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 Method Acting (Or 'In Which Misha Is Not, In Fact, Kidding Jensen')

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DEAN: Damn it, Cas. Please, just let the souls go. You've got everything you wanted now. [PAUSE] Haven't you?

CASTIEL: There is something else I want, Dean.

DEAN [warily]: And what is that?

Jensen got about five pages into the new script before he raised an eyebrow, eyes widening as he looked over the words, the italicized stage directions. "Oh, hell no," he muttered to himself, wondering if perhaps this was a gag copy Jared printed off for him, but no, it looked legit.

Troubled, the actor stood and exited his trailer, intending to find his co-star and maybe get an explanation.

He found Misha leaning casually against one of the wooden gates that would later be used for a haunted farm scene, cool as anything and sipping at the 99-cent coffee that they brought in for the PAs.

"How far have you gotten? Have you seen this?" Jensen asked when Misha flashed blue eyes his way. The older man quirked his lips up slightly in an amused smile, setting his coffee down and flicking back several pages.

"You mean the part where you shove me against a wall to kiss me or the part where I mojo you down onto a bed and we have feisty, angry on-screen sex?" he asked coolly.

Jensen's breath left him in a huge gust as the other man smiled more widely, obviously finding pleasure in Jensen's ruffled state. "Something troubling you?" he asked.

Jensen's brow furrowed and he looked over his own script again. Something damn well was troubling him – Sera and Ben ware fucking bending over for the rabid fangirls and, damn it – "I'm not gay," he said defensively, because he felt like he should and Misha got under his skin under normal circumstances. It was not a secret that Misha had trouble separating what happened to his character from things that happened to him and the fact that he was referring to the scene with 'You' and 'Me' and not 'Dean' and 'Cas' already rubbed against Jensen the wrong way.

"I never said you were," Misha replied with a raised eyebrow and a tilt of his head. Jensen just wanted to…smush his face.

Yeah, you read right. Just smush it.

Jensen rolled up the script with an agitated growl. "Dean's not gay," he said, emphasizing his point in a way that the quirky actor might understand.

Misha raised his other brow, holding up his script as though that disproved everything Jensen was saying – and, of course, it did. "Not according to this." It was annoying, how totally unruffled he was. The older man snorted, rolling his eyes, and finally straightened, flashing teeth in his smile. "Come on, Jensen, you've been an actor a long time – you can't tell me this is the first gay scene you've ever done?"

The way he said that, like it should've been fucking obvious to Jensen that he was born to play gay, riled the younger man. "Well…" There was that one part in 'Blonde', but that was part of a threesome – strictly no solo guy-guy action. And his Eric character supposedly had a gay lover but again, nothing on-screen.

He shook his head. Misha's eyes widened and he whistled, nodding. "Oh, come on," Jensen snapped, trying to bluff his way out, "like you have?"

"Scenes, no," Misha conceded, "but there were cameras." A sly smile crossed the older man's lips and Jensen flushed, unable to tell if he was even joking or not – you could never tell with Misha, which was infuriating and intriguing as anything.

"Even so," Jensen muttered, trying to get the conversation back on track, "Dean's not gay. This is completely out of character for him." He waved the script in Misha's general direction. "I can't see him getting pissed enough or coerced into fucking the Angel, I'm sorry, but it's not…right."

Misha rolled his eyes and shrugged, turning so that he was fully facing Jensen, propping himself up against the fake gate. "Look, bitch all you want, but this is the final draft and we're shooting the thing tomorrow. So you can either be a good boy, run lines with me, and get it over with, or you can continue to bitch and moan and give a half-assed performance because you were too busy complaining how OOC it was for Dean to be so pissed that he decided 'fuck it' and slam Cas up against a wall. Personally, either way works," he held up his hands in defense, "but I know it would irk you to put on a shit performance. So just take it and deal with your emotional breakdown later. I'm sure Dean's gonna have plenty."

The combination of 'good boy', 'bitch' and 'take it', growled out in an almost Castiel-low voice, felt like blows to Jensen's libido. He swallowed, green eyes widening for a moment, and then looked at his rumpled script. There would still definitely be words and he didn't even want to think about Jared's reaction, but…hey, he was an actor, right? He could act like that.

"Besides," Misha muttered, flicking open his script again, "they kind of make Cas a douche in this." He flashed a large Cheshire smile Jensen's way. "I know you're not into the whole 'method' thing, but if you want, I'm sure I could try getting you riled enough to put you into the mindset."

If possible, Jensen's eyes widened further, and he cleared his throat and shook his head. "Um, no," he said, and he wasn't blushing, pleaseGoddon'tlethimbeblushing. "That's alright. Thanks. I'll be back to run lines with you later."

"See you later, Jen," Misha purred, still smiling, but there was this kind of heat in his eyes that Jensen just caught before it was gone again and he was left wondering if he'd imagined it, before the older man waved and turned away again, heading towards the set where he was being called to film another face-off scene with Mark, because apparently not only was the new Cas a douche, but he was also BFF's with the demon. Hurray. The fans were going to eat that up with a spoon.

If they weren't full from this. Jensen closed his eyes, feeling a migraine coming on, and went back to his trailer, because he didn’t have to be anywhere for an hour and the least he could do was try and justify this in his mind to Dean, because damn, it just wasn't right.



DEAN: The real you wouldn't have done this. You know what you're doing is wrong! Damn it, Cas!

CASTIEL: What do you want me to say, Dean?

DEAN: I want -.

CASTIEL [interrupting]: Yes?

DEAN [hesitant, then resigned]: Damn it, Cas.

Jensen blew out another breath, looking down at the script again and then rubbing the growing ache that was building behind his eyes. Okay. So it was a little more believable than what he'd thought about it first-glance – but still, he couldn't justify it to Dean. Or maybe that was his own hang-ups getting in the way. After all (he'd been watching the last few seasons, the scenes with he and Cas) the way the writers and editors had shot it, it looked like there was something happening there. He couldn't remember staring at Misha that long, at Cas that long, but it looked like these huge, soul-deep staring matches that lasted for way longer than natural.

Maybe the fangirls were on to something, if this is what they were seeing.

Maybe it was subconscious. Maybe he just hadn't realized and now he was too convincing for his own good and Cas was God now so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and maybe…maybe Dean wanted it too.

Okay…so it was just angry sex. Dean had never really done on-screen angry sex but he had done passionate and Jensen has certainly done angry – he's a pretty patient guy but when he snaps he snaps hard. Point was – anger was passion, just a little more violent.

He could totally act that.

Jensen's thoughts were interrupted by a soft, slow knock on the door that Jensen knew was Misha, even without looking out the window to his trailer. "Come on in," he called, waving to his co-star to enter even though Misha couldn't see him. The older man entered, wearing his Castiel outfit, and Jensen raised a brow as he took in the large, almost obscene amount of blood spatter on the front. "Been busy?"

Misha shrugged. "Crowley refused to explode right," he replied casually, and Jensen forced a small smile. Misha unrolled his script from a side pocket, frowning in concentration. "So, you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Jensen replied, standing. Misha nodded, pressing his lips together.

"The directions say you pull me in by my hair," he said, and Jensen flushed but forced himself to remain cool. "I think it would be more dramatic for Dean to pull Cas by the coat. I don't know, though – what do you think?"

The smooth change between 'Dean', 'Cas', 'You' and 'Me', Jensen thought, would probably throw him for the rest of the day, and tomorrow. Realizing he hadn't replied, he flushed when Misha's eyes flashed to his, and looked down at his script.

"Well," he began, trying to get into 'professional actor' mode, "it seems like Dean and Cas are pretty far away from each other…" He paused, then stepped back from Misha to judge the approximate distance. The blue-eyed man nodded, pressing his lips together as he looked. "So, maybe if Dean just…" He paused again, taking a step forward, which brought him into the perfect distance to reach forward and fist a hand in the corn syrup-splattered trench coat, and without thinking he yanked Misha close to him, hard enough that their chests collided together, mildly winding them both.

He held the position for a moment, long enough to see the blown darkness in Misha's eyes, count the shades of blue in his iris, and smell the coffee on his breath, before he blinked, letting go. "What do you think?" he asked, voice suddenly husky, and cleared his throat.

Misha swallowed. "Try the other way," he demanded softly. Jensen nodded, stepping back again, and looked at the script.

"Let's just go from the top of the page," he suggested.

"Sounds good."

Jensen nodded, pursing his lips slightly, and let Dean's mindset overtake him – the betrayal, the anger over what Castiel had done, and the incredible hurt, of knowing that one of his closest companions had betrayed him, had denied him. Jensen had had a lot of time to think about Dean evolving over the past seasons, and while he'd had a few hang-ups (Dean's selfishness and complete blind faith after being proven wrong time and time again, for one), he thought he had managed it pretty well. He looked over at Misha, only he wasn't Misha now – he was Castiel, badass pseudo-God who was capable of wiping Dean out with little more than a blink, and he was Dean, full of fear for and of his old friend, for his family – Dean feared for the world, what would happen now that Castiel was God.

He let that guide him, only briefly glancing at the script to make sure he got the line right; "So," he scoffed, hunching his shoulders forward like Dean did, forcing a tight smile to his face as Misha (Castiel) straightened, staring at him with narrowed eyes, "that's how it's gonna be, huh, Cas?" Castiel (because he was Castiel now) cocked his head to one side. The action was so like the Angel he used to be that Dean had to bite his lip and look away for a moment. "You're all 'roided up and just ready to go."

"Dean." Castiel stepped forward, reaching out with gently shaking fingers and Dean made an involuntary sound, jerking his arm away – the arm that bore Castiel's handprint, as though the touch would burn him. Castiel's eyes became sorrowful, but still flat; he had that smile that just spoke of wrongness on his face. "I've won. Don't you understand?"

Fury, white-hot and almost surprising in its intensity, rose up inside of Dean. "Understand?" He spat the word. "What's there to understand? You've fought your war, you've won, as you said." He gestured accusingly Castiel's way. "But now, you've got a taste of that power and you won't let it go. They're scramblin' your brain, Cas."

The Angel-God blinked, taking another step closer. Dean backed away. "But with this power, I can keep the world safe," he whispered, and Dean swallowed, shaking his head. "No one will dare rise against me with the souls inside of me. Millions of them, Dean, I can feel them all." He took another step forward, fisting a hand in Dean's jacket, and hissed the next words; "Now I am all-powerful, I can finally keep you, and Sam, and Bobby safe. I can give you anything. Everything. You have only to ask."

Jensen paused, for a second overcome with the sincerity in Misha's – Cas'? – eyes. Was this the actor talking, or the character…? Because it wasn't that clear, at that moment. I can give you everything. Just ask. Jensen swallowed and slipped back into 'Dean mode'. He pushed Castiel's hand away, forcing a resigned, hateful expression.

"I don't want anything from you." Everyone would know that that was a lie. Castiel's lips quirked up a little more in that wrong smile. Dean hated it – he hated that expression with a fiery passion when, not even a month ago, he would have given anything to see Castiel smile.

"Dean." Castiel chuckled – a low, dark laugh that spread shivers all through Dean's back, made him feel like demons were crawling up his back.

He deflated. "Please, Cas," he whispered desperately, trying to appeal to the friend and trusted companion that he was beginning to think was too deeply buried, was no longer there. 'Castiel's not home right now'. God, it was worse than his brothers, watching this. "Please, just let the souls go. You've got everything you wanted now…haven't you?"

Castiel cocked his head to one side, taking another step forward. This close, Jensen could smell the coffee on Misha's breath, and something else – something sweet and spicy that Jensen liked to think Castiel would have smelled like. "There is something else I want, Dean," Castiel growled, low and rough and this time, when Dean shivered, it was for entirely different reasons.

Sometimes, Jensen got so in character that he could convince himself he was actually feeling the restriction of a demon's grip, or the power of an Angel skittering up and down his spine. This was no different.

"And…" He paused, swallowing. "And what is that?" His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? "Haven't I given you enough?"

Castiel's – Misha's? – eyes flashed. "Your debt to me will never be paid," he snarled, baring perfectly white teeth at Dean – Jensen? Was that predatory look for Jensen? – and straightening up, like Misha would do if Castiel were about to take flight or perform some equally badass stunt. Jensen half expected his old Angel blade to slide out from his sleeve and press against Dean's throat. "Do you understand me? Never – you owe me far more than you could ever know."

"What?" Dean snapped, defiant now, angry – so unbelievably angry. "What do I owe you? My life? The lives of my family? All you've done is brought misery to me, Castiel." The flash of hurt; that might have been Misha. Fuck, Jensen should stop. He should, but he couldn't. "The Apocalypse, Sam in Hell, Sam soulless – you let me live in a lie so that he could help you and your little demon buddy, and for what? Tell me, Cas." He spat the name, lowering his voice so that it was just a rough, broken whisper. "Was it worth it? Are all those millions of souls worth what you've sacrificed?"

For a moment, there was nothing; impossibly close, cramped in the tight space, breathing each other's air, neither of them said a thing. Jensen knew it was his line, but for the life of him, looking into Misha's eyes, at the parted fullness of his mouth, down at the corn syrup splattered across his coat, he couldn't for the life of him remember it.

He let the silence drag on, until Castiel's – Misha's? – eyes grew hard and cold. He let Dean's anger fade a little, to stoic resignation. "The real you wouldn't have done this," he whispered, blinking back up to look Castiel in the eye. Had he gotten closer? "You know what you're doing is wrong." The God pressed his lips together – Dean could tell he wouldn't fold. "Damn it, Cas."

Castiel sighed, blowing out his breath through his nose. It was a very human thing for him to do. "What do you want me to say, Dean?" he whispered.

Dean hesitated. "I want -."


Don't say a damn thing. Don't give yourself away. Those were Dean's thoughts, or maybe they were Jensen's. This close to Misha, he could smell the man's deodorant, the spicy scent of him, could tell that he'd been outside more than in today. He could even imagine he smelled who else had touched Misha, who else had laid their hands on him, either in blocks or scenes or anything like that. He could count the shades of blue in Misha's eyes and imagined Misha was counting his green. The lines were blurring between what were definitely Jensen's thoughts, and what were Dean's, and it was all Misha's fault.

"Damn it, Cas."

It was only natural to reach up and fist a hand in the back of Misha's perfectly Cas-styled hair, and yank him close for a kiss. It was Dean's kiss, rough and angry and jagged around the edges, and Misha met him as Castiel; met him as a virgin who shared the experience of millions of souls, as an inexperienced Angel who flinched at whores yet sought Dean's personal space like a compass to magnetic north. Dean's hand tightened in his air, the other shoving at half of the trench coat and then yanking forward when he got a fistful, not letting Castiel have any space, not letting the son of a bitch breathe.

Misha – Cas? – let out an involuntary sound against Jensen's mouth, but then he was right in with it too. Fuck, the guy knew how to use that mouth of his. Must be his wit, making his tongue clever and sharp, because there was no hesitance at all in the way he licked at Jensen's mouth, pressuring his lips to open. It was decadent, heady, completely forbidden but so overdue, and Jensen didn't even know if it was Dean or him that was thinking those thoughts, but he couldn't think to care.

Misha's hands landed, possessive, on his flanks, shoving Jensen back against the counter in his trailer, and the younger man groaned when several magazines and letters fell to the floor, scattering on impact and getting crushed under his boots as he shifted his feet to compensate, when Misha braced himself on either side of Jensen, hands digging into the counter, and fell in line between Jensen's legs. It just seemed natural, then, to slot a thigh between Misha's legs, rutting as the blue-eyed man growled against his mouth.

Jensen groaned when Misha pressed up against him, felt like there wasn't an inch of him that wasn't against the smaller man's hard, unyielding body or the cold countertop. He thrust up with his thigh, loving the little growl he got for it, and then choked, realizing that Mish was hard. Fuck, he was hard from kissing Jensen.

He should stop this. He should stop right the fuck now. But he couldn't – he didn't want to. Dean didn't want to. Trying to stay in character, to remember what the script had said, Jensen pushed at the blood-splattered halves of Castiel's trench coat, and Misha rumbled, rolling his shoulders so that he fell off him hanging in the crooks of his elbows, and he didn't stop – didn't even falter. His hands remained on Jensen's skin, burning hot and it took Jensen a moment to realize that he wanted it. His body felt like it was on fire and he wanted to keep going. Wanted to know how far Misha would go.

All too soon, the kiss broke off, Misha parting with one final lick inside Jensen's mouth, tongue dragging across the roof and eliciting a shiver, before he broke apart from Jensen with a parting nip. His eyes were blown – Jensen couldn't count the blue anymore, simply because it was all black now. His lips were spit-slick and kiss-swollen, cheeks delightfully flushed, breathing ragged.

"I, um…" Jensen paused, clearing his throat. "I think the hair is better."

Misha licked his lips, eyes flashing to Jensen's mouth, and nodded. "I agree," he replied. Slowly, almost as though he was working on autopilot, he removed his hands from Jensen's sides, and the younger man bit his lip, barely managing to stifle his whimper.

Christ, this was so wrong. They were both married – Misha had a fucking son for God's sake, and Jensen was getting ready to settle down and have a family too. He couldn't afford to react like this. But he had to – just had to get control of himself. He took a few deep breaths and found the air saturated with Misha's scent. It made him choke as he straightened, wincing when the action caused a painful tug on his back.

"Sorry," Misha said, flushing a little in embarrassment. "I got a little carried away." And only Misha would be able to say that so contritely without sounding even the slightest bit sorry. Jensen blushed also.

"S'alright," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "At least we know it'll be…" He paused. What was the right word? Convincing? Fucking mind blowing? He shook himself again. "Do you want to continue?"

Misha's eyes flashed. "Sure," he said, voice a low, rough growl, and Jensen shivered. Misha stepped a little closer. "We should practice the next scene."

"The…" The next scene. As in, the sex scene. Jensen flushed hot at that – at the idea of Misha, on top of him, covering him with that lithe, deceptively strong body, with his biting mouth and hot breath and spicy scent. Jensen's body throbbed and he put it down to still being in the 'Dean' mindset. "S-Sure." He did not stutter, okay?

He didn't.

Misha's eyes flashed again, and his smile was positively predatory.



Singer wanted to try and get the whole scene with one shot. Jensen was so on board with that – the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could move on to what he liked to think of as 'Dean's post-huge-thing angst phase', like crying over Hell or when Sam was detoxing. He could do those things like nobody's business – he had a knack for on-screen angsting and the 'Perfect Single Manly Tear's and everything like that.

He just had to get through this one scene. They'd already done the kissing part – now he was standing at the edge of the bed, Misha in front of him, because theoretically Castiel would mojo he and Dean to the bed and shove them down and that was where the take started.

There were at least six cameras set up around them – they wanted to get the whole thing in one take so they needed as many angles as they could get away with without interfering with each other, and Jensen felt slightly calmer, watching all the people watching him and Misha. He wouldn't get too carried away with all the cameras on him; he wouldn't lose control, like he had in his trailer.

Misha licked his lips, watching Jensen's face, waiting for the go ahead. Jensen nodded, smiling slightly at his friend and Misha's lips quirked up in response. They both understood that yesterday was just a fluke – it wouldn't happen again – they were professionals, they could act like it. Jensen took a deep breath, shaking his arms out at seeing the signal from Singer to take their positions, and he watched Misha straighten, darken, become 'Godstiel', as the fandom was calling him now. Jensen felt another hot shiver run down his spine at the change – it was tangible, like the smell of smoke or a heat haze in the desert. Jensen could feel the power radiating off Misha and it frightened and excited him.

He was beginning to think this whole 'method' approach might not be such a bad idea.

"Season Seven, Episode Six, Scene Three, Mark," said one of the crew members, snapping the scene marker in front of the camera and then dodging away. Jensen reached forward, fisting one hand in the sleeve of the trench coat, the other knotting in the back of Misha's hair as he had had it in the previous scene. Misha took Dean's jacket in both his hands and the two men pulled themselves closer to each other.

"Action!" came Singer's cry, and then Misha leapt into action. Jensen was almost caught by surprise, but then again, he probably should have been – he was Dean now. His calves hit the bed and he fell back, Misha sprawling on top of him with a low growl, and the two men went tumbling, landing perfectly in the middle of the bed when Jensen pushed himself up surreptitiously.

There was a camera gliding up on his left side, ready to catch the part where Castiel would lay his hand over Dean's handprint and claim him as 'Mine'. Jensen bit his lip, bracing himself, and allowed himself to sink into Dean's mindset. He was angry, he was furious, and afraid, and desperate. He lunged up into the second kiss, Castiel stealing his breath easily, mashing their mouths together in a furious clash of tongues and teeth. He let his eyes go half-lidded, let everything melt away except for Castiel, Cas, you stupid son of a bitch, damn you, damn you for making me feel like this, for making me want, need -.

"When will you learn?" Castiel growled, his hands landing on Dean's flanks again as Dean desperately shoved at Castiel's trench coat, pushing it off and away, and then his suit jacket so that it fell over Castiel's hips, hiding them both. "Why do you never learn?"

"Cas." Dean growled the name, throwing his head back in a cry when Castiel leaned down to bite at his throat, falling between his legs like he belonged there, and shit, maybe he does. "Damn it." Castiel's hands shoved Dean's shirt up, his burning palms branding Dean's sensitive flanks, marking him, leaving his scent and his touch over others that had mapped this path before him. Dean's hips rolled up and he sat up, shoving at Castiel's shoulders. The deity's eyes were dark and wide, his cheeks flushed, hair mussed. He was beautiful, fuck, he was beautiful.

Dean allowed his jacket to be shoved off, along with his overshirt, and pulled his t-shirt over his head to bare his brand. Castiel's smile was triumphant, his growl victorious, as he claimed Dean's mouth and his flesh with his lips and hand, sealing over the handprint with a burning touch and earning another cry from Dean, muffled by his lips.

"Cas," Dean whispered, his eyes wide, voice broken. He needed, he wanted, but he couldn't.

But he could.


He said those words that were a mockery of the first time; "Anything you wish," Castiel growled in reply, shoving him back down. His hands fumbled for his belt, hidden beneath his suit jacket and the rumbled trench coat, and Dean hissed, rocking his hips up again and falling back against the bed.

Castiel knelt over him, hair falling into his eyes, mouth parted and breath ragged as he stared down at Dean. One gentle hand cupped the side of Dean's face, thumb tracing the edge of his mouth before he leaned down.

Jensen knew the cameras wouldn't go below the waist anymore. Misha and he didn't need to shed any more clothes. So he was surprised when, instead of moving his other hand and mimicking the actions of sex, he felt Misha's hand graze his semi-hard cock, stroking it through his jeans to full hardness. Jensen choked – Dean choked – whining and rocking up into the hot, forbidden touch, his breath hitching, and Misha – Castiel? – balanced him, eyes falling closed, face set into an expression of ecstasy as though he and Dean had finally joined. So wrong, so perfect. He clutched at Castiel's – Misha's, fuck, did it even matter anymore? – body, letting Castiel's hips direct the rhythm of their 'sex', while Misha's hand steadily stroked and teased, long, nimble fingers coaxing Jensen closer and closer to climax.

"Cas, Cas…" Dean was panting – Jensen was moaning, because it felt so good, so deliciously wrong. He clenched his eyes tightly shut, head thrown back, and sweat gathering in the dip of his throat and plastering his hair to his face. "Cas." Misha, damn it, please. "M -."

Misha's lips closed over Jensen's before the actor could let his name slip, and Jensen let himself be claimed with another ragged moan, hips driving up more insistently so he was rutting like a Goddamned teenager against Misha's hand.

He needed. He needed so fucking badly, it was so unfair.

"Dean, look at me." Jensen's eyes flew open, lust-blown and black, and Misha's breath left him in a shudder, the warmth of his exhale brushing over Jensen's sensitive, slick mouth. Castiel smiled, his almost-smile, affectionate and indulgent like a lover or a parent, and Dean was gone. Castiel's hand closed over the print again, warm flesh brushing against the scar, and Dean mewled quietly, claiming Castiel's mouth once more, as Jensen felt his orgasm overwhelm him. His body drew taught, locking up and tensed like a drawn bow, before he shuddered out his breath with another gentle sigh. He hid the face he made, feeling himself flood his jeans, and knew that would be awkward as hell when they called the scene to cut, but like this, sweaty and sated in Misha's arms, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Shit, Cas," he muttered, breathless, just for good measure incase Singer decided to do something like a fade-out with his line in it or something like that, and let himself fall back onto the bed.

For a long moment, Misha and Jensen were just 'You' and 'Me' again, staring at each other. Jensen bit his lip when he felt Misha's hand withdraw, grazing the inside of his thigh where it was still warm and slightly damp, and Jensen shuddered, startled when the "Cut!" rang through the set. At once everything was a flurry of activity, cameramen gathering to discuss what angles they'd gotten, people going over the sound, everything and everyone moving and talking and Jensen didn't care – Misha was still on top of him, his shameful, dirty secret still hidden by half of Castiel's costume.

The blue-eyed man smiled, brushing Jensen's sweaty hair back from his face. "There," he murmured, so quietly that only Jensen had a hope of hearing him, "told you it wouldn't be so bad."

Jensen blushed, biting his lip, and Misha laughed again. The younger man sighed softly, relaxing, because hell no – it hadn't been bad at all. Misha moved, just slightly, and Jensen sucked in a breath, eyes widening when he felt Misha's erection brush against his spent cock through both their pants. He gasped, bucking his hips up on instinct and Misha shuddered, one hand flying to Jensen's hips to hold him down.

"Don't do that," the smaller man warned softly.

Jensen bit his lip. "What if I want to?" he challenged, rolling his hips up again and shivering in a kind of sadistic pleasure when Misha's eyes rolled in his head, closing for a moment as his upper body sagged forward.

"Fuck, Jensen," Misha growled lowly, earning another shiver from the younger man. Then; "Gonna fucking kill me."

Misha wasn't really one for swearing, much more than Castiel was – the profanity as it slipped from his mouth was way hotter than it had any right to be. Jensen shivered. "I don't have to be anywhere for an hour," he murmured, Misha's eyes flashing up to meet his.

"Finally ready to accept the 'method' approach?" he asked, quirking a smile.

Jensen chuckled, biting his lip again. "I guess I could give it a try," he replied, letting some of his natural Texan drawl slur through, and Misha shivered again, hips jerking forward before he could stop himself.

"Gonna fuckin' kill me," he muttered again, and Jensen chuckled. Then, Misha was off of him, pulling Jensen to his feet, and together they ran past the make-up girls and production crew, towards Misha's trailer, because in practicing 'method' acting, they didn't really have room to care for subtlety.

The door was barely shut before Misha had Jensen up against the wall, Castiel-like in his strength and power and Jensen just fucking melted. It might not have been very 'Dean' to do so, but hey, it's trial and error, right?

Jensen was willing to go through a lot of error. Maybe 'method' acting wasn't so bad after all.