There is something unspeakably beautiful in ordinary intimacy.
I sound like a girl. Jensen would kick my ass if he heard my internal thoughts. Misha wouldn't.
He'd give me that cryptic smile of his, and write some poetry about it.
But they don't know. I won't tell them.
I told Gen once, and she watched me with big, dark eyes. It’s beautiful. Epic. Doesn’t it leave you breathless?
She kisses me breathless, then, and reminds me that my own love story is pretty fucking epic. Later, after she’s spent and loose and tucked against me, she murmurs, I’m glad they have you, Jared.
This thing between them, they keep it quiet. It's Danneel’s stipulation--she doesn't mind Misha, knows that the relationship is so deep and fundamental to who Jensen is that to remove Misha--it would damage him.
He wouldn't be Jensen.
But if she is willing to share him, privately, it must remain that.
Misha doesn't seem to care. If he does, he keeps the sting of being a secret to himself. Jensen is too happy to care.
And it works.
I look at them, and wonder how anyone could see anything but two people, wildly in love.
I know two sides of them.
The Jensen and Misha who curl on my couch when Gen puts on movie and make out in the hallway while we clean up after dinner, who are noisy as fuck when they screw in our spare bedroom after they say fuck it and crash at our place.
And then there is the other side.
The Jensen and Misha who are, to the world, friends.
And I love that side of them. I am fucking fascinated by that side of them.
The side that is laughter and jokes.
Misha, touching Jensen's hand, briefly, to get his attention.
Jensen, his eyes bright and amused, head dipped toward Misha as he whispers something dirty that makes my brother laugh.
The way Jensen mothers him, channeling Dean like a motherfucker, bullying him into eating and sleeping and wearing shoes.
The way Misha smiles, softer that normal, all that manic crazy drained away, when he listens to Jensen talk to the crew.
The cups of coffee that get shared between them.
How Jensen will lean his head on Misha’s shoulder, when he’s very tired, something that goes unnoticed or commented on.
The quiet conversations that no one, not even I, am invited to.
It’s precious and priceless because I know. I know how long they worked to get to where they are. To earn what they have. The friendship that is the bedrock to the love that is this new and beautiful thing between them.
They fight, sometimes. Tempers cracking like fire between them. Usually over something a fan says—the fans want them together so badly sometimes I think that will be what pulls them apart.
The worst fight was when Jensen snapped at a fan in a photo op, and Misha called him on his shit behavior. I was in the room, drinking a beer and unwinding after a day of constantly being on, being the frenetically happy that the fans demand, when all I want is to curl into Gen and let her soft voice and softer hands push down the dark thoughts choking me.
But Gen is back home, and I’m here, and I’ll take my brother and best friend, if I can’t take her.
Except they fight. Misha is furious that Jensen upset a fan, and Jensen is play it off, like one upset fangirl is nothing to be riled over.
But he knows better. We both know better. Misha has always cared, with an intensity that scares Jensen, sometimes, about the fans.
And when Jensen refuses to back down, refuses to admit he’s wrong (he is, wrong) Misha stares at him, all of that remote cold fury that takes him when he’s seriously pissed, the kind of pissed that we don’t see often because Misha isn’t the type to be angry—he’s the type to change shit he’s angry about.
“I love you, Jensen,” he says clearly, and Jay flinches, this whole body thing that feels wounded where he’s sitting next to me. “But you aren’t someone I like very much right now.”
Jensen sits, still and silent next to me as Misha leaves, quiet in his anger.
Later, they make up. Of course they make up. Jensen apologizes to Misha, Misha listens to his explanations and excuses. He does something for the fan, but I never do learn what.
It doesn’t matter.
Later, I learn that was the first time Misha said the words, and it makes sense, the hurt hope in Jensen’s eyes, and the way he drank himself into oblivion, after Misha left.
So they fight.
Every couple does.
And they are in that weird holding place that makes me ache for them.
I’m in Jensen’s wedding—my brother, I would never be anywhere but in his wedding. But. I watch Misha.
Watch the way he watches Jensen. The way he gives a sad smile to Danneel even as he keeps his distance from them both. See the way he laughs and jokes with other guests, with Jensen’s brothers, flirts with his mother.
But it doesn’t reach his eyes, and he leaves, drunk and early.
I see Jensen, the way he goes quiet and broody the week that West is born. The way he hides in his trailer when he’s not needed on set, how nothing I do can draw him out. The quiet sort of reserve he greets Misha with when he stumbles back to set, exhausted, and so goddamned happy it hurts to see.
This thing between them. It is bittersweet and beautiful. Careless caress of fingers, the gentle touch of caring. Laughter and whispers and inside jokes. Eyes too full and stares too long. Every touch and word heavy with everything unspoken between them.
It is beautiful. The kind of beautiful love story I want to be a part of and want to tell to the world.
But I watch them, and I smile, because I am a part, however small. I am the safe place where they don’t have to hide, where they can be as wild and free and in love as they want.
It’s a glimpse.
The other half of the casual intimacy that can still leave me awed.
And if that is the only part I can play in a love story that is epic—I will count myself lucky and blessed.
And I don’t even give a fuck if that makes me sound like a girl.