Our wedding day dawns bright and clear, a crisp autumn morning. At 10 A.M., Misha and I get our hair done. I sit back while careful hands work a generous amount of mousse - medium hold, extra volume - and massage, twist, clump tendrils together to create just the right amount of lift. We arrive at the venue around noon for setup, positively ensconced by bodyguards.

An event of this magnitude calls for nothing less than security planted every seven feet around the perimeter of the property, five days in advance. The media has been stationed outside for days prior, waiting like swarming sharks to leak anything and everything they can to the press outlets. Talking to the caterers, the vendors, the musicians, the people renting the lounge furniture, the companies providing the luxury trailers, the generators, everyone. There are already close to three hundred people on site and trickling into the massive underground parking lot, without the guests.

Magazines have started buying drones, outfitting them with video cameras and launching them undetected to hover low over the site, and the footage captured can be uploaded in real time to YouTube, Periscope, Twitter, et cetera. Not to mention the helicopters with the TV crew on board, but for that coverage, viewers actually have to wait for the show to air. Photos of the setup and affair are taken from high overhead and published, photographers hopeful just for grainy shots of the vendor carrying the cake.

We could have every single person entering the property screened and forced to sign non-disclosure agreements and relinquish their technology for the duration of the event, and it wouldn't make a dent. The tabloid-hungry public has gleaned everything from the guest list to the cake to the setup within days and that's fine with Misha and I. It's more than fine. I want to parade my relationship at all the galas and premieres; I want to kiss him on the street so the paparazzos can take a picture of it; and I want our wedding day to linger in everyone's memory for years to come. I know that it hurt Misha to have to hide it for so long - all the deflection and non-answers hurt me too - but now, as far as I'm concerned, PopSugar and Vanity Fair and the whole lot can get their fucking popcorn ready. To say that our wedding has been highly anticipated would be a massive understatement, and we're not trying to keep it on the down-low now that it's finally happening.

As it is, Misha is streaming whatever he can, interspersed with selfies and Snaps and whatever else his little tech-savvy heart compels him to do in the way of keeping our fans in the loop on this special day.

Obviously, most of them won't be making the wedding. But these are the people who bore witness to my public advances and flirting and innuendos over the years, who picked up on a chemistry that grew so palpable it started a frenzied, global phenomenon. They suffered through our protracted flirt-a-thon, when the voltage between us could only be measured in megawatts, when I was acting like a dewy-eyed teenager mooning over his first crush. Okay. In hindsight, we sucked at hiding our relationship.

Maybe we just gave up.

It was apparent that we laughed harder together, smiled bigger around each other, completed each other in every way. The fans wondered from the beginning if that magical chemistry between us would ever grow into anything more, and I feel like sharing this memorable event with them is the least I can do after all the offensive shit I've said in the fluster of it all. When I get embarrassed or nervous I tend to get defensive, even if it's not on purpose. I've had a panel of people clean up after me for years. It's time I put forth my own efforts to right my wrongs.

The cast and crew of the show were all invited, too. These are the guys who were there with Misha and I in the makeshift bunker when the lights were too bright in my face and the room hot and stuffy and we managed to turn a little frottage between actors into a full-blown live porno, with boners induced just from sheer physical proximity to each other. They saw up close, with high-definition clarity, the arousal Misha induced in me with a simple look.

Hell, the camera crew probably figured me out before anyone else did, from close-ups of my pupil dilation alone.

They were there through the self-discovery, my little bitch fits, all the drama and angst. They could've told me to suck it up, princess, but they bore patiently with me while I figured my shit out and came to terms with myself.

And Daniela. Bless her heart. She turned a mercifully blind eye to the way I would meet Misha in the corridors at conventions and blithely ask him, you wanna ditch this gig?

And then Misha or I would suggest conspiratorially that we sneak out, not caring that we would be missed, either to roam the streets of Rome together at night or desecrate some table in a secluded storage room somewhere.

Since our turnout is expected to be over half that of a British royal wedding, the spaces we've rented are massive. We have not one, not two, not three, but four projector screens - similar to the setup at conventions - hanging from the cavernous ceiling to allow everyone a decent view during the ceremony. The reception hall is a fucking palace, lined with balconies and indoor terraces, where some guests will inevitably be seated and served. These overlook an immense foyer, the grand centrepiece of which is the single largest cake I have ever had the pleasure of feasting my eyes on, furnished with pink roses to match our boutonnieres and the rose gold colour scheme.

Misha wanted pink. Orange may be his lucky colour, but Misha loves pink. So pink is the best even though I used to hate it, but no more. Pink will be my favourite forever. Because Misha loves pink.

Two hours are devoted to photos with the wedding party and family, lasting until the doors open and guests begin to arrive. The head planner rushes around pinning boutonnieres to the groomsmen's lapels and adjusting lopsided ties while the first strains of the pre-ceremony music drift through the massive hall.

Having changed into my tux, I stand in front of the mirror in one of the alcoves and study my reflection. I fiddle with the buttons on my vest, check my tie, my cufflinks, my hair. I hate wearing a tux, but I would do anything for Misha - the whole Grenade shebang - and this seems like a small price to pay for the smile I know will grace his face at the sight. Mindy tries to give me the cold-feet speech, but although I'm having eight different internal freakouts right now, none of them are about uncertainty or indecision. I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Everything before this moment was me drowning and now, only now, I'm coming up past the surface.

My mom finds me in the commotion of preparations underway, pulls me aside and takes both of my hands in hers. Mine shake not under the weight of the world, not with grief or loss or pain or indecisiveness, but with excitement too much for my stomach to contain. I'm a little afraid, a lot thrilled, and more in love than should be humanly possible. This is really happening. This is the first day of the rest of my life. She says one word and only one word to me: finally.

My inner director compels me to go around ensuring that the A/V is ready and the crew triple checks the sound system. But dotting my I's and crossing my T's is hard when I feel like I'm floating a foot above the ground with little wings on my feet and hearts in my eyes.

The ceremony starts just after four in the afternoon, and guests' IDs are all examined at established checkpoints before they're permitted to enter.

Because Misha despises and seeks to demolish all constructs heteronormative, Zep is the flower boy and Arrow the ring bearer. Our hope is that, with all of the media interest the event is garnering, this is a message that will get out there and challenge some of the preconceived notions, societal norms and stereotypes plaguing children from a young age. It's a decision that means a lot to us and our kids and will hopefully make an impact.

All the emotional pain and trauma is worth it for this moment right now, Misha's fingers lacing with mine at the altar. It's an eye-stinging, throat-constricting moment. First of all, he looks ravishing in his suit, good enough to devour, and it takes every ounce of self-control to restrain from doing so right here and now, impropriety be damned.

And second, the way Misha is looking at me right now makes me feel like I'm stripped bare. There should be discomfort at the prospect of being so exposed, so vulnerable. I should want to run for cover, to escape like I always did before. But he's smiling that wide open smile, skin crinkling around his eyes - that rare smile that the fucking sun lives in - and warmth pools inside of me at the knowledge that it's just for me. Just for me, for the two of us.

I get to see this smile every day.

I focus on the gold of his skin, the way the sunlight filters through the massive church windows to pool on the planes of his face and carve lighter glints out of his dark brown hair. He's stunning me with those eyes, a dark blue edged with the grey of foam near his pupils, like choppy waves during a storm. They're sparkling, glistening, shining, glittering eyes. Blue, blue eyes - eyes that blaze as they look at me - eyes I'm falling into and drowning in. Eyes he should need to carry a damn weapon's licence for. It's heartening and frightening and beautiful to be looked at so lovingly by an angel; anyone would feel a tiny bit less undeserving. I wonder if he'll always look at me this way, like I'm this righteous man, heroic and great, somehow worthy of him. I still feel like a sappy, inarticulate, dorkass child with a massive crush, a soul-deep infatuation, and Misha as unreachably beautiful and untouchable as the moon. But he's looking at me like I'm perfect. Like he's starving and I'm the last piece of angel food cake, so apparently I'm enough.

I still can't believe it. My luck. What a stroke of sheer, blessed luck that our lives collided as they did. Or maybe it was destiny, fate, or God. All I know is that the day he walked on set, he upended my life irrevocably. He isn't just the funniest thing that ever happened to me, or the cutest or the weirdest. He barrelled his way into my life like he'd always belonged in it - slipping effortlessly through the cracks in my armour and setting up shop before I even realized what hit me, could gather my defences - and became the best thing that ever happened to me.

We pledge ourselves to each other heart and mind and body and soul, to share every pleasure and sorrow and companionship before slumbering in death together in due time. I lay everything down at his feet, everything. It feels like the easiest, most natural thing. In fact, I've been doing it all along. But now I'm telling everyone, the witnesses seen and unseen: the cameras and the press and the teary-eyed guests and family and friends and the fucking heavenly hosts. After over a decade of bottling it up, I'm telling everybody. Nobody saw, nobody knew, for so long - and now they do. This is our time to show them and tell them, all of them.

I love to listen to Misha talk, even if it's about nothing of import. I love the gravel of his voice, as deep as if he smoked a ten pack of cigarettes every day and gargled gravel between each one. And he has the prettiest mouth, the longest tongue, the most uniquely gorgeous lips. Tall, pale pink lips painted with miniature vertical grooves. I love simply watching him form words. I love how he makes this totally unnecessary and inexplicable shape for a 'th' sound, with his tongue poking through, or - my favourite - the 's' sound. Not quite a lisp, but close.

But right now, he's standing before me with those soulful eyes and full mouth and using those lips to give himself over to me wholly, his tongue curving around the syllables I do. And fuck if I can help crying through both our vows and the exchange of rings.

As soon as Wren starts with "do you, Jensen Ross Ackles, take this man-"
I'm breathing I do, over and over again, quietly, all though the speech. And then out loud, with finality.

"I do."

Somehow two words impart everything that exists between us, from the moment we met to this moment right now, all of the craziness in between.

And when instructed to kiss him, I ignore the audible click of the cameras, the flashes visible even behind closed eyelids, and do so reverently, like it's still forbidden: a privilege I will never be worthy of. Like his lips are still off-limits, holy ground. I don't think that feeling will ever really go away, and I don't want it to. And then I can't stop, never could with him, and I swear our first kiss as a married couple is just like our very first kiss as Dean and Cas all over again. Except no one says cut - I'm aware even through closed eyes that they're rising from their seats, clapping and cheering loud enough to shake the walls and rattle the windows with a rumble audible for miles around the property. Even after the ceremony ends we're going at it, and Wren probably crosses himself before closing the doors to the church and leaving us to our own devices.

Misha and I sign our marriage certificate together a little late, and I've never signed a legal document with more elation. I was on cloud nine hundred million just obtaining it together from city hall. We made a little party out of it, and invited a few good friends to celebrate.

We've rented a stretch limo to transport our photographers and wedding party - with a TV, full bar and sunroof - to the reception site. As with the ceremony, the sheer magnitude of the event calls for valets and attendants to direct traffic, hold signs, point guests towards available spaces and staff the area. As best man, Jared has arranged transportation for Misha and I in - very appropriately - a classic car with a license plate that makes Misha smack him over the head and has Jared cackling maniacally and telling us to feel the feels.

I don't get it, but apparently the fans pitched in for that special touch.

Cocktail hour kicks off the festivities, and we're moving the guests into dinner by 5:50 P.M. Photographers are spread out around the banquet hall snapping shots of the flower arrangements, the tables lined with the rose gold tree arrangements Misha was enchanted by at first sight, and his honey vials, before the guests begin filtering in.

In addition to pictures from the ceremony and posed shots and candid photos of Misha and I smiling and whispering with our heads bowed together, the entire event is being streamed live by half a dozen news and social media outlets. Our whirlwind romance is the love story of the decade, and the world has a front-row seat. We've truly made the wedding our own, imbued with concepts and causes and memories that mean a lot to us.

The buffet opens shortly after and dinner is served, followed by toasts, which are started by my best - and worst - man Jared, and Misha's best man Darius. I try to compose myself enough to stand up at our table and deliver a witty speech about how I really hit the jackpot with Misha, how he's super hot and good with kids and I'm the clear winner of the marriage lottery. How I prayed to have him back, in any way, shape or form and my wish was generously granted - but it's admitting this that I break down. I tell everyone through tears that I have no idea how I got so lucky.

"My husband is so cute," I manage smilingly, turning damp eyes on Misha sitting down beside me, "so cute I just want to hide him from the world and cherish him forever. My personal teddy bear, my little Mishka." The crowd coos, a wistful chorus of awws and murmured assent. "But," I clear my throat, trying not to fucking sniffle, "he also lays down the law in our house. He's got this look..." I lower my gaze with a rueful chuckle. "It's the kind of look that means there's only one right answer and I'd better be really fucking careful about what I say."

Misha's face splits into a knowing grin and laughter bubbles up from the guests. "It means he's above and beyond being pissed. We don't fight often, and I admit that when we do it's usually my fault. My crap is probably all over the table back home right now and, honestly, I don't know how this crazy-gorgeous man puts up with me. But what I love about us is that whenever we do get at each other's throats, it's in every sense of the word." Either the allusion to what everyone knows is a damn steamy sex life or Jared's ensuing snort sets everybody off. "He's not afraid to slap me square in the face if I need it, and I have yet to complain. I'll let you draw your own conclusions about the direction that takes us nine times out of ten."

The groomsmen whistle and holler and clink their glasses, coaxing the assembled crowd to do the same, until I grab Misha swiftly around the waist and french the living daylights out of him. Kissing eventually becomes difficult because we're both smiling so hard. The guests completely lose their shit, so I set my husband down again before this turns into an entirely different kind of show.

"He's smart and funny and strange and beautiful, everything I like in a person and more. And I love him," I finally breath into the mic, dazed and winded. "I love him, but that doesn't mean we were guaranteed a happy ending. We fought for our love and we won. And that is awesome." Which results in a standing ovation, and the smattering of over a thousand pairs of hands applauding us and what we've worked for.

Then Misha's standing up, taking the mic from me, our fingers brushing.

"Jensen," he says, a fine tremor in his fingers and voice. And I immediately think oh shit, the lump in my throat growing obstructive. "You stabbed me in the chest when I met you, in every sense. The trick knife shattered on the first few takes and it felt like you'd bruised me over my heart. After Jim called 'cut' you asked if I was okay, if you'd hurt me. I suppose I should've been prepared for something like you to come along and stab me like that because it's not like I had the neatest, most orderly life to disturb in the first place. I'm the guy who dresses in drag and paints his nails and knows too much about dealing with hate. And you talented, gorgeous, intimidating. But, for you, I wasn't prepared.

There was so much I couldn't have in my life, so I guess I projected some of those feelings of lack of self-worth, and I never thought - not for the longest time - that you could possibly have feelings for a freak like me. You were too hot and too famous and too straight and I told myself I wasn't even gonna bother, wasn't gonna mess around with that. It never even crossed my mind, for years. And now here we both are.

All those years ago, when I first shrugged into the trenchcoat, I had no idea that a gig would turn out to be so epochal. It was just supposed to be a few months' buffer in my bank account, another line on my resumé. Five episodes. Just five episodes. We could've just passed each other like ships in the night. I wasn't supposed to - I couldn't have predicted - how could I have known? There were no clanging cymbals or punch in the gut, or finger-tap of fate on my shoulder. Then the second and third episode of the season aired, and the audience clamored for more of the relationship between Castiel and Dean. At first I was just smug about the fact that a nobody like me had good chemistry with Jensen Ackles. But then they kept bringing me back and gave me a regular role. And our chemistry became... We...changed the world, Jensen, in a way. Our relationship, for hundreds of thousands of fans of the show.

And I know I'm supposed to be the one who raised you from perdition and put your soul back together atom by atom, but you made me whole too. Even though there's a lot about my past that I've wanted to change, to rewrite, for so long, you've made me realize that I don't want to change a thing. Not one bit. Not if changing my past would change my chances of meeting you, befriending you, falling for you and now dedicating myself to you. Every mistake and hurt and unfortunate event - all of it - ultimately led me to you. It led to me becoming a person you can love so completely.

And I love you. Everything about you. Your ridiculous laugh, your southern boy charm, your petulance when I don't give you enough attention, your sweet tooth, how tight you hold me in your sleep because you're afraid I won't be there when you wake up, your freckles and that look in your eyes when you want to sneak off for se - for comfort - and the astonishment I still feel everyday that you want me, that you love me too. I don't feel pathetic or victimized or worthless; with you, I feel...lucky. I get to love you-"

I take Misha in my arms at that - bridal style, like the proper gentleman I am -

and kiss him...senseless. The screaming and applause are so deafening that they blend into a single, smattering uproar of jubilation. Seriously, the damn walls are thrumming with it.

When the starting notes of the first dance song filter in from the speakers above us, I tug on Misha's hand, pulling him out of his seat and towards centre of dance floor, crowds parting to make room for us. Linking his fingers between my own, I step closer and settle a hand on his hip, smiling down at the new ring glimmering on my hand as we begin to move through the steps. I look at it and back up to Misha's - my husband's - face and hope I never grow complacent.

The song Misha and I chose for this dance is surprisingly not Talk Dirty or Celine Dione or any such craptastic concoction of the cast's. It's The Irrepressible's Two Men in Love, and it's perfect.

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Everyone is invited onto the floor when the general dancing music starts after 7:30 P.M., followed by the pre-sunset and sunset portraits.

The chosen fan-made wedding video draws much-needed laugher after the emotional heaviness of the early afternoon.

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Misha and I cut our cake together

and then, atmosphere rife with snatches of jovial conversation and music, he and I go around greeting the choice guests we have time for during dessert. We've strategically seated our closest friends within a reasonable walking distance from the table of honour, to take pictures and accept congratulations together.

We make rounds of these tables tucked closely against each other, my hand resting perpetually on his ass like the best kind of nervous tick. It always goes for the ass, practically on autopilot.

We've been bestowed with a fuckton of wedding gifts, so the most practical and efficient response at this point seems like one grand, all-encompassing thank you video on our behalf towards all the generous guests and donors.

I've also bought Misha's mom a necklace to express my gratitude towards the amazing woman who raised Misha to be the incredible man he is amongst hardships I can't even imagine. She accepts it with tears in her eyes and we talk about baby Misha and toddler Misha and awkward but beautiful child Misha, and I choke up just juxtaposing those Mishas with the man at my side today.

We receive joyous congratulations from our families and friends, as well as workplaces acquaintances. Ian grins and tells me you're welcome, that his work here is done, and although I never asked him to help me make Misha jealous in the first place, I just roll with it. And our beloved groomsmen want to know about what they're sure will be ultra-kinky, quasi-public honeymoon sex in Russia...

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The truth is that we plan on making several stops for our honeymoon, starting with the carefully-chosen destination of Cockle Bay in Australia, and a climb to the summit of Sydney Harbour Bridge. But we're also visiting a few third-world countries to do volunteer work that Misha is coordinating through Random Acts.

Because it's like I told the guests, and indirectly the world: not every Prince Charming rides around in armour, carrying a sword. Mine wears a maid uniform when he runs for kindness or hands out free food. And to me, he couldn't be more sexually magnetic.

At some point in the evening I pull out my guitar and give the guests a taste of romantic Jensen Ackles with a few songs that leave Misha red-faced and teary-eyed. It isn't the first time I've serenaded him before an, albeit smaller, audience, but this is directly and indisputably and unabashedly for him, not veiled at all by the cloak of ambiguity or friendly camaraderie.

One of the wedding games involves me being blindfolded and groping the asses of all the groomsmen through their suits to see if I can distinguish my husband's from other men's. I can. Blindfolded, with my hands tied in the middle of the ocean with an anchor in my pants, I can.

And I don't know who arranged for it, but fireworks are set off just before last call.

Misha and I stand framed in the doorway overlooking the massive yard, which is crawling with people and cars, swarmed with paparazzi, and watch as brilliant explosions of light and colour explode in the ebony sky. Glancing over at Misha, I notice tears collecting along the waterline of those pretty eyes, and he squeezes my hand a little tighter. Damn, the waterworks have been going strong for both of us all day. We make the long trip down the path to the waiting limousine hand-in-hand, under the shower of petals and crackling, fizzling works of light.

It seems fitting to consummate our marriage under an open sky with a billion stars as our witnesses.

Sometimes we go at each other hard - like we're going to war - but sometimes, like tonight, we make love slowly, relishing every touch and every reverent sound. It's overwhelming the way Misha looks at me, open and fond in a way I'll never get used to. I hope I never get used to it.