“What the fuck?”
My feet hit the ground and I stare hard at the article but it hasn't changed.
“Fangirls,” I mutter, “are fucking crazy.”
The door to my trailer opens and I glance up, even knowing who it is.
There are only two people who will barge into my trailer unannounced and Shep is off set this week. What I'm more surprised by is Jensen trailing Jared. Green eyes skim over me, silently asking if they are intruding and I shrug. Smirk. His shoulders, tense just a little in question, relax and I can't help the direction my mind tips.
“Dude, we have twenty-four hours off!” Jared says, so excited he's literally bouncing in his seat.
It's 3am and we have all of Sunday off. No filming, no con, and not enough time to go home. But.
“I just want to sleep,” Jensen groans and I grin. Because of course he does.
“Old man,” I tease and he glares at me.
“Slut,” he snaps.
“Ass,” I say, fondly. Finally drop my phone into my lap and consider the two men who have become like family. “Since you won’t get to sleep for twenty-four hours,” Jensen points a glare in my general direction and I smirk, “Why don’t you come over and I’ll cook. We can get rid of Clif and relax.”
He’s wavering so I toss in, “I’ll even let y’all watch the game.”
Jared crows and I swallow my own annoyance.
I hate football. Of course, I had to fall in with two Texas boys who think the game is the best thing since...fuck I don’t even know. But they fucking love it.
And I will put up with a lot—even professional sports—to keep the boys happy.
“You want a ride home, Mish?” Jared asks, and I nod. I’m exhausted and yeah.
Jared takes the front seat, and I slide in to the back. Jensen is even more tired than I thought—he’s out almost before Clif pulls off the lot, his head dipping and swaying like a drunken sailor, until he slumps against me.
I like touch. I’ve always liked it. Works well, considering my job—actors get pretty fucking touchy feely, as time goes on. And Vicki likes it too. Even when it’s not sexual, I like to touch.
Sometimes I think it’s because I feel so disconnected. Jensen thinks he spends too much time in his head, and he does. But fuck, sometimes I wish I could get the fuck out of mine. It’s exhausting, and I love it—the swirling madness and bright ideas and what the hell weird—but it all makes me feel….disconnected. Other.
And then I touch someone and it’s like, oh fuck, thank Christ, you’re here. I’m here. I’m here.
Touch isn’t about sex.
Well. Not always.
It’s about being present. It’s about being seen and being here.
So it’s nothing at all for Jensen to slump against me, his head on my shoulder, my body turning lax and buttery soft, melting into his.
I hiss out a breath. Crazy fucking fangirls.
No. That’s not my reality. This is my reality. And this is our normal. So I surrender to the siren song of sleep, lean my head against his and pass out.
It’s still fucking with me the next day. I’m quiet as the boys yell at the game, almost withdrawn. Jensen asks and I snap that I’m tired. And his eyebrows hitch up, startled and a little hurt.
I don’t snap at Jay.
Because for all his fucking puppy antics, he’s actually ridiculously observant.
“You gonna tell us what the fuck is going on?” he asks, as I beat on some chicken that I’ll fry.
Neither Jared or Jensen can cook. So unless we want takeout—which will mean calling Clif, and none of us want to do that—we’re eating whatever the hell I cook, and I’m taking my annoyance out on the chicken before I toss it in a pan with some olive oil.
I think the chicken might be bad.
This could very well be one of my worst ideas.
“Don’t fucking dodge,” Jared says, sharply.
I glare. “Maybe it’s none of your business, Jared.” I say, coldly. None of the teasing that I usually have. Because I’m pissed.
This isn’t fair. I fought the boys, when they were getting apathetic and withdrawn. Showed them how much the fans care. And. This.
“It’s fucking Cockles,” I snap.
“What the hell is a Cockles?” Jay asks, his voice low and icy.
That shouldn’t hurt so much. But it does.
Why the hell does it? He’s my best friend. That’s it.
Jensen stares at me for a long minute, and then he stalks out of the room. And I curse. Chase him, shouting at Jared to watch the fucking chicken.
He’s at the front door, digging in the coat he discarded there. Pulling it up on Google. His gaze flicks to mine, confused. “You’re upset about shellfish?”
“Yes, Jensen. Fucking shellfish, those bastards,” I say, deadpan. His expression flashes warning, and I sigh. “Add Supernatural.”
His expression wary, he does.
And I watch him go blank.
It’s this thing he does, when he’s trying to process. When he feels like he’s in danger.
It’s something he hasn’t done with me since that first con, when we got wasted in his hotel room.
I fucking hate that I’m seeing it here.
“They ship us?” he says, and there’s some emotion there.
“It’s a joke.”
“A joke. They’re talking about us being romantically involved, and that’s a fucking joke.”
And I can’t take that. Because he sounds so pissed, and not just pissed, but disgusted.
So I shrug. Paste on a Misha fucking Collins grin, and babble some shit about nothing. And then I retreat. I get the fuck out because I can’t stand to see him with that fucking look on his face.
This is the issue. Not that the fans have this crazy theory. With how much we joke and flirt, and what they’ve picked up about my wife—fangirls are fucking crazy—it’s not that surprising that they’ve decided to ship Cockles.
And really, that’s the best fucking name they could come up with? Cockles?
It’s not the fans. I know they’re crazy. I’ve accepted that they’re going to ship all kinds of nonsense, and have theories about shit that will never happen.
It’s that….seeing it, written out like that.
Part of me wishes.
A part that I’m not ever going to let out. A part of me that is stupid because there’s no way I’m risking the friendship I have with Jensen on a fucking what if.
What if the jokes and the flirting and the touches, what if they meant something. My thumb rubs against my ring, the one he gave me, twisting it a little, and I swallow hard.
Jay. Fuck. Fuck.
He steps into my bedroom and I shift on the bed, twisting to stare at him.
“What the hell, Mish.” He says, soft and curious.
No disgust. No judgment. No blank page.
Just Jay. My Jay.
“That shit bothered you this much?” Jay asks, soft, as he comes and leans against the bed. I shrug, still not willing to speak. Not sure what to say.
“It’s a joke. And even if it isn’t. They’re crazy, Misha.”
I nod and he sighs. Smacks me with a pillow.
“Fucker,” I snap and he laughs. Tugs against my grip on the pillow until I fall forward, fighting to hold it. Then he pushes off the bed and looks down at me.
My best friend.
Fuck that. What if doesn’t matter. He’s my best friend.
“They don’t get to decide, Mish,” Jay murmurs and something about his voice makes my whole body tense.
It’s close to Dean’s voice. But not. Different.
“Decide what?” I ask, and it feels like we’re balancing, on some kind of fucking precipice.
And I don’t know what’s at the bottom.
I don’t know what the precipice is.
“What we are. What we become,” Jensen says with Dean's voice and I make a noise, a little startled. His gaze dips, barely. But it does.
And he grins, and pulls away.
That shit wasn’t for an audience.
It wasn’t for subtext.
It was all Jensen, watching me the way I sometimes catch him watching Danneel.
I let out a breath and hear Jared bellowing about dinner. Fuck. Fuck.
I bolt from my bed and my room, and shove past Jay, laughing on the stairs, and mutter a curse and a prayer that Jared won’t burn down my fucking apartment.
And let that damn thought, tripping like a promise, repeat, tauntingly close.