The day unfolds in a whirl of solo and combined panels, Q&A sessions, photos, and singing. During a brief break, I spot Misha laughing with Jared and a few of the teamsters, and make my way over to them.
Fuck, look at his ass, I groan inwardly. Is it getting more beautiful or am I just getting gayer?
As I reach the group, I catch the tail end of some story involving Jared and the stunt crew and one of the golf carts on set. Amidst peals of laughter, I crowd next to Misha, my hand smoothing down the length of his spine and my smile taking on a softness reserved only for him. My hands settle absently on those delectable hipbones of Misha's while he chatters on, unfazed.
When Daniela comes to fetch Jared and I, I give Misha a parting smack on the ass and follow the two to my next panel. A group of girls see the gesture and erupt into a fit of rabid squeals and giggles, whipping out their phones with lightening reflexes. I catch fragments of breathy whines lamenting I just want to live my life and when your OTP is canon af but not officially and can I please live?
I know I resolved to respect Misha's personal space in front of the fans, but it's no big deal that they witnessed this, because my hand has always been more or less surgically attached to his ass during cons anyway and he's never called me out on it. He simply stares ahead with a tight-lipped smile and resumes his dialogue.
I send the girls a knowing wink and they hit the ground.
Jared and I walk side-by-side behind Daniela, our procession flanked by handlers and bodyguards. I lean closer to Jared's ear, keeping my voice hushed.
"Hey, have you talked to Misha lately?"
"Sure," Jared frowns, puzzled. "Back there, just now-"
"No, I mean really talked to him. Has he opened up to you at all?"
Jared scratches the back of his neck in thought.
"Not really," he muses as we round a corner in the network of hotel corridors. "I mean, he usually just brushes me off, says he's been busy. Something about family issues, but apparently nothing pressing or unusual. He wouldn't really say much."
***
Like all Creation conventions, this one is a hit. We take the panels by storm, leaving the stage to wild applause. Jared is a ball of energy as usual, much to the audience's delight. But this kind of interaction has never been my forté; I usually just try to ride Jared or Misha's coattails as best as I can.
I see my baby again at the end of the day, standing backstage and talking to a handful of girls, as is custom at every convention. Fans like to interact with him after the event, share their stories and the impact he's had on their lives, gush over what an accomplished little nugget he is, et cetera. At least two of them are crying, which isn't unusual, but Misha's facial expression is. There's sympathy, sure, but also...anger, I think.
Resolving to ask him about it later, I head back to the hotel with Jared and the others in Clif's car. We stand around in the corridor outside our rooms talking about the panels we've shared.
I'm still a little bummed out that I didn't have any with Misha. But it's probably for the best, because if I did share any with him, the cast and crew would be mocking me right now, laughing about how I was drooling and tripping all over myself around him on stage.
They've always enjoyed exploiting my feelings for Misha, oftentimes throwing me under the bus on social media and at public events.
But I can't really blame them. Even those members of the cast and crew who don't know me personally know that I am the proud director of some of the most emotional, intimate scenes between Dean and Cas. They were able to witness, either live or in post-production work, the lapses in professionalism that came in the form of unnecessary or prolonged, unscripted and even scripted, touching between our characters.
They also witnessed troves of other not-exactly-straighty-one-eighty moments between us on set.
Not to mention the hungry looks.
From blatantly checking each other out...
to more subtle, stolen touches...
to the complete lack of any concept whatsoever of personal space...
So, all things considered, I guess the fans' reactions are equally understandable. Although I do seem to bear the brunt of their frustrations.
Probably also fittingly.
I've gotten it all: Gross boyfriends; get a room, you two; your gay is showing; Jensen Ross Ackles, can you please go two seconds without eye-fucking your co-star; Misha is a milk carton and Jensen is so thirsty; Jensen, just stop; Jensen, what are you doing, we can see you; you're on camera and you need to get this very heterosexual video done; Jensen's hands are out of control, Misha is mine they say; Misha is exhausted from the sexual attacks; keep eye-fucking him like that and you'll impregnate him with quintuplets; JFC Jensen can't take his hands off Misha; Jensen is clearly just saying fuck it at this point, he'll probably give Misha a lap dance at the pace we're going; Jensen will use every excuse to touch any and all available parts of Misha's body unnecessarily, even pulverizing fans between them; dude has it bad; I can't believe we missed the wedding, control your pupils, and so on.
Control myself, they tell me. As though it were that easy. What fans see is my controlled self; all those incriminating moments the cameras pick up are just accidental lapses in my chill. And I can't help those because Misha's so perfectly adorable I'm unstable. He's so cute and soft and he's got those big, blue peepers and delicious booty and unruly dark hair and those hips, those beautiful wings of bone that taunt me with lewd glimpses of tan flesh beneath his hemline and, damnit, he's forty-two; he's not allowed to be this adorable...
When I talk about him to the audience, I can't help that my eyes literally glaze over and this signature smile slides onto my face that's reserved solely for him and my whole composure becomes a dead giveaway. It's just not the way bros interact. He looks at me and I just smile and smile and smile for like eighty-three years.
The camera flashes and the audience members drift a million miles away when I'm on stage with Misha. I forget about the Internet and the frame-by-frame social media posts and the fans who dissect every touch, expertly comparing the way I interact with Misha and the way I interact with Jared to underscore how much more the former can get away with than the latter. It doesn't escape them that Misha is always allowed to get a little closer, touch me a little longer and a little more intimately, without ever being pushed away. He's allowed to steal into my personal space like no other man; I accept the kisses on the neck and the cheek-stroking during interviews, and even initiate - rather than simply tolerate - affectionate gestures.
What is personal space? Dean wouldn't know, at least not when I'm acting around Misha. In the script of the trademark Personal Space scene, Dean was supposed to take two steps back from Cas - because that's what you fucking do when you actually, truly want personal space - but, as the world now knows, I didn't...because I didn't. I didn't want space. Instead I leaned in just a little closer, almost reflexively, my gaze sliding down to his lips like it was bent on outing me before millions of viewers.
A fucking legend that scene is now.
Between our physical proximity and the touches I've stolen and the sheer number of times I've looked at his lips or licked mine during our scenes together, the gay vibes in the show are often stronger than Dwayne Johnson. And everyone sees it. And is sure to give me crap about it. And still I can't help it.
I'm leaning against Jared's hotel room door, toying with my room key and listening half-heartedly to the guys talking, when approaching footfalls cause me to lift my head inquisitively.
Misha is storming down the lengthy hallway in our direction looking like a wrathful sex overlord in a frayed pair of jeans and worn Metallica T-shirt, sights set on me.
"Oh, fuck, Jensen..." Jared's eyes widen like saucers, voice hushed conspiratorially. "Looks like you've earned yourself twenty."
Richard's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, mouth falling open when he looks up to see the fuming man making his way toward us.
"Better make that thirty...with the mean flogger. That is no daddy misses baby face."
I swallow over the muted laughter and gleeful, witty rejoinders issued by the men.
"Shut up, guys, and fucking help me," I plead. Shit, what did I do? Was it something I said?
"Okay," Rob scratches his beard, visibly wracking his brain. "I'm trying to think-"
"Quickly," I hiss. "He's coming."
"Okay. Here's my honest to goodness advice to you right now. When you get to his room, get up on the bed on your hands and knees. Naked-"
"Scratch that," Richard interjects, "white thong, cotton bunny tail-"
"Don't forget to call him Daddy," Jared supplies.
"Oh, and don't even bother with the safe-word tonight. Take your punishment like a big boy."
"Fuck you too," I gruff.
"Hmm no," Rob mutters under his breath. "I think it's just your ass on the line tonight."
Before I can open my mouth on another snarky retort, Misha's in front of me, breathtaking cerulean orbs glued to my green ones. My throat dries.
"Hey, Mish, looking good," I blabber, smiling breathily and fighting every urge to haul ass to the nearest emergency exit and skip town, possibly the state. He looks pissed out of his mind.
"Sorry to interrupt, guys," Misha smooths coolly, "Can I just borrow Jensen for a bit?"
When the others step back with raised hands and murmurs of awed consent, I gulp anxiously, mentally damning them all to hell.
Misha doesn't say anything more, just raises an eyebrow at me and jabs his thumb over his shoulder. Damnit, he's always scarier when he says nothing.
I assume he wants to go back to his room to talk. But I don't get a chance to ask any questions before Misha grabs my arm and starts pulling me along after him.
He takes the stairs down a level to his floor, with me in tow and reevaluating my life the entire time. Specifically, the last few hours. It must have been something I said, but I'm so lost NASA couldn't even find me at this point. And-
Oh.
Clarity strikes at the same time my body strikes the inside of his hotel room door. My head spins, throbs from the impact, and it suddenly hits me.
Destiel.
"You insensitive, anal, little fuck," Misha breathes, shoving me again against the cool, white-painted surface with unbridled rage. "What have you done?"
"Mish," I croak, a thousand dazzling stars dancing before my eyes. "I-I didn't-"
"I'm not interested in what you didn't do," he seethes, crowding against me. "Think hard about what you did say, Jensen, and say it again to my face. Come on." He snatches up fistfuls my cardigan with both hands. "Come on, you know what you said to the fans today. Say it to my face, you little shit."
The pounding of my heart strikes my chest with renewed force as he glares at me, searing me with eyes like hot, glowing coals of fury.
"Please," I gasp, "I'm sorry-"
"Sorry," Misha explodes, my eyes squeezing reflexively shut. His voice drops, menacingly low. "Oh, you're sorry. No problem. That's fine. Except, oh right, there is this tiny matter of - my forgiveness doesn't exist!"
He slams my body into the wall adjacent to the door, the sudden impact knocking the air from my lungs in one fell swoop. Fuck. He just lost his shit.
My knees buckle. My vision swims, ears ringing. I gasp, scrabbling desperately for oxygen, but my breath is lodged in my throat with shock and the hands fisting roughly at my shirt collar. "Just like your common fucking sense does not exist," he spits, pulling me forward only to slam me back, harder. "Just like your respect for the fans doesn't exist. Just like your consideration for the future of the show doesn't exist." He starts punctuating the adjectives with forceful slams of my shoulders into the wall. "Just like my patience for your bigoted-" slam "-callous-" slam "-ignorant-" slam "-hateful-" slam "-inconsiderate-" slam "-heartless ass does. Not. Exist-" slam, slam, slam.
If I wasn't hunching my shoulders to protect my head, I would have passed out by now.
"M-Mish," I pant, choking as the pressure around my throat tightens like a vise, wondering if this is how I die. It's possible. The man crowding me is more Cas than Misha right now, all rogue, untameable angel of death and, fuck, he gives me the chills when he talks like that. He just got a hundred times hotter. "Please-"
"But let me tell you what does exist, you unapologetic dick," Misha snarls, so close that I can practically taste hot, minty breath, "now that millions of people around the world will get to hear the bullshit that spewed from your mouth on this day."
I whimper, closing my eyes in defeat, entire body thrumming with genuine fear and aching from the painful collisions.
"Plummeting show ratings, Internet fights, drama and hate all over social media, the disappointment and heartbreak of countless loyal fans who will now come crying to me - you have no idea what that does to me - and without whom your ungrateful ass would be unemployed, not that I expect you to understand what it means to have nothing-" Misha freezes suddenly, disbelief flitting over his face as he staggers back from me.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowed at me in confusion. "Why are you hard?"
Shit.
Casting my eyes downwards, I use my brute man strength to try and will away my blush. But the tent in my jeans is unmistakable, painfully incriminating, and a blaze of crimson races through my cheeks anyway. Despite my efforts, I can't tamp down my arousal.
While I've been scared shitless, my dick was apparently getting excited, its distinct outline a testament to everything that's wrong with me. Oh, fuck, could I be more disgusting? Could I repulse Misha more, push him further away, if I tried?
My eyes burn with the realization that my chances are definitely zilch now, pushed infinitely far out of the realm of possibility. As if he didn't already have enough reasons to loathe my guts, I had to go and pick a fight with Captain Collins of the SS Destiel.
Whereas Misha and Random Acts have spent this convention raising money for Nicaragua and thanking fans for their contributions, I've been driving said fans away by throwing around thoughtless comments I can't even remember a few hours after the fact. I didn't think for a second about the weight my words might carry for them. Misha has come to be crazy protective of Destiel, but it's nothing compared to how protective he is of his fans. I've disturbed the momma bear by poking a stick at her cub, and now...I'm done for.
Dear Father in heaven, if you're listening, please smite me where I stand.
"Mish, I'm so sorry." Fuck. I'm going to cry. My voice is breaking, snapping with anguish and remorse and I'm going to start bawling like a flustered three-year-old. I wish he'd just let me leave, so I can go and dig my grave in peace.
There's a long, festering stretch of silence in which I really want to escape, maybe crawl under my bed and die, or else evade all contact with humanity for the remainder of my life, and possibly, while I'm at it, I'll murder all of my so-called friends.
What Misha does next makes my heart collide violently with my ribcage in shock. He sinks down to his knees in front of me, unzips my fly and yanks my jeans and underwear down to my ankles with one deft flick of his wrists. And engulfs my dick in his mouth.
And I die.
My mouth falls open on a silent gasp, heart lurching to a standstill and head spinning so fast that if it wasn't for the hands gripping my hips I would topple over and pass out from the overwhelming emotional stress.
The suction - the soft, moist warmth of Misha's mouth - feels incredible on my heated, oversensitive flesh. His lips stretch obscenely around the girth, sliding furiously up and down the length of my throbbing member. I can't speak or breath or function. I can only choke out a strangled sob of pleasure and pure hunger as he goes down on me, my dick growing, throbbing inside the tight cavern of that glorious mouth with every bob of his head. He pulls me in deeper on each stroke, talented tongue sliding over the head and spreading saliva along the pulsating shaft. Until suddenly, I hit the back of his throat. In a remarkable display of Misha versus his gag reflex, he pulls me down past his tonsils, deeper into that hot, silken canal until his nose is buried against the thatch of dark hairs on my groin. And that does it.
Between his sheer talent and his determined, I'll drain you style of sucking and the shock of it all and the fact that I was already so aroused and it's been so damn long and it's Misha, I come embarrassingly quickly.
My head kicks back, toes curling, back arching. Muscles tightening. Thighs shuddering, straining under my weight, synapses firing in my brain like fireworks. Mouth agape on a desperate moan as white pockets of light erupt across my sight. I could swear my soul leaves my body for a second.
A mangled cry is wrenched from my body as I coat his insides with my release. Misha takes it all, swallowing wave after wave of the hot, gushing liquid dousing his throat until I collapse back against the wall, panting and completely stated. My breath crashes through the silence, my softened member slipping from his mouth and falling limply between my quivering legs.
"There you go." After finishing me off, Misha rises to his feet and calmly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"That was a bro-job," he offers by way of explanation. "You can file it away with other bro things like telling your bro I love you because you're dying and you need to say it; being ready to die for your bro twenty-four-seven because life doesn't mean shit without your bro; keeping your bro's coat in the trunk of your car to remember him by after losing him; calling your bro sunshine, screaming your bro's name to wake him from death; running away from your bro to keep the attackers away from him; praying to your bro every night; getting lost in your bro's eyes like you wanna get laid; telling your bro I need you on your knees; risking your life, leaving it all behind, giving up everything - doing everything you've ever done - for your bro. Now get out of my sight."