A blazing sun hangs low in the evening sky, painted across with pastel streaks of orange and yellow and red. We dine in the backyard, enjoying the last of the golden rays in a cacophony of bubbling laughter and conversation and the clinking of cutlery slicing the hot air.

Inhaling appreciatively, I dig in with gusto. The burgers are deliciously succulent, and Misha makes a house sauce that tastes like mayo and heaven had sex and the sauce is their baby.

He's seated beside me today, which is nice because I can use my fork to flip the croutons from my salad right onto his plate. They're still a little crunchy, but mostly mushy from soaking in the dressing and definitely too soggy for my taste. He likes them, though, and transfers the smaller, crispier fries from his plate to mine, because those I dig.

Misha commandeers the conversation with a story involving Jared and European hotel bars. I watch his silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun in a trance, a soft smile playing on my lips and my food lying mostly forgotten. I know I look at him with a kind of awe, like the sun shines out of his ass or something, and it's a problem. But I can't fight the attraction. I've completely lost my chill when it comes to this man, and it'll take an archeological fucking expedition or maybe NASA to find it.

He's got this off-beat charisma, this thrall to him. Everything he says is pure comedic gold. He's fearless, unpredictable, intoxicating - and nothing about him fits within the frame of any preconceived mold. It's that singularity of his that has me so far past crazy in love that I can't even see the border. It's evident in the way he speaks and acts and carries himself that there is nothing generic, standard or normal about Misha. He's handmade: one-of-kind, unique, unlabelled, a wilderness-wandering kind of guy who observes the boundaries that suit him and stomps the rest down with big shit-kicker boots until they're a freaking crater in the earth. I find that ridiculously attractive. That's why, between the two of us, he's usually the enforcer of his own rules while I'm the crumbling façade of will. I could never tell him what to do.

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This poor, unsuspecting world wasn't prepared to have this man foisted on it, and neither was I. When he first showed up on set and I greeted him with painfully pedestrian platitudes like I look forward to working with you, I tried in vain to pin him down. But I quickly realized that he isn't the pinned-down type. He isn't fazed by hateful opinions of him, or afraid to be who he is. Granted, he didn't grow up in Texas. But still, the amount of time it took me to be open about my sexuality is embarrassing compared to Misha's own fearless transparency.

If I'm being perfectly honest, though, he isn't fearless. He has worries and fears too; he just manages to rise above them. And yet, despite how hard he works at that, he's also plain lucky. No one on God's good and verdant green earth thinks he's straight, and he's never even had to explicitly come out, per se. Because it's obvious. I mean, everyone and their fucking grandmother experimented at some point, usually in college - even the most 'normal' people. And normality may as well fuck off to Indochina where Misha Collins is concerned, so one can only imagine how straight he is.

Yet, somehow, I was so caught up in self-loathing and repression when I met him that I didn't think I deserved the sliver of a possibly that Misha Collins might be into men. No way could I be so lucky. But it's like he told me in that barn as Castiel: good things do happen, Dean. In my experience, however, perfect men didn't just drop from the sky and get together with the likes of my sorry, closeted ass. I didn't have faith. But he did.

Thanks to my preconceived idiotic notions, I shut the possibility of there being an us - both as actors and as characters - down hard, vehemently denying everything about me but my own goddamn name. He was the one who patiently bore with me until I opened my fucking eyes and gave myself a chance to be happy. And now I want to do the same for him.

Not as a responsibility - although I do owe him - but as a privilege. Because I care unspeakably for him, and I always will, even if we're not together and even if we're far, far away from each other. He has me so hopelessly caught in his orbit, aching in places I don't remember giving permission to exist, everything else in the world reduced to fizzling white noise like a halo around his glory. It's still there, all that other stuff - but only to confirm that he takes precedence.

I don't realize the others have finished eating until Jared asks me if I want dessert. So this is what the Internet means by #I want someone to look at me with as much sexual frustration as Jensen looks at Misha with. With a mumbled no thanks, I push away the remaining half of the burger I was too captivated to eat. Misha reaches for it without a lapse in his speech, lifting it to his lips to finish it off.

After dinner, Vicki and Gen clear the table and Jared and Misha get to work on starting the campfire, while Maison, Tom and Shep head out to forage for dry tree branches in a small grove at the edge of the lake. I kick a soccer ball around with West in the bordering field, taking advantage of the vast clearing to play a little one-on-one. I even teach him a few tricks to decimate his opponents during school games. Although he claims he's gotten too old for affection, I can't help ruffling his hair whenever I pass him, or the endearments like kiddo that he's so adamantly opposed to. Especially because I know I can get away with it more than the other adults. I'm the cool actor-father-figure who plays the badass demon hunter on TV, under the tutelage of whom he's gone through the proper rights of manhood, as was laid down by the Man Code. We're proud of each other.

West and I are covered in a sticky sheen of sweat by the time the fire is ready, smiling and panting as we begin the trek back to the cottage from the lake. Maison and the Padalecki kids gush about their plans for an epic new treehouse while West and I hang back to talk.

West prods at the ground with the long stick he's dragging along, scraping a trail into the earth.

"So, uh," he ventures apprehensively, "there's this girl at school..."

"Uh oh," I rib. "Relationship problems already?"

"Shut up, I'm not a baby anymore," West huffs, squaring his shoulders.

"West Anaximander Collins, did you just tell me to shut up."

"Sorry." West ducks his head in remorse. I don't care if he swears; Misha raised him with fuck this and fuck that and it's not a problem. This is a respect thing, and I know his dad wouldn't stand for it.

"So there was a girl," I press, more gently.

"Yeah, she's alright-looking, I guess," West shrugs, scalding cheeks belying his halfhearted tone. "I was just hoping that, uh...that you could, you know..."

"You want advice on how to get this girl?" Oh, poor bastard. He's scraping the bottom of the barrel here if he's looking to me for some sort of guidance. But I'm honoured that he's willing to open up and talk to me about it. I don't want to let him down.

"I just feel like an idiot," he confesses. "She doesn't pay attention to me. No matter what I do."

"I, um..." My throat works around the words, jaw clenching. "I understand the feeling."

"You," West scoffs, wide-eyed with disbelief. "You can get anyone you want."

"Not quite anyone."

West's eyebrows draw together in a confused little frown, and I get it. I can understand why he sees me as a hero of sorts. Standing at over six feet, I'm a broad, scary wall of a man that can make fans shit their pants upon face-to-face interaction. I'm professional, sometimes standoffish, often grumpy, and I'd rather act out in aggression than, heaven forbid, have my masculinity called into question by the public. Of course, I'm also objectively hotter and thus more intimidating than the average American male, but that's neither here nor there, and the point is that Misha does things to me. He's managed to punch through the veil of manly-dudebro-ery draped over my brain. Whereas I was once a charmingly suave heartthrob in the flirting department, I'm an abject failure when it comes to him. I could have anyone I want - goodness knows even the guys on set want a piece of me...

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but Misha's the only one I want and the only one who won't admit he wants me.

The Great Underwear Debacle of 2017 exemplifies perfectly how far the mighty Jensen has fallen. The audience was so close to getting a sex tape at that point, had the panel not been cut so short - that's how hard I was trying.

This is what I've devolved into. Touching and flirting with and shooting heart-eyes at Misha like a sexually-frustrated preteen schoolboy. That's who I am now. Going after the one man I can't have and dragging my dignity and pride all battered up behind me.

People never did get over that...

I spot Misha in the distance. He's standing by the barbecue with disheveled hair and an orange rubber duck apron and I admit that, yes, I'm in love with that nerdy angel and there's nothing that can be done about it. It's too late to get out of this unscathed.

Apart from him, I don't do emotion, feelings, love. That's a deadly trifecta.

But Misha has my heart, like so many of my other firsts.

"Have you told her," I press gently. "Your feelings, I mean."

West shakes his head.

"Too scared."

I nod. I can understand that too, because for a long time, I was too terrified to tell Misha how I felt. Once I realized, I couldn't even say hello to him without fear that it would come out I love you.

Fooling the world was easy. I'm a famous actor because I'm a damn good actor. And for a long time I preferred to live in denial, at the bottom of a beer bottle, than be upfront about who I was. But there was a void: a stupid, nagging ache that had taken up permanent residence behind my solar plexus since I met Misha. Maybe that's why I started sleeping around behind my wife's back and sent my marriage swirling down the shitter. Our relationship was never technically defined as an open one, but it was implicitly understood by both of us to be less than monogamous. Which is to say that she didn't really care what - or who - I did while away at work, so long as I continued to satisfy her in bed.

I took to drinking too much, and when that didn't fill the void I turned to dirty dancing with strangers at the club. I tried to take all the hottest women to bed - most of them models like Dani - because surely their hotness could cure me of my gay and, besides, I just needed a human touch when Dani was in another country. Not only did I grow grumpier and more calloused over the course of my marriage, but I started acting off-camera to change who I was into a more presentable image.

Simply put: Jensen the happy little twink had to die.

This new Jensen is a tired man, forced to change completely from who I used to be. The pressure to be more masculine, the scrutiny of fame, the lack of happiness and fulfilment in my personal life, have drained me of the bright energy and character I had in my youth. I look a lot less gay, sure, but also a lot less happy. Stressed, depressed, repressed, but well-dressed. I was stretched taut, always ready to snap at anyone who questioned my sexuality, losing myself in butch mannerisms and denial not unlike what Misha's going through now. So I deserve this from him after all the shit I put him through with my own overcompensation, performing, and façades.

Mine was the textbook definition of a fucked-up Hollywood celebrity's secret life, complete with the excessive drinking and depression and whoring around. But no matter how much of a manslut I became, nobody could hold a candle to Misha. He fills all the little spaces in my life no one else even knows about. He's the one I've wanted for so long and the one I let get away.

Sometimes, I wish I could go back to the days when it was all a secret, hidden even from Misha, for one last chance to be in love without it ripping me apart.

West catches me staring.

"I know you like-like my dad."

So he clued in too. Well, I'd be questioning his intellectual capacity if he hadn't. No two men who look at each other the way Misha and I do have nothing going on between them.

Period.

"Hey everybody," I mutter around a wry smile. "We got a Sherlock over here."

"You wanted to marry him, didn't you?"

"I still do."

"Have you told him?"

I gape, momentarily off-guard. "Have you told him you wanna marry him," West prompts.

"He knows..."

"That's not what I asked," West insists. "Everybody knows. But you should say it like that, to him."

West doesn't get to say more, because Misha's within earshot now.

His unapologetic prompting reminds me of my mom. She hasn't been sympathetic about me letting Misha slip away again. She called me after I came out and said - quote unquote - if you want that boy, son, then man up, grow a set, and go get him. She also threw around a few sweet, mothery words like chickenshit-dumbass and coward.

I'm so stupid for not listening to her and going after Misha when I had the chance. I can always get a new job, make new fans and new friends, but there's only one Mish.

"Hey, bud." I lay a hand on West's forearm to halt him and he turns to me. I feel like Misha and I never even got a chance, but West still has one. "Just talk to her. Get to know her better, everything about her, hang out with her. Just...don't do nothing."

West nods solemnly, gives me a parting hug, and takes off to join the Padalecki kids in the backyard.

Gen has set up folding chairs in a circle around the fire. We all sit under a blanket of twinkling stars, with blankets spread over our laps and firelight bouncing off our faces. Distant strains of rolling waves crashing against the lakeshore waft towards us on the breeze, mingling with the crickets and cicadas to create the perfect summer backdrop to our conversations. The heat of the crackling fire is almost stifling in the summer air.  

Eventually Gen and Vicki take the kids inside for bed, leaving us men around the fire.

I watch as Misha withdraws his stick from the flames and carefully plucks off a plump, brown marshmallow.

"My turn," I whisper beside him.

"What, no," Misha protests indignantly. "You had the last one."

Just as I lean over to grab it in my mouth, Misha pops it into his own. I scowl at the betrayal.

"Too late," Misha crows, chewing the flavourful treat with a truly criminal moan. And now I wish I were a marshmallow.

My phone pings and I find a text message from Jared.

Jared: eat his dick

I lift my gaze to glower at the sender, quickly shielding the screen from Misha.

Me: can u stop

Jared keeps typing across the fire from me.

Jared: Skrt skrt gotta blast 🍆🍌🍆🍌🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀

"I need to get out of here," I grouse, standing up to leave. I look to Misha. "Wanna join me on a walk?"

"I'm tired, Jensen," he replies apologetically.

"Mi-ish," I whine, dragging out the syllable with childish petulance.

"Mish needs to sleep," he counters.

"Mish." I pout, imploring him with a woeful puppy dog expression.

Taking Misha's sigh to mean defeat, I grab a hold of his hand to pull him out of his chair and the blanket hugging his athletic frame slips to the ground. He looks maddeningly beautiful in a powder blue pullover that brings out his eyes and jeans that make his legs look even longer. Misha follows me sluggishly, dragging his feet.

The dirt trail peaks and drops downhill, and we follow it for just over five minutes before it yields to soft sand. It's narrow and always mercifully secluded. The entire property is private, in a remote location undisclosed by the Padalecki family.

I hold onto Misha's fingers with childish obstinacy, squeezing tighter every time it seems like he might try to extricate them. The distant, shimmering band of azure soon materializes into the lake, awash in the glow of the rapidly receding sun. Darkness is beginning to creep into the gorgeous expanse of orange sky.

Misha and I walk hand-in-hand along the water's edge, the wind sweeping his hair into messy peaks. I duck my head and scuff my feet and try to ignore how good he looks.

It's like everything hinges on the quiet somehow, until Misha dares to shatter the silence by kicking a spray of water my way. I respond by sending a mammoth tidal wave in his direction. He laughs mildly, scrunching up his eyes as the water settles around him. A few droplets still flying through the air, Misha twirls once in the throes of childish exhilaration, arms extended like a ballerina.

Suddenly, he gives a small yelp and a cry of my name as his feet give away underneath him. I dive in to catch him on instinct.

His theatrical pretence doesn't hit me until we surface and Misha sends me a smug grin.

"Wow, you really are obsessed with me."

I draw my hands over my face, sputtering and completely drenched.

"That was a dirty trick." I raise an eyebrow in warning as we stagger back onto our feet, and he tries to stifle his laughter. But it can't be contained. "You think this is funny?"

Misha presses his hands against his mouth, already shaking his head madly at the maniacal gleam in my eyes.

"Jensen, no..." Misha's cerulean eyes widen in fear as his inevitable fate dawns on him, imploring me. But it's just that: inevitable.

"Jensen, yes," I grin, undeterred.

Before he can react, I grab him around the waist and throw him bodily into the turf. A million crystalline droplets rain down in a shower.

Immediately, Misha breaks through the surface again, already choking with laughter. I crawl overtop of him and hover on my hands and knees over his body, effectively caging him in against the wet sand. And, yeah, this closeness works for me. It really does.

"You ruined my clothes." Misha literally vibrates with laughter as my lips graze his neck and shoulders. Dripping with lakewater, I lay down meandering, damp whorls and loops on his skin, unable to resist mouthing at that long line of throat when it's begging for lovebites.

"That tickles," he protests feebly, breath coming in stuttered gasps and eyes squeezed shut. But I am unrelenting. My lips resume their slow, simmering exploration as his hands flutter like birds along my arms.

"Let this be a lesson to you," I murmur, slanting my nose against his cheek. He tries to brush me off but I remain plastered firmly against the slim curves of his body, hemming him in, a hand flattened against his chest to keep him still. My teeth find the side of his neck, ghosting over the stubble, grazing softly until Misha's futile efforts abate to a fevered stutter of eyelids, all ten fingers settling in a vise around my shoulders.

"Okay, okay - I'm sorry!"

"I'll forgive those inconveniently gorgeous eyes of yours." My lips move slow and focused against the nape of his neck before dropping a final peck to his cheek. "But you're going to have to earn your forgiveness."

I finally prop myself up on my hands and lean over him, breathing hard. Grinning and free at last, Misha reaches over to swipe a handful of water into my face. You wish, he retaliates under his breath, standing up. I follow suite.

My hands fly out to find his shirt, dragging him flush and tight. He's firm and hot in my embrace and smells like coconut, and I squeeze my eyes shut, drowning out everything but the beating of his heart beneath the hard planes of his chest. "Can't you just be quiet and let me adore you?" Misha opens his mouth, but I cinch my arms tighter around the long hot line of his body. I pull away just enough to fix him with a warning look.

"Shh." I touch my index finger to his lower lip, silencing him.

"B-"

"Shut up. If you say another word, I just might kiss you." I lean forward to slide the bridges of our noses together, lips only a breath apart. "And we both know how you'd feel about that."

"That's not fair," he protests feebly.

"Shut up." My lips gently brush the tip of his nose, nestling in the swell of his cheek. "Don't tempt me."