Jared takes me through his daily exercise routine, and if I thought nighttime fun with Misha Collins was a workout, I'm forced to think the fuck again.
We start with treadmill jogging, just a few minutes to warm up and get some cardio in. What follows is a flurry of bench presses - inclined and regular -then push-ups and push-downs - walking and burpee and regular - followed by a variety of different leg raises and planks and crunches.
It's no wonder Jared went from skinny to ginormously ripped in the space of a few seasons.
Like me, he focuses on his core muscles and upper-body strength, and we finish with dumbbells - three sets, ten reps - and three sets, twelve reps of tricep dips.
I collapse on the floor after the last tricep dip, fire coursing up and down my arms and churning my blood to boiling, breath escaping in ragged pants.
I'm in pretty good shape, putting in a few solid hours on my body every day, so the exercise only serves to invigorate and relax me. Every muscle in my sweat-drenched body is completely loose, the tension gone from my shoulders and back.
I draw a hand down my glistening face, flushed and burning from exertion, basking in the wonderful spike of endorphins. I scramble to my feet, entire body throbbing with each heartbeat.
Jared slings his towel over his shoulder and empties the remainder of his stainless steel water bottle. Still riding an elated high from the workout, I follow him upstairs with the intention of showering.
I love this post-workout feeling; it's better than any of the drugs I tried in college. In hindsight, I was pretty stupid, recklessly chasing a cloud nine-hundred euphoria that I can obtain by stretching my muscles a little.
Dani's sitting on the bed folding laundry when I emerge from the shower, a towel wrapped around my waist.
"Babe, we need groceries," she hums, adding one of my plaid button-downs to the stack. I cross the room and grab it, before pulling it over my head.
"I'll take care of it." I lean down to plant a quick smooch on the top of her head.
Dani beams up at me and then pulls me in by my jaw, connecting our lips in a kiss.
"Okay, check and see if you're running low on anything before you go. Toothpaste, shampoo..."
"Mhmm." I discard the towel and pull on a pair of clean boxers and ripped jeans. "I have everything I need."
"Okay. See ya, babe."
"See you," I call over my shoulder. "Take it easy while I'm gone."
Downstairs, I pocket my keys and wallet and head out the door, locking it behind me. I sniffle against the crisp late-November air as I walk around to the driver's side of my car.
I'm not sure what Misha's planning to make for lunch, so it's difficult to make a mental list of the supplies needed. I send him a hasty text before starting the car with a flick of the keys in the ignition.
I make sure to don a pair of sunglasses and a hat before leaving the car. No matter how accustomed I am to this lifestyle, it still irks me to find surprise snapshots of me in various states of my grocery runs online. I love my job, but signing paperwork, fielding the media, getting ambushed by reporters and journalists that swarm me out of nowhere...not so loveable.
I pick up herbed cheese, black olives, tomatos and chickpeas for Misha, and a few other essentials. It's a quick, uneventful trip, thankfully: just in and out without my being recognized.
Back home, I push the front door open with my left foot and pad across the large, open layout floor with the grocery bags in hand. The place smells amazing.
The sound of Misha's voice carrying from the kitchen causes an uptick in my pulse.
"Oh, I tried, but you know him," I hear Misha hum contently. "Mhmm - that's right. Stubborn as a mule."
Rounding the corner, I see him standing with his back to me, facing the oven. A white apron hangs from that delicious hipline of his.
"Mhmm. Well, then I said to him, that's enough Jensen. And then he said to me," Misha lowers his voice to an exaggeratedly masculine timbre, even for him, "it's gonna take a lot more than that to get me drunk, Mish."
He's got a pan of stir-fry sizzling on one burner and a pot of something boiling on another. One of the cordless home phones is propped under his left ear while he chops a carrot on a wooden cutting board next to the oven. "And then I said to him, I'm pretty sure ten is enough, Jensen."
I watch him slide the thin carrot slices into the boiling water and reach for the herb cupboard. "Fuck off, he said. So I did. And let me tell you, Mrs. Ackles, that night made me want to give up on alcohol forever."
Misha unscrews the cap on the parsley jar and I lean in the doorway, listening. "He found a blue bucket caked in mud on the side of the road, made me pull over. Almost ran over a stop sign because of him."
Misha sprinkles a light dusting of the herb across the water's surface and grabs a wooden spoon from the counter. "Anyways, he named the bucket Steven and brought it back to the set - yes - no, I'm not bullshitting you, Mrs. Ackles."
There's a pause and then Misha's head tips back on a deep, buoyant laugh. "Mhmm, yes. He does love to name things."
Misha stirs the soup with one hand while returning the parsley jar to the cupboard with the other. "He drew a face on it with a sharpie, pulled his shirt off and dressed it - no, I'm not fucking with you - then he sang it a lullaby and passed out on the floor with it in his arms."
My upper lip curls in a grimace at my vague recollection of that night. It's still blurry, but Misha helped me piece together what happened, and loves to torment me with the story.
"Oh, okay. Well - yes - of course, thank you. You have a good day too, Mrs. Ackles. Take care. Mhmm, bye now."
Misha clicks the phone off and turns to place it back in its cradle, freezing when he notices me watching. "Jensen," he gapes. "Hey, you're back. How long were you standing there?"
"Long enough." I arch an eyebrow and lift the bags onto the counter before starting to rummage through them, pulling out the food that needs to be refrigerated first. "You were on the phone with my mom just now?"
"Yeah. She called and Dani didn't want to pick up for some reason, asked me to take care of it. So I lied and told her you were both out - which, by the way, I'm not doing again. Your mom is awesome; I hate lying to her."
"What if she asks you if you're gay for me," I smirk, reaching to place the cheese in the stainless steel fridge. Misha stops me, taking it from my hand and placing it near the cutting board.
"Every guy on set is a little bit gay for you, Jensen." Misha smiles, lowering his head ruefully.
I frown as he digs through the drawers, producing a grater.
"But you're a lot gay for me, right?"
Misha pauses his peeling of the plastic cheese wrapping to turn towards me.
"Yeah," he agrees, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I'm a lot gay for you."
He walks over and plants a hard smooch to the center of my forehead before starting to unload the rest of the bags. "Thanks for getting all the stuff I asked for."
"No problem. So, uh... What'd you talk about?" I hold the fridge open while he makes room for the milk bag, feigning nonchalance.
Misha's answering grin is almost disturbing.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
The pot on the stove starts bubbling dangerously before I can fire off a retort, white froth building on the surface as the heat builds.
Misha wraps the dish towel around his right hand and eases it off the heat while switching off the burner with the other. "How come you didn't tell me you got jumped by clowns as a small child? That explains so much about you."
I groan at the heart-sinking reminder, leaning my weight against the fridge.
"I can't believe she told you about that."
Misha digs out a spoon from the cutlery drawer and dips it in the soup, humming noncommittally before taking a tiny sip of the scalding liquid.
"That for dinner?"
Misha nods, the content smile on his face indication that he's satisfied with the taste. "Can I try some?"
"Sure." He holds out the spoon containing the residual liquid, but I ignore it, instead swooping down onto his lips.
Misha jumps back immediately, and my protest is silenced by the panic ringing his dark blue eyes.
Then I hear it: the sound of someone bounding down the stairs. Too heavy to be Gen, too quick for Dani -
"Jared," Misha greets, smiling warmly at the freshly-showered giant now striding into the kitchen.
"Mmm, Misha - smells amazing." Jared walks over to the oven and sniffs at Misha's creations. "Fuck, I just had to follow my nose down here."
"Well, help me set up," Misha requests, moving to open the cupboard over the microwave and revealing stacks of bowls and plates. "Lunch won't be finished for another half hour or so but you and Jensen can set the table since you're here."
Jared nods obligingly and splits off a pile of six plates with me before heading around to the kitchen table. I follow sullenly, and we begin setting the dishes and cutlery down.
After we set the table, JJ comes traipsing into the kitchen with FooFoo wrapped around her shoulders and her colouring book in hand.
"'Isha, colour with me," she insists, bouncing on the tips of her toes.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Misha pouts, turning from the oven where he's stirring vegetables in the pan. "'Isha has to make lunch." He looks pointedly at me over her head. "Daddy will colour with you, right daddy?"
I was just about to challenge Jared to some video games but-
"Sure. Come on, JJ." I reach for my little girl's hand and she scampers after me into the adjacent living room. "What are we colouring today?"
I settle on the black leather couch and JJ plops down on my lap, feet swinging excitedly as she opens her book.
"Princesses," she sings excitedly.
I run my fingers through her silky, blonde hair while she rips open her pencil case and selects a bold fuchsia.
She smells like lavender, warm and energetic as she burrows against my chest. The colouring book is balanced across her kneecaps, FooFoo now pooling around her waist as she works.
Her anguished cry snaps me out of my doze, which is when I realize I drifted off.
"Daddy, it's ruined," she whines, brandishing the page with an irritated huff. I look at the image of Cinderella trying on the glass slipper, streaks of colour strewn haphazardly across the page.
"Sweetie, you have to colour inside the lines," I mumble groggily. "But it's not ruined, it's-"
JJ cuts me off with an indignant scream, literally tearing the page from the book. "JJ, stop that-"
"No! It's not the right pink, daddy; it's ruined!"
"It's not ruined, sweetheart-"
"You don't know anything, daddy! It's horrible!"
JJ hurls the book with all her might and it smacks against the TV screen before sliding to the carpet in a heap of crumpled pages.
It's silent for a moment. My nostrils flare; JJ tenses in my lap.
"Young lady-"
"Leave me alone," JJ screams, already bolting from my lap and booking it for the exit.
"Justice Jay Ackles, come back here," I warn, trying my best to keep my voice level, calm.
Looking more cool and composed than I feel, I cross the room in a few quick strides and snatch up JJ's wrist. "That's not acceptable behaviour, young lady, and you know it."
I kneel in front of my daughter, gripping her wrists in my hands just tight enough to prevent her from fleeing, gentle enough not to hurt her.
"I hate colouring. It's stupid, I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it-"
"Justice-"
"You can't make me not hate it," she practically screams in my face. I narrow my eyes, now livid. What's gotten into her? Her attitude is outrageous; she can't be allowed to get away with his or it'll set a bad precedent.
I swallow, mentally debating how to proceed. I need to discipline her somehow; that much is obvious.
Before I get a chance to make up my mind, JJ slips from my grasp and bolts from the room. I sigh, rising resignedly to my feet. A few moments later, I hear a door slam upstairs.
She just threw a temper tantrum. They're getting more and more frequent, and I don't know what to do.
***
I find Misha asleep on the living room couch in the evening, JJ curled into his side, while some Christmas cartoon is playing on the TV across from them.
I ease the remote out of Misha's hand and use it to silence the TV before scooping JJ up in my arms. Being careful not to wake her, I carry my little girl upstairs and put her to bed. Hoping some rest will make her feel better, I return downstairs.
"Mish," I whisper, sweeping a hand through the beautiful man's disheveled hair. "Wake up."
Misha shifts slightly on the couch, moving an awesome pair of hips against my elbows.
Shivers run along my body, intensified by my hammering heart and collecting in my stomach.
I unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt, pressing my nose to his neck and nuzzling close to his ear as I delight in his scent.
"Jensen," he mumbles with a distant kind of grogginess.
He's stirring me up so bad without even trying, giving rise to dark intentions deep in the pit of my stomach just by existing in this sleepy, muddled state.
"Hey, baby, wake up."
I take his left hand in mine. His hands are gorgeous: smooth and flawless with unexpectedly dainty fingers. I gently thumb and stroke the ring I gave him while he uses his other hand to scrub at his bleary eyes.
"What time is it?"
"Half past ten. You must've been pretty tired. What'd you do all afternoon?"
His response makes my throat tighten and constrict with dread, spearing my heart like a pitchfork and twisting.
"Packing. I'm going home, remember?"
I feel like a giant chasm has been ripped in the ground beneath me, and the hundred foot drop has me dizzy with dread.
I basically lose my shit.
I grab him almost violently, colliding our mouths in an urgent kiss that sends a sweep of heat from my lips down as soon as they connect with his.
It's like I'm parched and his mouth is a desert oasis.
I climb into his lap and grip the sides of his face to pull him in closer to me, every electrical impulse in my body thrown completely out of wack.
Anxiety crawls up from the pit of my stomach to tighten my throat; I fight the stinging urge to cry prickling behind my eyes and instead scrape teeth over his lips to pull them apart, crushing his limber, too-hot-for-words body against mine.
Desire ignites in my blood and burns in my pulse, hammering in veins.
"Don't go," I breathe on a brief parting of lips. The words barely slip my mouth before Misha yanks me in for a second mind-blowing kiss that scorches me from head to toe.
I'm lost in the sensation of his skin, softer than cashmere and sending tiny thrills shooting from my fingertips straight to my heart, and the soft, voiceless noises slipping from his mouth...so hard I can barely continue existing.
"Don't be stupid; I have to go," he gasps when we break apart once more. He's going home. He's leaving me.
"You're neglecting me," I mutter darkly.
Misha leans in for another kiss but I dodge his lips, a flash of unreasonable irritation taking hold of me. "You think going ham on my mouth like that is going to make me feel like a special fucking snowflake? Try staying."
"Jensen," Misha says, and there's a dangerous undertone echoing around my name. "We got together in September, spent every single night of October together, and I've just spent two weeks of November with you. And as if that wasn't enough, we have one last con together before the end of the month. So try telling me one more time how I'm neglecting you."
I rest my head on his shoulder, seeking comfort from the familiar gesture. His head leans against mine for the briefest moment, just like it always does.
"Come back for Christmas then," I mutter, wrapping my foot around his calf.
"I'll have to talk to Vicki," he allows, dropping the subject. "I haven't seen my family in a while-"
"Please, Mish." I shut my eyes, stomach churning bitterly. "The babies will be born by then and it'll be crazy around here. Dani and I won't be able to manage everything on our own-"
"Won't your family be coming over to help?"
"Just my parents and my sister. Josh can't make it because he's spending Christmas with the in-laws overseas."
"Mackenzie will be great with the babies, I'm sure."
"It's not just the babies I'm worried about, Mish," I counter stiffly.
"Aww, you worried about your little friend," Misha offers jokingly, patting my crotch with a sly smile. I ignore the mini bursts of pleasure detonating in my body at his coquettish challenge.
I move from his lap to sit next to him on the couch.
"Little friend," I demand with a scathing growl. "Why don't you take that up with Jen and Sen, see what they think about how little my friend is-"
Misha bends down to place a repentant kiss right on my crotch.
"I'm sorry, poor word choice. Look, I'll talk to Vicki about Christmas, see if she and the kids wanna spend it at yours this year. It isn't fair to them that I'm gone so much of the time."
"Well, I need you too. So I think it's pretty fair and fucking square."
"Oh yeah?" Misha crawls onto my lap and straddles me, leaning into my ear. "Tell me more about how you need me."
His devastating mix of sexy authority and flirtatious challenge makes me want to get down and dirty right here in the living room, but I'd be dumber than dog shit to try it.
A lick of indignation whips through me. "Why the fucking hell aren't we upstairs having sex," I demand.
"Because, Jensen," he says with an arduous tone, "technically I should be packing right now and you said you'd vacuum the hallway."
"Oh look," I intone darkly. "More neglect."
Misha grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet. I stand up on shaky legs, drawn into his chest and inhaling his familiar scent of leather, musk and vanilla.
Then I'm being dragged up the stairs and into Misha's room, throbbing with insatiable desire. And it's zero to a fucking trillion on the horny scale, just like that.