Getting picked up by a network like Showtime can mean a lot of things. For Supernatural, it means a longer life. For Dean and Sam, it means more monsters to fight—more graphically—and more people to save. For Dean and Castiel it means…well. It means there’s nothing holding them, or the writers, back from finally cashing in on all of the staring, the invasions of personal space, the I did it all for you’s.
For Jensen and Misha, it means becoming a lot closer than they were previously.
Not talking about it is a mutual agreement. At least, Jensen’s pretty sure it is; since they’re not talking about it, they never actually say anything on the subject at all, even to agree not to. All Jensen knows is that Misha never approaches him about it, not even to tease. Jensen’s sure Misha isn’t uncomfortable with it, which makes him wonder if Misha thinks he is.
That’s not the case, not the way people might think. The only thing that makes Jensen uncomfortable with the situation is the possibility that he might come in his pants as soon as Misha touches him—as soon as Cas touches Dean—like a teenager because he’s been thinking about just such a situation for so long.
So they don’t talk about it. They up the UST—what? Jensen has access to the internet—and concern. There’s more staring and touching and confiding. There’s even a hug, a lingering one, that Jensen knows Dean and Cas fans have been salivating for since halfway through season four.
It’s actually kind of fun, easing Dean and Cas into this new relationship, these new roles that really aren’t that different from their old ones.
And then they get the script with the kiss, the first kiss. Nothing too dirty, nothing too fancy, just a relief fueled, thank god you’re alive kiss. A kiss that’s meant to surprise, finally push the characters into acknowledging exactly what lies between them.
They don’t rehearse it. There’s a part of Jensen, the part that fantasizes about Misha knocking on his trailer door and then pinning him to it, that would like to, but there’s a larger part that wants to keep the newness of this thing happening between their characters, the feeling of first and finally fresh for the scene, for the cameras, the audience. The characters.
It doesn’t seem fair to Dean and Castiel to muddy what they have with what Jensen feels for Misha.
They get to the day, they get to the scene, and Jensen feels tremors in his stomach that don’t resemble butterflies so much as Mothra running amuck. His hands are sweaty and his heart pounds too fast and every time he looks at Misha, Misha’s looking back, eyes wide and dark and unfathomable, and Jensen thinks, fuck, what are they doing?
The find their marks, take their places, the director calling action.
They’re in a motel room. Sam’s in the bathroom—and Jensen’s so grateful Jared isn’t around to actually witness this—and Dean’s pacing, worried. They’d run into a group of demons that were stronger than they expected, stronger and angrier, who’d gotten the drop on them, somehow managed to take Castiel out, right under their noses. And they’d had to leave, had to jump in the Impala and drive away from Cas because they didn’t have the knowledge or the firepower to do anything but get their asses handed to them.
Dean feels sick to his stomach, hates the idea that he’s failed someone else he cares for, that they’ll never see Cas again. That he’ll never see Cas again.
But then there’s the sound of wings and Dean’s turning and Cas is there, right there. There’s blood on his temple, the sleeve of his coat, but he’s alive. And thank fucking god because Dean doesn’t want to lose him; not now, not yet, not ever.
“Cas,” he breathes, relief making his voice tremble, and before he knows it he’s taking three steps across the room, reaching out for Cas, fingers finding his jaw, hands cupping his face, their lips finally, finally meeting as Dean seizes the moment and kisses him.
It’s so much better than he imagined it would be, and Jensen’s not sure if that’s Dean’s thought, or his own.
Castiel’s hands find Dean’s hips, and Dean groans, pushes Cas back until they’re stopped by a wall, and Jensen knows they’re going off-script, knows that he should pull back and stop, get his hormones under control and continue with the scene as written, but he can’t. He’s lost all ability to care about what they’re meant to be doing, who’s watching, what might be seen, because Misha’s mouth is on his and it’s fucking made to be kissed, wide and wet and welcoming, generous. Teasing. Jensen doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to pull away. Wants only to push his cock against Misha’s hip, rub against him until he’s coming like he feared he would.
Except it won’t be that way at all, because Misha makes a noise like a whimper and opens up to Jensen, let’s Jensen in, fingers clutching at Jensen’s hips, pulling him forward, to him, and Jensen can feel Misha hard against him, even through the layers of their clothes.
They’re in this together, Jensen and Misha, Dean and Cas.
Jensen slips a thigh between Misha’s, gives him something to rub against, rut against, changing the angle of his hips as they move, slotting together.
Their mouths slide against each other, hot and perfect, lips and teeth and tongues colliding as their hips move together, as their fingers clutch and tangle in coats and shirts, tugging and pulling and pushing until they’re a rumpled mess, grinding against a wall in a fake motel room, racing toward release, completely lost.
Jensen bites at Misha’s lip, pulls away and nips at Misha’s jaw, tongues at his stubble, and suddenly it’s Misha who is coming in his pants, shuddering and groaning and gripping at Jensen as though his life depends on it. All Jensen can do is hold on, push back against Misha as Misha thrusts against him, tuck his face into the curve of Misha’s neck and come so hard he doesn’t think his knees will hold him.
It’s only then, with the sounds between them fading to soft gasps for air, that Jensen freezes, face still hidden against Misha’s neck.
You could hear a pin drop on set.
“I think that’s a cut,” the director finally says. Jensen’s surprised he didn’t call it sooner, though he’s fairly certain he wouldn’t have heard it if he had. Or paid attention to it.
“That was, uh, some nice improvisation, guys,” he adds. “Fifteen minutes, and then we’ll continue.”
Jensen waits as he hears the crew file out, feels like the biggest chickenshit on the planet, because he’s still hiding against Misha, leaving Misha to face them as they go. Misha starts shaking against him once they’re alone, and Jensen’s afraid to look, but he does anyway.
The bastard is laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Jensen asks, unable to fight the smile that’s pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“We would have been doing this a lot sooner if the CW were more like Showtime, wouldn’t we?”
Misha’s hands are still on his hips, thumbs sliding across bare skin. Jensen shivers. “Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”
Misha tilts his head, and it’s so weirdly Castiel-like that Jensen can’t help but think about Cas and Dean and what happens next for them, how much they deserve to find some happiness, some belonging, the two of them and Sam.
“Well,” Misha says, licking his lips. “We’ll just have to make up for lost time.”
That sounds good to Jensen.
Misha leans forward, kisses him. “In the meantime,” he adds, “make-up is going to hate us.”
They are two episodes into the first Showtime season when the footage gets leaked on the internet. Misha’s the one who finds it, who grabs Jensen wrist and pulls him down on the couch with him to watch the clip online.
It’s weird seeing it. It’s them, but it’s also Dean and Cas. Or it’s Dean and Cas, but it’s also them. Jensen’s not really sure; it makes his head hurt a little.
It’s hot, though, that’s for sure. He knows they’re both attractive, so obviously they should be attractive together, but there’s something about watching Misha’s face as Jensen’s mouth finds his jaw, watching Misha’s hands grip at him, his own hips work, that hits Jensen in ways he wasn’t expecting.
And, god, the sounds Misha makes…even on tinny laptop speakers, they’re something else.