"So, uh, Cas. I said it," Jensen murmurs, sliding off of me and beginning to rub his palm up and down my bare chest, warming the rapidly-cooling skin. "You know, the Big L...?"

I cant my head and study him wordlessly for a beat with my deep, soul-searching blue eyes. As dignified and resplendent in my angelic glory as I can be, having just creamed myself after being dry-humped by Jensen Ackles.

"I am aware, Dean."

Jensen grunts, head pillowed on one arm.

"You're, uh... You're supposed to say I love you back."

He clears his throat pointedly and I narrow my eyes in consternation. As if he's the most obtuse person this side of the Pacific.

"Dean, you already know how I feel about you, especially given what just happened. I don't understand the need for diffuse, erratic rambling-"

"Asshole," he exhales in a rush, straightening up.

I grimace, glancing down at my briefs before reaching for my pants.

"I'm...sorry, Dean. I want you to know that I'm happy you let me stay. Being human is...less frightening when I'm with you."

"Cas."

The way he says that one syllable is always so pregnant with meaning, imbued with so much gravitas. "I want you to stay, man. You know I do." He scratches the side of his neck absentmindedly. "But I don't want you to feel...trapped. You don't have to be my guardian angel no more-"

I silence him with a brooding, pensive look, my words slow and measured.

"You don't think I want to be with you." It's a statement, not a question.

"I'm just sayin', Cas, that I'll support whatever decision you make. If you decide you wanna check out for a bit, you know, do your own thing... acclimate on your own terms or whatever...I'll get you anything you need. ID, car, money-"

"I'm not leaving you, Dean."

I lie on my back with threaded fingers rested on my stomach, my face turned solemnly towards him.

Singer wanted to do a fadeout with this last line, so we stare at each other in thick and pressing silence - signature Cas and Dean style - until cut rings out through the set.

At once, everything is a flurry of activity, cameramen talking angles and boom operator discussing sound with the crew huddled in the corner of the room.

I'm prepared for swooning sighs and tittering and applause, but it turns out I don't need to flip anyone off.

Gauging the faces around me, I find expressions ranging from mild interest to abject boredom. And I remember that, in this industry, what just happened doesn't mean shit. It's just acting, and if we got a little carried away, it was nothing more than the spur of the moment.

Singer grumbles something about editing out Jensen's little slip, but that's the only indicator that anyone's been affected one iota by what happened.

What happened being that instead of mimicking the movements of sex and maybe doing a little rutting, Jensen and I both came in our underwear like horny teenagers in front of a room full of people. But then, maybe they don't know that. Maybe they think we're just that good at what we do, and the truth will remain our dirty little secret...

"So," Jensen clears his throat. "Shit." And he doesn't need to elaborate.

I don't know what I expected this to be like, but I certainly wasn't prepared for it to be hot as hell and, crap, I'm gonna have to have a marathon session in the shower tonight just to be able to sleep because it was mind-blowing and damn near perfect and we weren't even naked and I can't remember the last time it felt that good, that intense, and...

"Uh, yeah," is my reply. "I think it was convincing enough."

Shit, how am I suppose to fix things now? How am I supposed to maintain a safe distance between Jensen and I, with each scene bringing Cas and Dean closer together?

Frustration, confusion, trepidation, panic, and lust, all bubble beneath my skin, clouding my thoughts, overtaking my mind.

Lately I've been feeling like each minute is an uphill struggle of feigned normalcy. I drown my sorrows in coffee until there's more caffeine in my system than blood, and try to go about my normal life in the off chance that this is some ridiculous phase and soon I'll look back on it and laugh. Laugh about the time I got so invested in my job I started questioning my sexuality.

But in spite of my efforts, Jensen pops frequently into my consciousness, never really leaving, hovering on the edge of my thoughts until I give in and indulge in a daydream or two. I consider, to my chagrin, the countless minutes I've lost thinking about Jensen and the things I want to do to his body.

Jensen, so rugged and handsome and downright enchanting with his bashful expressions and his stupid witty charm. And so damn married.

Singer leaves the room and I wish everyone would likewise skedaddle, leaving Jensen and I to do some much-needed talking. But they don't, and Jensen's silence is accusing and contemplative.

Just like that, the mood turns sour, and I think I might have fucked things up with him for the umpteenth time.

Jensen rolls off of the bed and begins to pull his shirt back over his head, glorious slabs of muscle on his back - marked by my nails - disappearing underneath white cotton.

After redressing in my costume, I walk past the makeup team and production crew and spot Jared on my way to my trailer.

He wraps me in a tight, comforting hug.

"See? That wasn't so bad. You guys did good; I knew you had it in you." 

Little does he know that the walls I've so carefully constructed around myself, any sort of stability I thought I'd possessed, came crumbling down around me with this last scene, this taste of what Jensen and I could but never will have, and I'm left gasping in the shambles.

In spite of the piercing pain in my chest, my gut, I keep silent.

Jared slaps a reassuring hand on my back and peers at me with a soft smile, traces of concern lingering in his eyes. "Wanna head over to Casa Padalecki for a cold beer and celebrate your survival?"

"Thanks," I mutter, brushing off his concern, "but I promised I'd call Vicki as soon as we finished filming."

Jared nods his understanding. Maybe hearing her voice again will help clear things up, help ground me before I completely lose my shit.

As soon as he leaves, I dig out my phone, and although I know I should make the call in the privacy of my trailer, I'm rooted to the spot with a pressing and immediate urge to talk to her. To let her talk some sense to me.

Vicki answers on the first ring.

"So how'd it go today, babe?"

My mouth quirks up in a slight smile. Going right for the million dollar question like I knew she would.

I know I should feel a weight lifting off my chest at this open and deliberate invitation, feel liberated to tell her everything that just occurred and seek solace from her familiar voice, but something stops me. And once again I've got walls up that could rival Fort Knox.

"Yeah, um, you know," I mutter. "It was super awkward to shoot. Just as I expected."

"Hmm. Well, I'm curious to see how the writers end up developing this relationship further," Vicki murmurs, oblivious to my discomfort.

"I'm more concerned about facing the press. Panels and interviews and conventions, where I'll have to answer questions about the scene..."

Vicki sighs.

"The directors and producers, don't they realize-"

"Oh, they know it's a lot to ask," I grunt. "They were like 'listen, we'll stop production if we need to, but, you know, it would really help us if you could do this...'"

"Misha, I'm proud of you. You're strong, and really good at what you do."

My lips twitch in a small smile at her words.

"Well, you know I've never made a habit of holding up production. I mean, I've been uncomfortable before, but I've muscled through. So I was like, 'guys, I'll be fine'-"

"And are you?"

"Yeah, Vick," I blurt. "Of course. Besides, what can I do about it anyway? Kill Jensen so they're forced to shut Operation Destiel down?"

Vicki laughs and tsks me lightly.

"Conjugal visits, Misha. Not a fan."

I grin wryly, digging the toe of my boot into the gravel.

"I see you've been talking about me again." The voice behind me is deep and tinged with humour. And entirely too close. I close my eyes. Fuck.