Going Too Far
We went too far. That was the honest assessment.
It was hard to gauge when we were riding the line of amusing and too far - Jared has no sense of how much is too much and sometimes I forget. I forget that my job is to keep that from happening, to rein him in when it was too much.
I didn't do that this time, and when I did - finally - throw Misha a little bit of help, I crushed it, just as quick. Shot him a smirk and watched that last tiny bit of hope snuff out.
They kicked us off set after that, and I kicked Jared out of my trailer when he wouldn't shut the fuck up about Misha’s face.
Because I can still picture it, that flash of hurt in his eyes before rage followed and he had us tossed off set.
The rage wasn't the problem. I don't even care about being kicked out.
I can't shake that flare of hurt.
Misha has been distant. Ever since he had us over and we all ate that borderline bad chicken while we watched the game--Jared had gotten sick, but I didn't tell Mish that his cooking is what caused it.
He was upset enough, that whole weekend, without me adding to it.
And he's been distant since. Not withdrawn, but there was a kind of distance between us that hadn't been there since that conference where we got drunk together.
Because of Cockles.
Because fangirls are fucking crazy. And they can't just leave it alone, let us be friends and work together. They have to shove subtext into it, let Dean and Cas bleed into real life.
Dee asked about it. Not the night I proposed but after that, a few weeks later, when she was up to see me on set and Misha was being his usual affectionate crazy self.
And she'd heard the rumors. By then, everyone had heard them. The studio was staying quiet--they might tell us to play towards Destial for fans, but they were respecting both of us to sort this shit out.
She had asked if there was truth to it. And I shrugged, pushed it off as fangirls with too much time on their hands and she smiled. Nodded like of course that was it because I was hers and what had she been thinking.
It was true, too. I was hers.
His face, crumpling in confused hurt, flares up again and I growl, pacing the damn trailer.
We went too far this time.
And I had to let Misha know that I was sorry.
“Jay,” Jared said, as he shoved out of my trailer, “he knows it was me.”
Except it wasn't. Jared wasn't why they kicked us out, wasn't why hurt and fury was the last thing I saw on Misha's face before he blanked out to Castiel and fuck if that didn't hurt a ton.
I was used to facing his character, when I was deep in my own. But I wasn’t used to seeing him using Cas as a mask to hide from me.
Misha is hiding from me.
Has been since he found Cockles.
And then we had to fucking do this, and--my head hits the wood paneling in my trailer and I feel the groan hit my teeth.
I hear his voice, still pitched low and angry, all gravel and broken glass, as he stalks past my trailer to where his is.
And I debate, like some fucking band geek boy with a crush on the cheerleader. Which is ridiculous, right, because this is Misha and he can’t stay mad, not at me.
Not over this.
Not over Cockles.
Not over Dee.
That’s the other thing. I recognize his behavior, the way he’s gently but firmly pulling away. Spending more and more time with Vicki as they inch toward the birth of their first kid. Letting me have some space, to sort out Cockles.
I shove out of the trailer and take the handful of steps that puts me at his door, and push inside.
Misha is half in costume. His trench coat, tie, and button up have been discarded, but he’s still got makeup on his face, and he’s wearing those pants and shoes that are all Castiel and it throws me for a second.
So does the icy stare.
“Not in the mood, Ackles,” he snaps, turn away and reaching for the belt buckle.
“I’m sorry,” I say and he stills.
Stares at me, blue eyes stormy but searching, pants undone, and if this isn’t the strangest thing I’ve ever done….
Fuck, the fangirls would love this.
“I fucked up, Mish. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let Jared take it that far.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Jared. I expect that shit from him,” he spits, and that’s all Cas, because Misha is calm summer days, cool evenings with a crisp wine, casual profanity laced with laughter, a star bright sky and curling poetry that makes no fucking sense.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I shouldn’t have fucked with you. I--”
“You made me trust you,” he whispers, and his eyes are so big and lost, suddenly.
All that anger draining away until he’s slumping in defeat and he looks--lost. “I’m sorry,” I say and he makes this noise. Half there, half not, and hitting me so fucking hard.
“I’m sorry, Misha.”
I’m sorry. For hurting you, for giving you a lifeline and snatching it away.
I’m sorry. For loving her, and not being brave enough to admit--
I’m sorry. For wanting more than I can have. For freaking out.
I’m sorry. For hiding. Behind strained smiles, and Dee’s plans and fangirls are fucking crazy.
“I’m sorry, Misha.” I whisper and this time, his noise is a whimper, and it’s brushing against my skin. When did I move? Why does it feel so fucking right, almost pressed against him as he pushes himself into the panel of his closet.
“Don’t, Jensen,” he pleads.
“Mean that, Mish?” I murmur against his throat, because his head is tilted back, and he’s one long line of skin and Cas and Misha and fuck.
My hands closed over his hips before I can consider that this is a bad idea.
And it does something. Because his hands had been braced against my chest, not pushing me away, but keeping me from pressing closer.
But when I grab his hips and my fingers slip over that pale, bare skin, he makes another noise. It hits me in the groin and I feel his hand curl into a fist, and I lean into him.
Kissing Misha Collins.
Is like nothing else.
He makes another noise, and I file it with the others--this one is a half moan, all need and want and I fucking love that I’m dragging it from him, with a tongue twisting and dipping, licking into his hot fucking mouth.
Misha isn’t the first guy I’ve kissed. But he’s the first in years, and the stubble startles me, draws this needy noise from me that I can’t stop, and Misha grins against my lips, nips just enough that I feel my knees go weak.
He twists away from me and shoves those damn pants off and I swallow hard. Take a few steps back while he redresses and it’s Misha in front of me.
My Misha, still angry, but with a smile that is just a little bit content. “Gimme a ride home, Ackles,” he says, shoving me out of the trailer ahead of him.
He settles against me in the car, with a huff that is all happy comfort, and his nose is cold where it presses against the skin of my collarbone, but it’s not sex.
It’s not anything more than Misha, warm and happy and cuddly because Misha has always been a cuddler.
Except that I finally talked to him.
And I can taste him on my lips, feel the soft burn of his skin against mine.
Feel the long hot press of his body and the sharp push of his hip bones against my palms.
“Misha,” I murmur and he makes a low hum in his throat, a what. And Don’t wanna talk.
I flounder because I don't know what to say, just know we need to say something.
And he looks up at me, blue eyes dark as night, and says, “If you say sorry, I will fill your fucking car with fish stuffed with quarters.”
I nod, once, and his lips twitch into a smile.
“Sometimes, Ackles, you think too much.”
He settles against me, inhaling and muttering about pine and black space between planets because Misha is fucking weird.
And it's….good. We went too far and I'm pretty sure I have to talk this shit out. But for now.
I'm not even a little bit sorry.