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Even before he had arrived on the set that morning, Jensen had known that it was going to be one of those days. One of those days when their scenes took forever to shoot and Jared amused himself with coming up with new and creative ways of getting Misha to crack. When Jensen had to spend hours staring into deep blue eyes and pray that his thoughts weren’t visible in his own.
He couldn’t quite remember when it had begun, when Misha’s unwavering stare had first made his heart race and his breath become shallow. All he knew was that it was getting worse and he was reaching his breaking point. He had begun to dread the first reading of the scripts, the heavy thudding in his chest and the fluttering in his stomach as he searched the pages for scenes that they shared, knowing that the fan-labelled ‘eye-fuckery’ would be inevitable. Anticipation and dread would war in him and he was never sure whether he most hoped for those scenes or feared them, until a script arrived which did not feature Castiel and his mouth filled with bitter taste of disappointment. As torturous as it had become to be in Misha’s presence, to feel the crackle of electricity fill the air between them and still feel the uncertainty of what it all meant, he had come to live for those moments. From behind the mask of Dean, he could look his fill and bask in the attention that Misha, wearing Castiel’s visage, lavished upon him.
If he was honest with himself, this attraction, or whatever you wanted to call it, had always been there form the very first day that he had met the quirky and sharp-witted actor. Misha had always had the ability to make his blood thrum in a manner he was unaccustomed to and his skin tingle with what he had only recently accepted was yearning.
In the beginning, he had tried to pass it off as mere curiosity. Misha was a freak; everyone knew it, even the fans, and Jensen had told himself that all he wanted was to figure this bizarre personality out. Misha had made him uncomfortable with his unpredictability and his inconsistencies. He just wanted to scrape the layers of bullshit off the surface and learn what lurked beneath. Just a glimpse, he had told himself, that was all he wanted.
Of course, once he’d finally got to know Misha enough at least to catch that single glimpse, it had left him still wanting - wanting more and just wanting. Getting to know Misha past the bullshittery and the misdirection was like a slow, intimate striptease, every part revealed stirring the imagination and increasing the longing for the rest to be exposed to your hungry gaze.
It was slowly driving him insane; this need to know the true Misha was turning into an obsession. He’d even found himself listening to the often ludicrous inanities that Misha threw at the fans at conventions, desperate for the few glimmering grains of truth that occasionally slipped through and the rare reflections of the real Misha that sometimes gleamed beneath his deflecting armour of wit and sarcasm.
At first, Jensen had tried to deny his desire by keeping his distance, hiding behind his rumoured aloofness. He had kept their relationship strictly professional and taken care not to interact with this newest guest of their on-set family beyond the demands of common decency, sometimes skirting even those. Jared and he had become accustomed to actors coming and going and they had not expected Misha to be any different. Jensen had been looking forward to Misha’s departure as a return to normality and an end to his distraction, but his hopes had been dashed by the fact that the fans were apparently no more immune to Misha’s indefinable and frankly impossible charm than he was and it was decided that Castiel would stay on indefinitely to keep them happy.
This news had not made Jensen happy. Or rather it had and therein lay the problem. The trouble was that now that Misha had officially become a regular member of the cast, ignoring him had no longer been a viable option, especially since most of Castiel’s scenes were with Dean. If Jensen had learned anything from working on Supernatural, it was that chemistry was key and chemistry could not be faked. In order for Dean and Cas’s relationship to develop credibly, Jensen and Misha would have to become closer. This meant that Jensen could no longer hide behind his prickly façade and he had worried about what would happen once Misha was allowed behind that most efficient line of defence.
It had been just as bad - or just as good - as he had feared. He had discovered, much too late and much to his dismay, that Misha had a way of insinuating himself into your life and getting under your skin that was practically undetectable until you woke up one day to just find him there. Jensen had done his best to keep some distance, to appear friendly, yet still remain apart, but Misha had torn down his walls brick by brick until he had forgotten why he’d had them erected in the first place.
Jared had been absolutely no help. He seemed as taken with Misha as Jensen was, although in a different manner. On-set he would delight in Misha’s notorious lack of composure, finding the most outrageous ways of making the other man crack up. Jensen would be torn between affectionate amusement for them both and exasperation at the time it took them these days to shoot a scene. Off-set Jared had struck up a friendship with Misha that had made Jensen slightly jealous, full of playful teasing, shared grins and casual touches. Jensen longed to have that sort of easy friendship with Misha, but how could he, when every grin made his face burn with shy embarrassment and every touch made his skin burn with something else entirely? He frowned at Jared and Misha’s antics, shook his head and pretended to want no part of it, even to himself, until he could stand it no longer.
The publicity of his job had always bothered Jensen to some extent. He had never been entirely comfortable with being the centre of attention and having that many people so focused on him, trying to learn all his secrets. With knowing that his every word and every action were dissected online, and hidden and preferably sexual meanings interpreted into the most innocuous of conversations. Naturally, considering that such hidden meanings often existed, at least where Misha was concerned, this was not a reassuring thought and Jensen had used to dread the day when the fangirls would have their suspicions proven.
He had been especially aware of this during the few interviews he had done with Misha and Jared. Somehow, he had always ended up sitting between the two, probably due to the fact that his character was the link between theirs. They would sit together on a sofa or on chairs, always too close to each other, and he would do his best not to look at Misha, to pretend that he was not painfully aware of the other man beside him, his warmth seeping into Jensen, his slightest movement jostling Jensen’s body. But every time, bit by bit, Misha would make him forget himself, his wit would draw him in and Jensen would find himself giggling like a crushing schoolgirl, giddy and much too happy just to have this amazing man next to him to remember that this was exactly what he was trying to hide. And to his astonishment, the fans never quite seemed to suss it out. Yes, there were the usual comments and jokes, but no one seemed to take it too seriously. At least, they took it no more seriously than the rumours about him and Jared, and quite frankly that astonished Jensen perhaps more than it ought.
It was true that Jared was his best friend and after having both worked and lived together for as long as they had, they were probably as close to each other as two men could be without being lovers, which, somewhat ironically, was also the reason why they would never be more than friends. Jensen knew Jared, inside and out, and nothing Jared did really surprised him anymore. He knew Jared’s strengths and his weaknesses, had seen him at his best and at his worst, knew his dreams and his fears, just as Jared knew his. There was no mystery left between them, nothing to intrigue or fascinate. With Jared, everything was easy and comfortable, without drama and without tension, and while this was not a bad thing in a friendship, it was not what Jensen wanted in a relationship.
With Misha, it was different. Try as he might, Jensen didn’t think he’d ever figure Misha out, nor would he ever tire of trying. There were so many layers to the man; peel back one and something new would appear, shinier and brighter. Even if Jensen was to spend every minute of every hour of every day of the rest of eternity with Misha, he didn’t think he’d ever solve the mystery, mainly because there was no fixed solution. Misha kept changing, like a kaleidoscope of infinite patterns, new shapes and colours being added all the time, and so the fascination continued.
There were times when Jensen thought that he had finally figured it out, that he had somehow found if not the core, then the basic outline of Misha. Every time, he was proven wrong. Misha was like a truly infuriating puzzle. Once you’ve finished it and you think you’ve figured out how all the pieces fit together, you don’t so much discover that there are pieces missing, but that there are somehow extra pieces that you have no idea how to fit into the completed picture and they change the whole image, forcing you to start all over again. Misha simply refused to remain fixed long enough for anyone to pin him down and for some perverse reason, Jensen, who had always craved constancy as a source of security, found this absolutely irresistible.
Once Jensen had realised that he was in no danger of being exposed by the fans, he had had an epiphany. Rather than trying to hide from the public, he might actually be able to hide in public. Misha had displayed what Jensen considered an almost unhealthy interest in fandom and seemed to delight in teasing the girls and the women who squealed in delight every time the actors even looked at each other, and what better excuse could there be for Jensen to get his hands on Misha than to please the fans? The fans' gossip, which had been a source of dread for Jensen, could actually turn out to be his best cover-story.
Slowly and under the guise of messing with the fans, Jensen had begun to give in to his desires and, meeting no resistance, had gradually grown bolder. Looks had lingered a bit too long and yet Misha had not looked away. A hand had rested on Misha’s arm and had not been shaken off. An arm had been slung around Misha’s shoulder and Misha’s arm had come up to encircle Jensen’s waist. A glance and a grin had invited Misha to share in some inside joke or some source of happiness and Misha had glanced and grinned back. A soft kiss to the side of Misha’s head had made Misha lean in to accept it. It seemed no matter what he did, Misha not only accepted it, but welcomed it and Jensen’s treacherous heart had begun to fill not only with affection, but with something infinitely more dangerous: hope.
Surely it wasn’t just his imagination that Misha looked at him just as often and as long as he looked at Misha? That whenever Misha made a joke, he glanced over at Jensen, as if hoping he would laugh (which, naturally, he always did)? That when he made a comment or an observation, he appeared to seek Jensen’s approval (almost always given)? Cas and Dean’s disregard for each other’s personal space had slowly bled into the actors and even when there was an ocean of space around them, they were drawn to each other like magnets, sitting too close and brushing against each other when they walked. Electricity sparkled in the air, slowly and excruciatingly driving Jensen to madness, but still he did not feel secure enough to make his feelings plain. After all, Misha was a very tactile and affectionate person around his friends and Jensen had no proof, nothing beyond his own desperate wishes, that what Misha felt for him was different from what he felt for Jared. They were all friends.
*****
And so now here he is, sitting across from Misha in what is supposed to be some quaint roadside diner somewhere in the U.S. of A., and trying not to stare too obviously. Sam has gone off to snog some books or watch Casa Erotica - one or the other, and with Sam it doesn't seem to make much difference - and has left Dean and Cas to one of their ‘bonding sessions’ or whatever it is that the writers want to call this blatant fan service. Honestly, sometimes Jensen wonders why Sera, Ben and the others don’t just put the fans (and him) out of their misery and let Dean and Cas snog each other’s brains out, like they’re plainly dying to do (or maybe that’s just Jensen wanting to snog Misha’s brain out, but whatever - same difference). Misha is dressed in Cas’s standard outfit and his hair is as always charmingly mussed, while Jensen is lounging in his seat opposite him, a plate of delicious cherry pie in front of him.
Jensen knows that Jared still hovers somewhere in the background, ready to wreak havoc on Misha’s coverage. Admittedly, it won’t take much. His antics during their preceding scenes together have already shattered all semblance of composure and Misha has been reduced to a grinning, giggling wreck, his face scrunched up in that ridiculous, wrinkly, gorgeous smile of his, looking as unlike Cas as is possible for anyone who shares his face. Jensen is sighing and rolling his eyes, making it clear how tiring he finds them and how put upon he is, but he cannot keep his mouth from quirking upwards, not when Misha is beaming at him as if it’s his presence that put that smile on his lips.
Jensen sometimes thinks it’s lucky that Cas doesn’t smile more often. If the fangirls were subjected to that smile on a regular basis, they would soon forget about both Jared and Jensen. Misha would steal the floor entirely and Supernatural would be cancelled in favour of some show called The Angel of Light or something sappy like that. Jensen is honest enough with himself to admit that he’d be one of its most avid fans, but still, it wouldn’t be good for his career or his ego. Of course, one might expect that constant exposure to the blinding beauty that is Misha’s smile would eventually make the fans immune, but after having been the recipient of it almost daily for more than two years now, Jensen is still dazed by it and he likes to think that the fans would be no more resilient, if only because it would make him slightly less pathetic.
The first take of the scene begins and it is, to no one’s surprise, a disaster. They don’t even make it past Misha’s first line. Jensen can’t see Jared from where he’s sitting, but he knows he’s doing something by the way Castiel slides off Misha, like a veil falling from his face, and he can see Misha biting his cheeks, trying hard not to laugh. Naturally, it’s no use. It’s ironic that Misha, who seems unable to go for fifteen minutes without laughing out loud, has been cast to play such a serious character and Jensen still hasn’t decided whether Eric Kripke is the world’s biggest masochist or an evil genius. He’s leaning towards the latter.
The second take is slightly better and by the third, Misha actually manages to get his lines out while still in character. He doesn’t make it through the whole scene, however, and since they all really want to finish this scene before it gets dark, Jared is ordered to leave. Once his antagonist is gone, Misha actually starts acting like… well, like an actor.
It’s an interesting scene, actually, and for once, Cas is the one doing all the talking. He and Dean are discussing the civil war in heaven. Cas is unburdening himself to Dean, telling him of all his troubles, and Dean only listens, unable to provide any help beyond a sympathetic ear.
“I'm losing”, Castiel says in his gruff voice. “Each moment that passes, the followers of Raphael gain ground and their victory seems increasingly inevitable. I thought - “ he pauses, swallows, and tries again “ - when we stopped the Apocalypse, I thought that would be it, that we had passed the greatest hurdle. I was naïve to think so, to think that I could make a difference. I thought that what we did mattered.”
Dean leans forward, unable to sit quiet at this.
“It did”, he says hotly. “We already made a difference, Cas. We saved the world. Just because some winged dicks are trying to undo what we did, it doesn’t make it any less important.”
Castiel doesn’t seem to hear him. His sad eyes - blue, so blue, Jensen thinks - are lowered and he has that kicked-puppy look that not even Jared can pull off as well, the one that just begs you to hug him. Jensen’s not a method actor, but he can still feel Dean’s emotions, feel his frustration and his desire to help the angel in any way he can.
“I knew it wouldn’t be easy”, Cas continues after a brief moment of silence. “After Michael fell, I knew that there would be chaos and battles. Angels are not… flexible. Most of us need time to adjust to new ideas. We have been trained to follow orders and not to think for ourselves. I knew this new order of things would take some getting used to and that my brothers would need time to see that what happened was for the good. I also knew that there was always going to be a fraction of the Host that wanted the world to end the way it was written and that I would have to fight them. I just did not expect them be to be so many.”
Jensen has to fight against the impulse to reach out and take Misha’s hand. It’s not what Dean would do, however deeply he may feel for the angel. The thought jolts him out of character for long enough that he has time to think what an excellent job Misha is doing bringing across Cas’s pain and how difficult it is to reconcile this side of Misha with the giggling lunatic of only minutes ago. Then he slips back into Dean’s mindset.
Cas takes a deep breath and raises his eyes to look at Dean. For a moment, the ancient being that is the angel peers out from behind Misha’s face and there is such infinite sorrow and weariness in his eyes that no mortal could contain it. If Jensen could think, he would be in awe of Misha’s talents, but as it is, he has forgotten that this is just a scene, that they are just acting and that the man sitting across from him is not the angel that Dean loves, but the certifiable maniac that Jensen desires. He keeps searching for something to say, but there don’t seem to be any words that can ease Cas’s suffering - which is really just as well, since Dean doesn’t actually have any lines at the moment.
“I know what you think of my brothers, Dean”, Cas says. “But they are my family, and now that my Father has proven that he has voluntarily abandoned us, they are the only family I have. I had hoped that after my resurrection and the end of my exile, that I would be able to restore some of the kinship and heal the fracture between us. Some of my brothers and sisters have welcomed me back, but most of them still regard me with distrust. They feel that I chose the humans over my own kind and they can't forgive me for it. I'm constantly in battle and most of the time, I can't even remember what I'm fighting for. Especially when I would much rather be here.”
His voice trails off, but even to Dean’s ears, the unspoken “with you” rings clearly in the air between them. He knows that all he would have to do now would be to reach out, to claim Cas for himself and beg him not to go back and Cas would stay. They could finally be whatever it is that they’ve both been waiting to become and fulfil the potential that their relationship has always held, the consequences be damned. But at the same time, Dean knows that it would not be right and it would not make Cas happy. The angel needs to resolve this business with his brothers first. He cannot leave Heaven in a state of Civil War and he certainly cannot allow Raphael to win, especially since that would make all their struggles worthless and cut whatever time they would have together tragically short. Dean has not waited this long for a few stolen moments of happiness.
“I know”, he says gently, silently acknowledging Cas’s implicit confession. “And I wish you could stay. But you can’t, Cas. There is too much to fight for.” He glances down, the weight of the conversation becoming too much, and his gaze falls on the plate in front of him. A small grin spreads across his face. “For one thing”, he continues with sudden levity, as he cuts off a piece of the pie, “there’s this. You can’t tell me that this isn’t worth fighting for.”
The angel’s eyes widen as Dean’s hand reaches across the table, holding a forkful of delicious cherry pie. He opens his mouth to say something, which provides the perfect opening for Dean to slide the pie between his lips. Unfortunately, Jensen chooses that moment to meet Misha’s gaze and he sees there Cas’s confusion, but also his longing, his affection and his implicit trust in Dean. Caught in the headlight of all those emotions, he freezes slightly, his hand wavers and instead of feeding the pie into Misha’s mouth, it ends up smeared over his left cheek, all red and sweet and tempting.
Misha breaks down completely, his uncontrollable laughter diffusing the tension that had filled the room and only when the rest of the crew joins in and the room is filled with the sounds of murmurs and activity again does Jensen realise how unnaturally silent it had been. Apparently, he had not been the only one to have been caught by the intensity of Misha’s acting. He knows he’s blushing as bright red as the filling on Misha’s face and he hopes that the others are kind enough to attribute it to his messing up the scene. Handing Misha a napkin, he gives him a sheepish grin.
“Sorry, man”, he says. “And after that performance too. I can’t believe I screwed it up. That was an Emmy-moment if ever I saw one.”
Misha smiles at him, bright and forgiving.
“Guess we'll just have to recreate it, then. But I am curious to know how the hell you managed to miss my mouth that completely. Are you sure it was an accident? Or are you trying to shoulder Jared’s mantle?”
Jensen’s feels his eyes widen at the accusation and he knows he should laugh it off, since Misha is only teasing, but he can't stand the idea that Misha might think that he would do something like that.
“No”, he protests, “of course not. I just messed up. I wouldn’t do that, not after a performance like that. I’m not that much of a dick.”
This time, Misha’s smile is kind and reassuring. He leans over and places a hand on Jensen’s.
“I know”, he says. “I was just joking. Although I can’t help but wonder, if it wasn’t a practical joke and since it still seems like a really inconceivable accident, if maybe this is your subconscious way of saying that you would like to see me covered in cherry-filling. If so, might I suggest that this may not be the best of times or the most appropriate setting? Not that I’m opposed to the idea, but it seems rather a waste of such delicious pie not to get to eat it and I’m not sure what the others would say if you started licking it off my face right here and now.”
Wiping his face, he grins at Jensen, somehow managing to seem both mischievous and innocent at the same time. There is a glint of something in his eyes and Jensen can’t decide what it is or what it means, whether the offer is serious or just their typical brand of flirtatious banter. His own face is burning, hot enough to melt iron, and he is completely unable to think of a response. His eyes are drawn to a small red smear on Misha’s cheekbone that escaped the wipe-down and he finds himself imagining what it would be like to lean across the table and lick it off.
This thought is followed by images of his tongue tracing the lines of Misha’s face as the other man lies grinning beneath him, skimming the ridges of his sharp cheekbones, the wrinkles that scrunch up his nose, tracing its bridge down to the full mouth, marking its outline and descending to the dimpled chin and then continuing further down. He imagines Misha’s pale skin painted red with cherry filling, imagines tracing patterns across his chest and stomach and thighs, first with his fingers and then with his mouth, imagines writing his name there in sugary sweetness, licking it off, then writing it again, marking Misha as his over and over, until the other man acknowledges the claim by shouting what is written. His breathing becomes shallow as he pictures his sticky hands leaving marks on every part of Misha’s body, covering every inch of him that he has touched until there is not a glimpse of white to be seen. He sees their bodies entwining, the red spreading to his own more tanned skin, incontestable proof of their union.
It almost becomes to much to bear and he shifts slightly in his seat, praying that no one is watching him. But of course, Misha is and there is such a knowing look in his eyes that Jensen begins to fear that maybe he has somehow managed to channel Cas’s mind reading powers. Jensen looks away, forcing himself to take in the flurry of action going on around him as the crew gets ready to shoot the scene again, and he almost manages to banish the images from his mind, at least for the time being. He is not delusional enough to think that they will not reappear later, when he is alone, when darkness surrounds him and the fantasies do not seem so impossible.
Their second take goes much better, although some of the magic of their first shoot is lost through the repetition, and Jensen manages to get the pie into Misha’s mouth this time. However, since the universe hates him and has decided that he should not be able to rise from his seat, ever, lest all the crew see what Misha’s presence does to him, he leaves a trail of cherry on Misha’s full lower lip. He barely suppresses a groan of frustration when Misha’s tongue slips out to lick it off, agonisingly slowly, and he knows that the other man is doing it on purpose, because his eyes are fixed on Jensen the whole time. If Misha didn’t know about his feelings before today, he certainly does now and apparently, he’s going to use this knowledge to provoke Jensen until he spontaneously combusts. It shouldn’t be so surprising. Misha is evil, after all, and he probably sees all this as some sort of fun experiment, but Jensen’ll be damned if he goes down without a fight.
They do a third take and this time, when Dean leans forward to feed Cas the pie, Jensen resolutely holds Misha’s gaze as he slowly slips the fork between the parted lips. When he slides it out, he deliberately brushes Misha’s lower lip with it, once again smearing it red and, with obvious intent, drops his gaze expectantly to catch the sight of Misha’s tongue licking it off. Knowing that the camera is on Misha and he is therefore safe, he lets his own tongue slip out and trace a similar trail across his own lip. He almost crows in victory when he sees Misha’s eyes follow its motion and his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
Maybe not just an experiment then.
He is barely aware of what follows after that. All he can think of is getting this scene over with, so he can go back home and put the image of Misha watching his tongue on constant replay in his mind. He wants peace and quiet so he can come up with a plan of attack. After today, he is determined not to live in ignorance any longer. Their teasing dance has come to an end and it is time to determine whether they should just take their bows and go their separate ways for the night or if they should make their own music somewhere more private.
When the director finally decides that it’s a wrap, Jensen stumbles back to his trailer, barely stopping to accept the congratulations of his co-workers on a good performance. He has managed to get his body under some semblance of control, but he is unwilling to put it to the test by coming too close to Misha, so he ignores the other man’s glances in his direction and hurriedly leaves the set.
Once he’s back in his trailer he shuts the door behind him and leans against it with a deep sigh of relief. Still, he cannot quite suppress the grin that splits his face and the hopeful beating of his heart. He’s not crazy, he knows it, and soon Misha will know that he knows.
He shucks Dean’s shirt and t-shirt, but before he can find his own, there’s a knock on his door. Feeling slightly apprehensive, but also cautiously expectant, he goes to open it. As expected, Misha is standing outside, a strange, edgy look on his face. In his hands is a fairly large plastic container. He looks up and if Jensen didn’t know any better, he would say that Misha was nervous, but that’s impossible. Misha doesn’t do nerves. Jensen raises an eyebrow questioningly as Misha fidgets slightly and holds up the container as some sort of peace offering. He opens it and Jensen sees that it contains the remains of the cherry pie. As a grin once again spreads across his face, Misha’s face relaxes into one of its own and they spend a long moment gazing deeply into each other’s eyes, until Misha breaks the silence:
“I thought you looked hungry”, he says, stressing the word to emphasise its double meaning, “and trust me, this is sinfully good.” He lowers his eyes almost coyly, but Jensen can still see the impish spark in them as they look up at him through the heavy veil of lashes, sliding over the bare skin of his stomach and chest, as Misha continues, his voice full of mock-regret, “Unfortunately, I seem to have forgotten both plates and cutlery, but perhaps -” he licks his lips sensually “- we can make do without.”