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“Apparently we’re gay as hell,” Misha says, scrolling through his phone.

“What?” Jensen slurs, disgruntled. He’s already well on his way to drunk. Not his fault, when everybody in this restaurant keeps feeding him wine.

Wine in Rome is fucking good. He hates that Jared isn’t here with him, but at least an upside is that he can enjoy the damn stuff without having to listen to about a million facts about it. Jared knows a shitload about wine.

“We haven’t even…even done a panel together yet.” He tries to reach past Misha for the half empty bottle of wine sitting at his elbow, but falls back heavily in his stool when he can’t quite reach it and loses his balance.

“Woah big boy,” Misha laughs, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “We did one with Bob. And I heard through the grapevine you encouraged all your fans to go ask for more Dean and Cas scenes, so this is probably on you.”

“I like Dean and Cas scenes,” Jensen whines a little, making a swipe for the wine bottle again. Misha pushes it over and he pours more into his glass. He loves Dean and Cas scenes. So do a lot of the writers. It’s so easy being Dean around Cas, because Dean is always so sad and being around Cas feels so…

His wine soaked mind isn’t really into following that train of thought, so he switches to Misha. “Could prob’ly be gay with you, Mish.”

“Really,” the corner of Misha’s mouth twitches up and he side eyes Jensen as he messes with his phone. “Does this stunningly high praise stem from my sparkling wit or my devilishly good looks?”

Jensen’s brain sluggishly chugs along before he answers slowly. “Both. If you were the last guy on earth.”

“Funny.” Misha’s tone says he doesn’t think Jensen is funny at all, but his ear splitting grin contradicts it, and Jensen automatically grins sloppily back. He can’t help it. He’s honed his skills down to mostly being able to ignore Jared when he tries to mess with him during a serious scene on set, but all Misha has to do is look at him the wrong way and they’ve ruined a take.

Of course, Jensen has the same exact effect on Misha, something he shouldn’t really care about but is actually weirdly proud of.

S’weird, sometimes he and Misha have conversations without ever saying anything out loud at all, and Jensen never has trouble understanding them. Coupla weeks ago, Misha came on set and handed him a rock. That was it. Jensen wasn’t even baffled. He put the damn thing on his bedside table.

They’re doing the same thing right now, Misha staring at him and Jensen staring back. He’s had too much alcohol to know exactly what Misha is saying, but he feels…he doesn’t know. He gets it. He grins again, brightly, and Misha blinks.

“You can’t rely on that smile to get away with everything, Jen,” Misha warns, and for only the second time that night he fills his wine glass. Maybe it should bother Jensen how much drunker he is compared to Misha, but not really. He had fucking fun today. It’s amazing what his convention experiences have been like since he opened himself up to the fans, and he’s happy. So happy. He wants to be happy with Misha.

“Drink,” he says, poking Misha in the side. “Drink and entertain me.”

“I think I’m doing a pretty good job of that sober,” Misha laughs, but he downs the glass pretty quickly anyway and fills it again, raising his eyebrow at Jensen as if to ask, ‘happy?’

“S’more fun when we’re both drinkin’,” Jensen insists, clapping him on the shoulder. “Get you to lighten up.”

I have to lighten up?” Misha asks in disbelief. “You didn’t even realize we did a reverse crypt scene.”

“I admitted the similarities when they pointed them out!” Jensen protests. “C’mon man. I’ve totally lightened up. I sing now, right?”

“Not really a new thing for me,” he points out.

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Fine, I sing to people other than you. Jackass.”

“What if I liked it more when you only sang to me?”

Jensen does not often get drunk. He doesn’t get drunk because he likes to know what’s going on around him, and he likes to control what’s going on around him and to him, to be in charge so nothing can go wrong. Hard to do when you’re drunk. Not impossible, but Jensen often finds that when he does attempt drunken control over things he wakes up to Misha pounding on his door demanding to know what happened last night and why hundreds of dollar bills had been thrown around his hotel room.

So, Jensen doesn’t get drunk too much. And when he does, he decides to fuck it, because letting go of his control is actually more controlling than trying to hang onto it.

So it’s at the same time a surprise and not a surprise when his response to Misha is a deep, honest to god from his throat, growl.

Misha, to his credit, only looks delighted. “I love when you get drunk. I hope you already called Danneel today, because she won’t get anything coherent out of you.”

“I called her,” Jensen says, feeling the slight guilty pang for about the fifth time today. Missing your anniversary sucks. “I’m supposed to send love to you.”

“You mean the past few hours you haven’t been trying?” Misha smiles.

Jensen shrugs, suddenly in a shitty mood. Just like that. He misses Danneel and Jared. Rome’s different without his giant friend lumbering around, and a fifth year of marriage is kind of a big milestone.

But Misha is here. And Jensen really likes Misha. A lot. He can usually make him feel better. As suddenly as his mood shifted, it shifts again (fucking Italian wine) and he smiles widely at Misha.

Misha immediately looks wary. “What?” he asks, pouring another glass of wine.

“Hey,” Jensen says, leaning forward again. This time he loses his balance in the other direction, tipping so far forward he has to steady himself on Misha’s chest, his nose pressed against his cheek. The position’s not unfamiliar, nor is it uncomfortable, so Jensen doesn’t get up and Misha makes no move to push him away. “Hey. Dmitri.”

He loves saying Misha’s real name, defers from doing it too often so each time it’s still exciting. As a result he can feel the syllables curl around his tongue and hears them echo through his head and brush across Misha’s scruff.

“Ugh,” Misha breathes in exasperation, and Jensen can feel the deep intake and exhale of breath far into the chest he’s still up against. He knows what’s coming. “What?”

“Do IndioRussia,” he snickers, pushing at his chest.


“Please?” Jensen says.

Misha is quiet for a long time, so long Jensen thinks he isn’t going to comply, thinks maybe he should remove his face from being pressed into Misha’s neck because maybe, maybe this is getting too awkward, even though he’s drunk in a foreign country that thinks nothing of two men touching like this. But then Misha speaks, and it’s in that ridiculous voice that’s supposed to be Misha’s Russian accent and almost manages it, if you can ignore the sing-song lilt of words that makes it distinctly Indian, and Jensen laughs uncontrollably, huffing into the side of Misha’s neck.

He really shouldn’t have doubted Misha would do it. Misha has always made him laugh like this, always. It’s why Jensen gravitates towards him, why he spends so much time with him, why they’re such good friends.

In that moment, Jensen’s as happy as he’s ever been.