric is totally buying Jensen a Macbook for Christmas. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Jensen wasn’t sure what he was expecting exactly. Since he was shocked and appalled and mortified by the whole Lucifer and Cas connection, he was maybe hoping that Misha would follow suit. Get upset that Dean wasn’t Cas’ first or something like that. Make a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, snort in derision, anything. Show Jensen… or… um… Dean a little bit of loyalty, y’know? So he was most definitely not expecting the first words out of Misha’s mouth to be I wonder if I’m going to have to make out with Mark.

Well, okay, the real first words were technically why the hell are you telling me this now, separated by panting breaths and shallow moans because Jensen and Misha were technically naked and humping each other like wild animals on the floor in Misha’s trailer at the time. And yeah, he did have a point about that, because bringing up the news of the Cas-Lucifer connection in the middle of a sexual encounter was probably not the best time, place, whatever. But as soon as they finished up, talking kind of hitting a low ebb after the initial announcement due to the onslaught of orgasms and whatnot, Misha had made the comment about Mark. He’d rolled off of Jensen, kissed him once so deeply it had made Jensen’s toes curl, and had proceeded to wonder out loud if he’d be forced to make out with the dude that plays the devil. On the list of acceptable answers to Jensen’s question, the one Misha gave is pretty stinking low on the list. By the end of the day the news was all over the set. Only a few hours after Eric had confided in Jensen about his master plan and everyone and their mother knew about it. Which was totally Misha’s fault, of course, because Jensen had only told one person and Misha’s always had a big mouth. God, he thinks, distracted like he usually is lately. Misha’s mouth. Anyways, by the end of the day the jokes were flying back and forth across set like tennis balls at Wimbledon. Jokes that were very reminiscent of the ones everyone was saying in the beginning of the season, from gentle ribbings to full out mockery. Only this time it was all being directed at Misha (and Mark, technically, but as Mark was down in Hawaii shooting an episode of Lost it’s not like he was being harassed). Misha didn’t mind the jokes, of course, because Misha never minds jokes at his own expense. Hell, on the first day he met him, Jared had spent a good twenty minutes making fun of Misha’s acting style directly to his face and what had Misha done? Laughed his fucking ass off, that’s what. So the jokes didn’t bother Misha but they sure as shit bothered Jensen. More than they should have, probably. The jokes about Misha and somebody else. Jensen doesn’t get jealous. He really, seriously, honestly doesn’t. But when he and Misha and Jared go out for drinks after the episode wraps that night, hanging at the only bar open past midnight on a Thursday, and Jared brings up the whole Mark issue again, something drops in Jensen’s stomach. Something that he out and out refuses to call jealousy. “Dude, Mark’s’kinda hot, y’know?” Misha slurs at Jared, his arm slung lazily over Jay’s shoulder, his face so close to touching Jared’s that it makes Jensen want to break things. “There’s worse people’ta make out with, right?” They’re drunk. The three of them still huddled in the back of the almost empty bar, the

clock on the wall reading something well past two a.m. (benefits of a local bar being that they’ll pretty much stay open as long as you want to drink) they’re stinking fucking drunk. Jared and Misha kidding around like they always do, getting sillier and more childish the more alcohol they consume like they always do while Jensen just gets quieter. More withdrawn, even. But totally not jealous. Jared replies, “sure, I mean, you had’ta make out with that mug, right?” as he crooks a thumb in Jensen’s general direction, a laugh tinting his voice as he runs his tongue along his lips and tilts his face further forward. His hair sweeping down into his eyes, catching the tip of Misha’s nose in the process. “Probably means you can do it with anyone.” Jensen is not gonna punch Jared in the face. Jensen is not gonna punch Jared in the face. Jensen is not gonna punch Jared in the face. “Who knew Cas was such a… such a swinger, right?” Misha all but giggles out, his voice hitching in a little hiccup that makes sweat break out along Jensen’s hairline. And when Jared says back in a voice that sounds more like a stage whisper than anything else, right into Misha’s fucking ear, “next thing y’know Cas ‘n Sam’ll be sneaking off in the Impala,” Jensen realizes that he’s had enough. Enough booze. Enough jokes. Enough everything. So he gets immediately to his feet, the world tipping and diving and swaying around him as he does so, mumbling out a quiet, angry little, “’m outta here,” before throwing a fifty down on the table and storming out of the bar. The cold air hits him like a ton of bricks, his chest heaving with wracking coughs as his lungs try and adjust to the sudden shift in temperature. And he feels a little bit like he’s gonna be sick, bile bitter in the back of his throat as he braces himself against the dumpster out back, leaning down as close to the ground as he can get just in case. He knows this shouldn’t be bothering him as much as it is. He knows Jared and Misha are just kidding around, and he knows that Misha doesn’t really wanna make out with Mark. Or with Jared. Or with anyone else right now, Jensen’s pretty sure. And he also knows that even if he did – that even if Misha wanted to fuck everybody else on the planet – that it wouldn’t be any of Jensen’s damn business anyways because he doesn’t own Misha any more than Misha owns him. They’re just screwing around, right? Not like they’ve ever talked about it, of course, but as far as he can tell this little thing they’ve got goin’ on is entirely without strings. Only maybe that’s not what he wants. Maybe Jensen likes strings. Maybe he even needs strings. And maybe all this shit with Misha joking about making out with someone else is bugging him because he thinks it means that Misha doesn’t. Because he thinks it means the joke’s on him.

He feels a hand on his shoulder a few minutes later, still huddled down by the dumpster, still waiting to puke, as the sound of the bar’s back door shutting tight reaches his ears and a hand reaches out shakily for his body. A grip that starts out tentative and becomes more self-assured as it slides up the side of his neck, fingers running softly through his hair as he feels a body move in behind him and heft him to his feet. Misha saying, “get up,” roughly into the cold, night air, and Jensen complying. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

Misha’s usually a lot better at this. Better at figuring out what’s going on, understanding why people are upset, what’s making them mad, what they want. But from day one he’s been getting his lines crossed at every turn with Jensen. One minute he’s freaking out about having to kiss Misha, and the next he’s pressing him flat against a dumpster and sucking his dick like it’s the only thing in the world he’s ever wanted to do, that sort of thing. So when Jensen storms out of the bar, Misha quickly accepts the fact that it’s his fault. That he’s done something wrong even though he’s only doing the same exact thing he’s been doing for the last year and a half he’s known Jensen. Apologizing quickly to Jared for rudely ducking out early and stumbling out into the cold night air after Jensen because Jensen is upset and because Misha doesn’t particularly like it when Jensen is upset. Once he gets Jensen to his feet he spins him around and braces him up against the dumpster in a scene vaguely reminiscent of that first time because he can barely even keep himself balanced and upright, let alone another person. And something almost primal flashes across Jensen’s eyes at that, a darkness fluttering across those long, luscious eyelashes that Misha loves so much before his fingers are twisting in Misha’s hair and he’s pressing his lips hard and fast and wet against Misha’s mouth. It almost always goes this way with them. Something pisses one of them off, or something randomly turns one of them on, and the next thing they know they’re rubbing up against each other like a couple of teenagers incapable of controlling their sexual urges. But as much as Misha would like to play into that right now, as much as he’d like to just let Jensen take him away from all the tension at this particular moment, he’s kind of a little sick of all the goddamn back and forth. So he breaks away from Jensen, pressing his hands hard into Jensen’s chest, forcing him back into the dumpster. And the look in Jensen’s eyes is so dark and hungry that blood surges so fast to Misha’s cock he almost passes out from it. “Easy there, tiger,” he says through a still mostly drunk, shaky voice as Jensen struggles against his grip. Trying desperately to pull Misha’s body back into his own. “We need to talk.” And it honestly takes every single ounce of willpower that Misha possesses to actually follow through on that demand. ***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***

“You’re jealous,” Misha says, and Jensen can't catch himself before the snort escapes his mouth. They’ve been arguing like this for a good fifteen minutes now, anger returning to Jensen’s system the second he realized Misha wasn’t pinning him against the dumpster for recreational purposes. And somehow – some crazy way – Misha has managed to steer the conversation into an insane accusation that Jensen is jealous. “I’m not jealous,” he replies, and he can tell by the look on Misha’s face that despite how fucking plastered he is he doesn’t buy a damn thing Jensen is saying. This would probably be an argument better served by fucking sobriety, but you work with what you’re given, right? And at the moment, all he’s being given is a drunk as a fucking skunk Misha, and a pounding head of his own from one too many beers and about ten too many shots of whiskey. “You are jealous. What I can’t figure out, though, is if you’re jealous of the idea of me being with someone else in general, or of me being with Jared.” “Where the fuck did that come from?” Jensen asks, honestly surprised at where Misha has taken this little discussion of theirs as he moves a little dizzily on him. And the casual way Misha says Jared’s name makes Jensen’s eyes flash red, something like anger (but not like jealousy, because he doesn’t get jealous) washing over his skin like liquid fire as Misha matches his movement with a few sloppy steps away from him. “Like, what if I, say,” Misha begins, his words slurring a little bit again now as he turns around like he’s looking for something. “What if I flirted with him?” Misha finally spits out, his arm pointing shakily into the distance. And at first Jensen can’t tell what he’s pointing at. But then Misha moves away some more, walking away from Jensen until he stops dead in his tracks in front of the “him” he was pointing at. It’s a light pole. A fucking light pole. And from the way Misha seems to be leering at it, a bystander might be convinced that it’s a fucking Greek god. Not that there are any bystanders around right now, thank the fucking lord for that, because Misha is moving closer to the pole now. His eyes full of a strange kind of lust from what Jensen can tell, still a little far back as he is. And fear puddles deep in his gut because for some reason, he can totally feel this spinning wildly out of control already. “Hey there,” Misha says silkily as he runs his palm up the side of the pole, Jensen’s eyes flicking around the alley, making sure no one else is around as he takes a few more measured steps towards where Misha is currently fondling public property. “What’s your name?” And the way Misha rests his ear against the pole, his lips almost trailing across the dark metal as he turns his head to listen to it, makes something cramp up deep inside of Jensen’s fucking groin.

“It’s nice to meet you, Stan,” Misha purrs as he moves his body into the pole, his crotch resting tight up against it. And from the angle that Jensen’s getting right now, only a few short steps away, he can tell that Misha is hard already. Might have been hard before, of course, but either way he’s fucking hard now, and that… Well there’s no logical way that should be sexy. “Misha,” Jensen says. And he’s planning on following that up with the words stop it. A lecture about the proper way to behave in public skittering across his mind. But he can’t seem to get much past Misha’s name, hoarse and ragged and dark like it’s being pulled from all the way inside the blackest part of Jensen’s fucking soul as he reaches out with one trembling arm and wraps his fingers over Misha’s shoulder. “Admit it,” Misha says as he turns his eyes to Jensen, pupils so large Jensen can’t even see the blue anymore as Misha rubs his cheek longingly across the pole. One leg hooking around it, leveraging his crotch in even tighter to the metal as he raises himself up onto the toes of his other foot and just fucking drags himself along it. “Not… not jealous,” Jensen manages to choke out breathlessly as his fingers twist even deeper into the fabric of Misha’s jacket. His whole body aching to yank Misha into him, fold him inside his body, hold him there forever. But a smile is creeping its way across Misha’s lips, a sinister fucking grin that tells Jensen he’s not gonna let that happen. Not until he gets what he wants. “Admit you’re jealous,” Misha repeats, his voice calm and level despite the harsh rasp to it. “Or Stan and I are gonna get real close.” And the word close escapes Misha’s mouth like a desperate moan as his hips roll along the pole again, his breath hitching in his chest and his eyes fluttering shut as he continues to hump the fucking light pole in front of Jensen’s wide fucking eyes. “No,” Jensen repeats, his voice weak, quiet, like it’s coming from some place very far away. And he can feel it now – can feel the way Misha makes him crumble inside – so he knows he’s gonna do it. Knows he’s gonna admit he’s fucking jealous. And hell, maybe he is. But either way he’s gonna fucking say it because his body feels very much like it’s on fire right about now. His chest aching, his legs wobbling, his stomach tightening and his dick fucking throbbing as he presses his body into Misha’s side and does a little rubbing of his own. “Not gonna… not gonna stop,” Misha pants out as he slides his body up and down some more, his movement faster now, more violent, more needy as Jensen drops his forehead to Misha’s shoulder and thrusts his hips hard into Misha’s side. His fingers twisting around Misha’s other hip for support and assistance. “Not ‘til you say it, Jen.” And Jensen just loses it at that. At the fucking hot as shit way Misha moans out his name. His fingers reaching up to grab Misha tightly by his shoulders, spinning him around and slamming him back into his good buddy Stan before he leans in as close as Jared was

earlier and growls into Misha’s mouth. “Fine, I’m fucking jealous, okay?” he asks, the fingers of his right hand making quick work of the button and zipper on Misha’s jeans as his left hand continues to hold him in place. Misha’s body vibrating beneath his grip, his head straining back into hard metal as his hips strain forward into Jensen’s hard fucking body. “I don’t want anyone else touching you,” he continues as he forces Misha’s pants down just past his ass so roughly Misha’s breath hitches from the fabric burn. “I don’t want anyone else kissing you,” he says, wrapping his hand hard and fast and tight around Misha’s thick, leaking cock and fucking relishing the way Misha keens at his touch. “And I don’t even want anyone else fucking looking at you, you got that?” he asks finally. And normally Jensen would take the weak little whimper that slips past Misha’s lips as all the answer he needs, but he wants more now. He fucking deserves more. So he lets go of Misha’s shoulder, his right thumb pressing hard beneath the head of Misha’s cock as the rest of his fingers lock vise-tight and stock-still around the rest of him. Slipping his left hand up Misha’s chest and gripping it around the back of his neck, his fingers digging hard into the base of Misha’s skull as he tips his head up and presses their foreheads roughly together. “I asked if you got that,” Jensen repeats, his own dick burning at the violent, reckless lust pooling dark and fucking gorgeous in Misha’s eyes as he slips them open. His hips trying to thrust forward, trying to fuck his dick into Jensen’s hand, while Jensen’s knee slips up hard enough to hold him back. To pin him even more effectively to their old friend Stan. “I,” Misha hisses out, his head struggling to slip back again, his dick struggling to move forward. But he’s locked pretty effectively in Jensen’s grip here, and that’s exactly how Jensen fucking wants him. Misha gulps once hard before he manages to spit out, “got that.” His voice sounding so wrecked that Jensen can actually feel his own orgasm swirling low and deep and his dick is barely even resting up against Misha’s thigh. “Good,” Jensen says as calmly as he can manage (which isn't calm at fucking all, in case you couldn’t have guessed). “Now I want you to look at me,” he orders. And Misha’s entire body trembles violently at the sound of his voice, his eyes snapping open again, his forehead resting hot and sweaty against Jensen’s as Jensen begins to stroke him for real. Softly at first. Slow, languid pulls that have Misha squirming against his grip before he picks up the pace, his thumb slipping over the wet slit in Misha’s cock before he drags it down the vein. “Look at me,” Jensen hisses loudly when Misha’s eyes begin to slide shut again. And the

groan that is ripped from Misha’s throat at that makes Jensen’s hips buck so hard that he’s half worried Misha’s gonna have a concussion from the way his head thunks against Stan. He maneuvers himself into a better position, though, as Misha struggles to keep his eyes open. To keep them locked on Jensen’s. Jensen's hips moving as much as they can, twisting around for better friction on his own aching dick as he continues to tug on Misha’s. “Say you’re mine,” Jensen says breathlessly as his body begins to move of its own accord, hips pumping and hand dragging and heart racing as he struggles just as hard as Misha to keep his eyes open. To keep looking at him. And Misha flicks his tongue out lazily, hot and sweet on Jensen’s lips before he says, “I’m yours,” in a tone of voice so fucking sincere it makes Jensen want to fucking bawl. “Promise,” he adds, tugging gently on the back of Misha’s neck when his eyes begin to flutter again. And Misha moans out the word promise as he comes hard over Jensen’s fist. Thick, white hot heat covering his hand as he pumps a few more times roughly into Misha’s thigh before he’s coming too. The world feeling like it’s being ripped apart at the seams as he sucks Misha’s tongue into his mouth and allows Misha’s words to settle deep inside his mind. Misha’s promise. The one that went something along the lines of Misha belongs to Jensen now. And Jensen’s really gonna have to send Stan a thank you card for that.

Picture courtesy of: teddybeardoctor