In the hotel lobby, I drink an extra large cup of coffee while Jared munches on a whole grain bagel and coconut water.

We share a table with some guys I don't know - I glean from the tidbits so sparingly offered that they're friends of Gen and Jared's - and they ramble on about sports or some such shit that I am completely and wholly unable to follow.

There's a gleaming, state-of-the-art chrome espresso station across the room, and I find myself staring at it with repressed longing. I imagine pouring myself a double espresso shot, swirling the stirrer to fully incorporate the chocolate sauce into the mocha, appreciating the thick layer of crema...

I sigh. I'd have to jog until the end of human civilization to work that off.

A few minutes into the conversation, a loud voice booming over the din startles me out of my reverie.

"What fuckery is this? Misha Collins?"

I tilt my head in deep scrutiny of the tall, blond man reaching for my hand, the gesture more than a little reminiscent of Castiel.

"Uh, hello."

"He's certified insane," Jared snorts inelegantly. "Don't mind him."

The man fixes him with a mutinous expression before turning back to me.

"Name's Jason," he explains, pumping my fist in an iron grip, "a friend of Jared's. It's great to finally meet you." He pauses before blurting, "I think you're hotter than nine hells and, fuck, I'm kind of your biggest fan."

I laugh self-consciously, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Aww, thank you. That's so sweet."

"-and don't worry, I'm not actually insane."

"Oh no? Because I am, and I think I've seen you at the monthly mixers." A red-haired man steps around him and reaches over to grasp my hand in a firm shake. "Andy, also a friend of Jared's. And just kidding, I'm the only normal one in this friend group."

"Huh," Jared harrumphs, cutting through the man's bullshit like a knife. "The cover story for the weekly Us insert begs to differ."

Andy shakes his head slowly, incredulously.

"Dude, I have scoured my memories of that night a hundred times for a photographer and I'm still coming up empty."

"Well, there was one. Might've noticed if you weren't so wasted."

I watch the exchange with a bemused expression, head swivelling between the two of them until Jared turns to me, absolutely earnest.

"Get this," he smirks. "So there was a full-page spread detailing the party, right? And the centre-most photo is a headshot of-"

"It was actual not a bad picture," Andy interrupts grudgingly. "Kinda hot."

He and Jason sit down at the table.

"Uh, you were gallivanting around at a fancy party, in the home of the head of the largest employer in the state, in your..."

I wince at the vivid and unwanted visual that Jared proceeds to offer. Nice. Maybe I can use it to cool my raging libido whenever I'm in public with Jensen and can't keep-

"Do I want to know," a voice behind me asks, catching the tail end of Jared's declaration.

And damn him, the sex voice is just not playing fair.

"Nope," Andy grins. "Morning, Jensen."

"Morning." Jensen nods once in acknowledgement and slides into the seat across from me.

I instantly regret wearing my rattiest flannel and faded Levis. Jensen's cleaned up and clothed, hair combed back down, his voice worn gravel and smooth honey. "Hey, Mish."

I swallow a piping hot mouthful of coffee, hoping the way my heart skips when Jensen says my name isn't evident on my face. "How're you feeling? Still sore?"

I duck my head, cursing the telltale blush I can feel blooming in my cheeks, knowing he's not talking about my fall. Asshole, I think, unable to form a more pithy insult due to my brain's current state of mush.

"I tripped and bruised my ribs," I offer the others by way of hasty explanation.

I swallow down the butterflies trying to beat a hole through my chest, totally intending to get back at Jensen for this devious little machination.

"Shit," Jared says with feeling. "I didn't know. You okay?"

Jensen chuckles, a quiet sound that kicks up the heat in my blood. I clench my fists to prevent from ramming them through his smug, smiling face.

"Oh, it was nothing." I move my shoulders in a vague sort of shrug. "I've had much bigger, harder falls."

It takes all my willpower not to burst into side-splitting laughter at the look on Jensen's face. Never mind that I was kidding; that expression is so worth the lie.

As Jason commandeers the brief lull in the conversation, I feel the band of anxiety around my midsection slowly begin to ease. He fill us in on a camping story that barely registers because I'm too busy sneaking glances at Jensen, noting the slight flush in his cheekbones, the way his eyes fall on my mouth on the rare occasions that I speak.

Our physical separation only seems to augment the potent hum of electricity floating between us, making me restless and jittery. Every sidelong look or white flash of teeth sets me on edge a little more, until I wonder how the hell I'm ever going to make it through all of breakfast, sitting across from the extremely fuckable Jensen Ackles.

When the topic of his growing family comes up, my stomach clenches in a spurt of jealousy, a bitter sting that catches and holds. I listen without saying much, inadvertently peeling the label from a bottle of ice water.

"Dude, you've got it made," Jason whistles appreciatively, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "Good-looking family, hot wife..."

I turn the label upside down and press it carefully back into the condensation on my bottle, using my thumbnail to work out any air bubbles.

"Mm hmm," Jared nods around a mouthful of bagel. "And those twins..." My ears buzz, all of the sound leeching from the room until there's only the roar of the blood in my veins.

And goddamn my rotten life but now they're talking about Jensen heading home to said family over the upcoming break.

I let the paper fall, opening my fingers and watching it flutter end over end until it hits the floor.

Fucking fantastic. Now I'm not only feeling a hundred and one degrees of sexually frustrated; I'm also stewing in a haze of unadulterated jealousy with an ache, intense and jagged, in the region of my heart.

Jensen, bless his unerring knack of reading my emotions, deftly changes the topic. I relax slowly, feeling my tension bleed away as the focus shifts to Jared.

At one point, Jensen licks his lips, leaving them a fetching shade of strawberry pink, and my heart does an answering flip. Shit, he's gorgeous. I'm enveloped by a near uncontrollable need to rip that goddamned V-neck off of him and get my hands on what lies underneath.

Somehow, I don't think the others would be fond of such avant-garde installations.

I place my sweater strategically over my lap.

Jared's friends pull out their phones and begin showing us pictures snapped during some backyard barbecue, a candid shot of their children caught mid-laugh at that very register, fishing trips on hot, lazy summer weekends...

"Misha."

I blink and raise my head, my response time not quite up to par due to the very distractingly plush bow of Jensen's upper lip.

"Huh?" I hesitate, mentally shaking myself out of a fog of desire and focusing on Richard. He's standing next to the table with his arms folded over his chest.

"It's almost time for our panel. You gonna go get changed or what?"

Oh. Right. I swallow down a flutter of nerves and send up a furtive prayer I don't make a total ass out of myself in front of the audience, before rising from my seat.

"Yeah, I won't be long. Meet you there."

After a quick shower up in my hotel room, I get ready in front of the bathroom mirror.

I use my expensive cologne, giving attention to the areas behind my ears, where Jensen seems to like bearing his teeth, then another spray low across my abdomen, above the edge of my towel.

I grin at my reflection. I have plans for Mr. Ackles tonight, and I'm going in locked and loaded.

***

Jensen looks edible in formalwear.

I spot him the moment I step onto the teak parquet floor of the foyer.

He's wearing a black silk shirt, no tie, and has the top two buttons undone, with dark, charcoal dress pants that lie flat and smooth against his narrow hips. The combination of black on black, the silky sheen of the shirt atop the muted hue of the pants, and the elegant black shoes... Well, the whole effect is quite dapper.

My mind instantly blanks and my heart thuds to a halt, and I lay my metaphorical sword and shield at his feet and kneel in surrender. Because goddamn, he's a handsome motherfucker.

Get in line, Peach, I think grudgingly to myself. He's already spoken for.

But that doesn't stop me from staring at the bare hollow of his throat for a beat too long, wishing I could press my mouth into the opening of his collar and suck gently on his neck.

But he's standing at the far end of the room, signing his name with an unnecessarily sexy flourish, and I can't grasp even a fleeting hint of my train of thought because my mind is swallowed up by the lewd imaginings of what else those hands can do.

I wonder how he can stand there like that, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, given what we were doing just a couple of hours ago.

But this is exactly how we make sure they never find out.

To most of the world, we're friends. To others, just coworkers. And to a few, there's some underlying tension between us. But mostly, people think that it's just their imaginations getting the best of them, that they're finding something that isn't there.

But it's there.

So take that, rest of the world.

I stand in the corner and peruse him sidelong as he talks, turning on the charm, until I feel jealousy wash through me, a physical rush of white-hot possessiveness. With that cheeky dimpled grin alighting his face, there isn't a living, breathing human on the planet that could resist him.

Now, I don't have a potent possessive streak or anything. And I know I'm not his friggin' wife. But I feel just about ready to eat Jensen's interviewer for lunch when she looks at him with that feral gleam in her eye.

But it's not her fault that Jensen's the hottest fucking thing in the room, leaving me to stew in my own jealousy-infused juices and feeling like a Neanderthal unworthy of his time, scared shitless that he'll come to his senses and toss me aside like yesterday's trash.

Near the zenith of my internal freakout, I feel the temperature in the room jump ten degrees as our eyes meet and hold. Jensen can heat my blood with one flutter of those long brown lashes against his golden skin. And he knows it.

His lips lift in a secret smile and his eyes are scorching me with promises that make the back of my neck prickle in anticipation.

During the brief lapse in his interviewer's attention, he mouths tonight, before turning away again.

My mouth goes dry as two suns, blood rushing from my brain to my groin in a rapid ping-ponging fashion.

And I vow to myself that he's getting the hottest fucking blowjob of his life for that little reassurance, exactly when I needed it. Just as soon as we get out of this godforsaken place.

Thankfully, Jensen leaves the room before I can throw him bodily to the ground and act on the intense desire to lick the rough stubble on his jaw. Which would definitely garner an assload of amused attention.

So, crisis averted.

"There you are, boy." The gruff voice is as irascible as ever and I grin, instantly warmed and nostalgic for good old Bobby.

"Hey, Jim." I turn around and smile at the sight of him in a suit, a stark contrast to the gruff old bastard he plays on Supernatural, with his flannel and his baseball cap atop his balding head.

Jim's wife is standing beside him. I give Jim a hug, then take her proffered hand and shake it warmly. We settle into an easy conversation that somehow leads to Jim's failed furniture exploits: something about a small shelving system that was apparently a bitch to put together.

"He was cursing that thing's very existence," Mrs. Beaver grins, "convinced it was a tool of Satan that had been brought into this world to torture him."

Jim protests hotly and I hum my sympathy, waiting for the laughter to die out.

"Hey, Jim." Jared's stupidly tall frame comes into view and he wraps the older man in a hug. "Looking good for such an old coot."

"Huh," Jim scowls. "You know, your delivery would have made more impact if your damn hair wasn't long enough to braid."

"Hey," Jared retorts, cranking his wounded puppy mode up to eleven. I don't catch the rest because I'm busy replaying the last few moments in my mind.

Observing the beautiful spectre Jensen makes from a distance is one thing, but the full frontal assault of him looking at me like that has kicked up a new swarm of butterflies in my stomach.

It's like we're alone in the universe, despite the crowded - oh, God.

I need to go eat some red meat, smoke a cigar, and throw back a tumbler of Jameson pronto, before my balls disappear altogether.

Realizing it's going to be a long day, I extricate myself and stride over to the in-room coffee machine. I fiddle with the water tank and tear open a bag of ground Arabica beans, hoping to tamp down my arousal with a good old fashion cup of joe, double strength.