Richard and Rob only dropped by the studio to make the trip out to Jacksonville with us later, and aren't actually needed on set, so they leave shortly after my confession.
But not before a thorough crack session about oral skills and the etymology of Cockles. Which I survive against all odds.
All along, I thought my relationship with Misha was shrouded in mystery, courtesy of my unparalleled acting abilities. Turns out it was just the other actors, who've gotten really good at pretending not to notice.
The evidence was smeared all over my face, all these years. Also, the Internet helped. Rob advises me to check out Tumblr when I have the time.
On set, Jared and I work with the guest vampire of the week on fight scene choreography. Our stunt coordinator, Lou Bollo, leads us through blocking of the scenes, walking us through the steps, shifting the marks...the whole shebang. Then it's on to filming.
After I voiced my opinion, the director and script supervisor made the executive decision to scrap the Destiel angle, which changes the tone of the entire show. So the writers have had a run for their money these past few weeks, salvaging what they could of the old script and pulling the rest of the plot pretty much out of their asses. Doesn't make much of a difference to us actors how late we get our script copies, anyway, because we more or less ignore it until the last minute, cramming excessively right before the scheduled shoot.
The pre-Destiel buildup is still there in season 12, and traces of it will inevitably linger in the new script, but the intimate scenes have been removed.
The execs weren't sure the social climate was right for that kind of story arc, anyway. Still, if it weren't for the watertight NDAs that were signed, I'd have hell to pay for pushing their hand. Especially from Misha.
The script supervisor and director are, for once, pleased with our work this morning. We film tight angles, snippets of dialogue, reaction shots, everything we need. There's usually something in every scene over which those two disagree, but a combination of the time crunch and the cast being too hungover this morning for devious fuckery have them cooperating, much to everyone's satisfaction.
"Take five minutes," the director finally orders. "We'll look at the footage and let you boys know if we need anything else."
In between takes, I loiter in the doorway of the makeshift bunker and take the time to text Misha like a supportive husband. I know he's taken to jogging later in the day now, because the weather warms up around noon, and he doesn't have as many scenes to shoot as Jared and I.
Me: Run Mish. Run like I'm waiting for you at the finish line.
I chuckle to myself as I pocket my phone, knowing Misha won't be able to respond for at least another half hour. I'm totally getting him that shirt.
Still clad in the Winchester-esque ensemble that wardrobe crafted for me, I seek out Jared.
I find him reading over his lines in front of his trailer, immersing himself in the role of Sam.
"Hey, Jackles," he calls out, face instantly clouded by remorse. "Sorry again about this morning, man."
"It's fine." I thought I'd let him stew a little, but I don't have the heart.
"I wonder if Misha knows we know," he muses.
"I honestly don't think he gives a crap anymore."
"So I take it he's still being distant with you?"
"Yeah. But it doesn't matter. I won't stop riding his ass about dinner until he lets up. And you," I turn on Jared just as his mouth opens on a salacious remark, "better lay off on the dirty puns for a bit. It's caused enough damage already."
Jared has the grace to blush, my reprimand staying his tongue.
"Let's go inside," he sighs, rubbing at his undoubtedly aching temples. "I made more coffee and it's freezing out here."
I'm not opposed to the idea, given how frigid our location site is this time of year. Plus, the logging road where we're filming is definitely not among the city's top snow-clearing priorities, and getting around this place is difficult. We've been trying to get as much as we can done before we will inevitably get snowed in. But we have huge four-by-fours and snow chains and other equipment prepared to deal with the harshest Canadian winters, so we should be fine.
Inside Jared's heated trailer, the smell of dark roast coffee percolates from the kitchenette, the weather channel playing silently on the TV.
"I still can't believe you're not hungover," Jared groans as I plop down on the ottoman opposite his sofa. "You were pretty hammered last night."
I shrug as he roots through the kitchen drawers, probably for some Advil.
"What can I say? Alcohol is my friend when Misha isn't."
"Damnit," he sighs at long last. "I've got fuck all in these cabinets." He pours himself a mug of steaming coffee from the carafe and takes a seat on the sofa. "So, when are you planning to tell Misha that you're joining California's most eligible bachelors soon?"
I merely shrug, reaching for the TV remote.
"He'd make a really good trophy wife, you know," Jared continues between sips of his coffee.
I gape, blindsided, as he adds, "I'd be all over that, if I was gay..."
Lucky for him, my five minutes are up. Jared Padalecki will live to see another day.
***
After wrapping up the scene, I settle down in my trailer with my phone. I've steered clear of Tumblr up until this point because I've heard they're dangerous waters for famous actors, but eventually curiosity gets the better of me.
A quick search reveals endless photo op stories of Misha and I blatantly flirting, and basically just interacting like gross boyfriends during convention panels.
So basically, Tumblr is losing its shit over how "he doesn't even try to act like he's not in love with Misha anymore" and fans all need to #pray4jensen.
Many stories also relate mysterious absences and tardiness on the part of Misha and I when we were supposed to be partaking in photo ops. I'm not saying I was off making out with Misha somewhere, but...
That's exactly what happened.
However incriminating, these snapshots are nothing but brief, stolen glimpses of my weaker moments...
usually rectified immediately when I'm reminded of the cameras.
The real Cockles moments play out behind the scenes, concealed from the public eye. Either no one is there to capture them on camera, or the cast and crew don't want to ruin the moment by snapping pictures. And I don't think the world is ready for them anyway.
I don't think people are ready to learn that some of our tweets were sent out while we were naked in bed, after fucking on top of every conceivable surface for four hours straight, while we were pretty much incoherent and high on endorphins. Or that sometimes we'd sit in bed together, bumping our heads and looking through pictures of each other on our phones before we posted them to social media.
Those moments always felt like stolen time, shielded from the outside world with its prying eyes. Occasionally, however, we would leave the tags and descriptions deliberately open to interpretation, offering the fans a small window of insight into the dirty context behind the pictures.
And thank fuck no one knows about the photos of each other stored in private folders on our phones. Like from that time Misha shaved some next-level pornstache onto my face because apparently dirty truckers really do it for him. I begged him to delete those shots, but to no avail. I'm pretty sure he even talked me into posting one of them.
And fans don't see us outside the camera frame during a scene: the touches and flirting we'd squeeze in before we'd be forced to scramble into position in order to hit our mark. Gestures like a lingering hand on Misha's shoulder, unwarranted by the script, are the only indications of any funny business.
There was even a lot of content left out of the gag reels...probably because it was all too explicitly gay.
I open my text messages to find a positively heartwarming reply from the love of my life.
Mishi: Fuck u
And I decide to roll with it.
Me: Fuck me bby
Mishi: FUCK u
Me: ;)
Me: I missed our playful banter
Mishi: who was playing
Me: MISH 0.0
I know he won't reply to my next text but I type it out and press send anyway.
Me: I love you.
***
My windshield wipers work furiously against the dulled lights of a city in the throes of a blizzard.
The flurries and the temperature gauge on my dashboard confirm that this is not ideal weather to be driving through the downtown area of the Vancouver city centre, hunting for a flower shop.
But here I am, huddled in my navy woven parka and scarf, doing just that.
I manage to find a quaint little florist that's open and peruse the selection of flowers, cheeks flushed the entire time with cold and self-consciousness. I don't really know what I'm doing, just that I'm pretty sure this is something romantic people do and everyone likes receiving flowers, I think, so Misha can't hate me for it, probably...
Plus, it's one more thing I never did for him when I had the chance. So I'm doing it now.
As soon as we wrap for the day, I make a break for Misha's trailer. Jensen Ackles cutting across the studio parking lot carrying a bouquet of sunflowers would normally garner a shitload of amused attention. But it's late and still snowing heavily, so most of the cast and crew are indoors.
One AD and an assistant camera operator issue mild sounds of astonishment. Vaguely, I hear them ask me with some mirth, did you lose a bet or something, and even did someone die?
I have no viable excuse, absolutely none at all. So I keep my head down and trudge my way across to Misha's trailer, trying my best to shield the sunflowers from the unrelenting snow.
When he doesn't answer my knocking, I assume Misha must be asleep and use the key he gave me a few months back to let myself in. The knocking was more of a token gesture anyway.
Once inside, a wave of nostalgia hits me with the impact of a freight train. How many times have I stolen into his trailer like this, and crawled into bed with him?
I set the flowers down on the nightstand and sit cautiously on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under our combined weight.
He's snoring softly on his side, looking adorably flushed and disheveled against the crisp, white pillows. Shirtless, with the sheets coiled around his waist and offering but a tantalizing glimpse of orange briefs.
My fingers reach out to trace the shape of him, relearning every line and wrinkle and tuft of scruff on his face.
The urge to slip in next to him and wrap my arm around his waist in a claiming motion just like old times is overpowering. It would be so easy. But I know without needing to be told that I don't get to do that anymore. I probably shouldn't even be here uninvited.
I breathe in the faint aroma of his body wash, Shea butter and Marula, pulling the sheets up and tucking them snugly under his chin. He shouldn't be sleeping so exposed; he could get sick.
I debate using some bullshit fabrication about the heating in my trailer conking out as an excuse to climb into bed with him, but think better of it.
I trail my fingers lightly along his thigh through the blankets, knowing he's ticklish there and finding it incredibly endearing when he gives an answering hum and twitch.
"Love you," I murmur wistfully. He doesn't respond, and I'm not surprised.
***
Our flight out of Vancouver is delayed slightly because of the snow, but eventually announced over the loudspeakers. The cast have first-class tickets so we get to line up and board the plane quite promptly.
We spend our first night in Jacksonville dining together in the city, and the return to humidity and haute couture is refreshing after almost three weeks in BC.
I give Misha my ball cap and make him entertain us with the India-Russian accent over dinner again - Dmitri, bring it out - then we take pictures with fans, hit up a few bars, get a little drunk. The usual.
I'm not that bad, just buzzed enough to tell Misha aww blow me, Cas and collapse against him by the end of the night.
The next morning, I sit down for breakfast in the hotel lobby, thinking about how the first day of the convention was honestly a blur for me: checking in, arriving at the event, the whirl of panels. I'm pretty sure I said some stupid, regrettable shit which I've already forgotten...but no surprises there.
At NJCon last year, someone in the crowd blurted out at one point that Misha had started a fire, and the mere mention of that handsome son of a gun immediately started one in my groin.
I told myself: keep it cool, play it off. Chill, man. Do not engage. Say something funny. Conceal don't feel. Try not to be so obvious. There are eyes everywhere. I repeat, do not-
Shiiiiit.
I just have to one-up myself at each convention, it seems. If I'm not busting a gut at every hint of Misha's India-Russian accent, I'm lapsing into full-blown Jensen-heart-eyes-Ackles mode.
I do my best not to slip up, but I'm not subtle by any stretch of the imagination. The cool and charming costar has always been my go-to trope; I try to hide behind my gruff mannerisms because otherwise I tend to erupt into flowery gushing and horrific unicorn laughter whenever Misha is within a fifty mile radius of me.
But, honestly, I am not even a man around him.
I make it publicly known during a panel with Misha that I loathe glitter, and then I hand him a pink, sparkly Valentine's Day card in front of most of the cast and crew: a moment he doesn't fail to capture on camera.
Not to mention my blatant displays of jealousy. A prime example cited frequently on social media is the so-called hand thing involving Mish and his whorish accomplice, Matt, whom I obviously love a great deal. I remember that day very well, and I would just like to go on the record as having said that I consider that particular event a great personal victory.
I saw them. I saw them getting all touchy-feely. Mish had his hand on Matt's shoulder, and the little shit knew I didn't like it one bit.
So I decided to give Mish a taste of his own medicine, inwardly seething while apparently being affectionate in caressing Matt's check. Little did the audience know I was barely suppressing the urge to slap it instead. But they were just spectators in a display of dominance and possession, most of them clueless as to what was really happening.
Mish did not like.
Because the cheek stroking was our thing, mine and Misha's, so this was sure to ground him a little bit.
It should also be noted that, to his credit, Matt definitely cued into what was going on. And he looked highly amused.
I placed my hand gently overtop of Misha's in a manner I could only hope would come across as causal, subtle...
But Misha certainly picked up on what I was getting at: Mish mine.
Little did everyone know, this whole episode was really between us. Matt had nothing to do with it.
Which is why, after my fake display of affection or tolerance or whatever...
I sent his whorish ass packing.
Misha understood everything...
Smart man.
And I know. I am an absolute fiend. But Misha's bright enough to have figured out by that point that I become a little less than rational whenever he gets too chummy with one of the other guys. He had it coming and he knew it. Maybe a part of him was even asking for that little display of jealousy.
But pulling my little sissy fits is risky. It's like slapping a big ol' myth-busters-style confirmed stamp on our relationship, for the whole world to see...
And then the brightest smile this side of the Milky Way cuts short my reverie of self-admonishment, and I completely lose track of what was probably a very profound line of thought.
The sight of Misha walking into the room, eyes creasing in his characteristic laugh lines, disarms me.
He's chatting with Jared, clutching a ceramic mug of what is probably one of his Japanese teas between his fingers. Faded, cotton pyjamas flow loosely around his shapely legs, leaving nothing to the imagination. And he is definitely not wearing underwear.
The few days' worth of stubble on his cheeks and the just-rolled-out-of-bed disarray of his chocolate locks ignites flames in my blood, tightening my dark wash jeans. I have to grab onto the edge of the table, grounding myself against the blood in my ears.
When Jared leaves, Misha fixes those smouldering blue embers on me and I'm embarrassed to admit that I have to adjust myself in my pants.
"Good morning, Jensen." His tone is clipped, bitter, but it barely registers anyway because I'm busy tamping down the urge to pinch his ass through those revealing pants.
Yes, Misha's ass looks amazing today and, no, I can't just be cool about it.
When I only gape at him in reply, he takes out his phone and shifts his attention to the screen, effectively forgetting about my existence.
I rise on shaky legs, making my way slowly towards the Misha-shaped distraction standing in the middle of the room. My breathing falters and stagnates as I crowd up behind him, hooking my chin over his shoulder. He stiffens, but continues to stand there and let me touch him.
This is what he's been doing lately. Misha's beautiful so I'm always touching him and he just...lets me. I don't know if it's out of pity or indifference or if he's just given up on trying to push my needy ass away because I am as persistent as I am handsy...but, either way, I'm grateful.
"Go out with me tonight?" I lean in close enough to get a good whiff of his coconut aftershave and tense up with a hot surge of arousal, thinking vaguely that room temperature shouldn't feel this muggy.
"No." The blue-eyed beauty doesn't even glance up from his phone, probably immersed in his Twitter feed.
"I know a few good places nearby," I begin, undeterred.
"There isn't time."
"We can find an hour."
"I can't."
"I love you."
Misha doesn't even give me a second's cursory glance before immersing himself in Twitter once more.
"Uh huh."
"I mean it," I whisper softly into his hair, hands petting gently down his back.
"Mm."