"A ring," Dani deadpans. "You want to give Misha a ring."

"Yeah, a token of our friendship," I offer with practiced neutrality. "Guys give each other bro rings all the time, right?" And by friendship I mean love, and by bro ring I mean mock engagement ring, even though nobody but us will ever know these technicalities.

A frustrated gust of air flows out of Dani's nostrils in response.

"You really think a...bro ring will fix things between you two?"

"It's worth a try," I shrug, rubbing the back of my warm neck.

I send a fervent prayer of gratitude to my years of training as an actor for the impressive poker face I'm regarding Dani with.

She draws both hands down her face and clasps them under her chin, studying the marble kitchen counter for an eerily long moment.

"I just don't understand why you didn't run this by me first," she murmurs belatedly. "You're not usually so impulsive. I mean...what the fuck, Jensen?"

"Whatever," I grumble, prepared to shuffle past her. "Just forget-"

"Don't use that Dean voice with me," Dani sighs irritably. "You may play an inbred hick on TV, but I expect you to act like a decent man to me and to your friends, not fight like a savage over dinner at an expensive restaurant."

A stray smile tugs at my lips. Dani may be smaller than me, but she can and will take a strip off my hide to keep me in line.

"Hey," I murmur, reaching out to grip her shoulders lightly and looking her in the eye. "I'm sorry...but you said to fix things with him and I just-"

"I meant to fix things by talking to him, Jensen, not blowing thousands of dollars on matching bro rings."

"I know," I sigh, hands wringing together. "I'm sorry for not consulting you first. But this'll work, I promise. He can't hate me after this."

Dani bites her lip.

"You better hope so. And you also need to man up and apologize to Jared."

Why, I barely refrain from whining. It's pointless approaching him when he's pissed off at me; all it'll do is decrease my life expectancy.

"Okay," I relent.

But fuck will he have some words for me...

"That's better," Dani contends. "And don't even think about buying him a ring too."

***

The rain beats the hood of my car like war drums, pounding its rhythm to an incredible swirling rage as I merge lanes.

Misha is thumbing through his phone in the passenger seat and JJ is asleep in the back as we head to a special kind of hell known as the mall.

We already have the baby furniture installed in the nursery, including changing tables, rockers and cribs, but there are still a few supplies that need to be picked up.

On top of the fact that I'm headed to a place I usually avoid like the plague - and the added bonus of congested holiday traffic - the weather is shit.

Misha seems to sense my foul mood, because he turns to me with an imploring, adorably impish smile of consolation.

"It'll be over soon," he whispers, reaching over to sweetly thumb my right cheek. "Then we can go home and trade blowjobs."

Yeah, I'd much rather be rolling around in bed with him doing something that requires a fuckton of testosterone than waiting in long lines or perusing ridiculously-overpriced merchandise.

"You owe me so much horizontal naked time when we get back to your trailer," I grouse.

I'd rather die in a fire than spend my day in that life-sucking, soul-crushing vortex of brand name, high-end trash.

Who needs clothes anyway, that's what I say.

Misha certainly doesn't.

But I volunteered to go in order to appease Dani, and because I knew that the responsibility would otherwise just be delegated to Misha.

"Why does it always have to be my trailer? Yours is much nicer, and bigger."

"Oh, okay, we can do it in mine. Want me to also invite Clif in for a threesome," I offer drily, and Misha respectfully declines with his left middle finger.

I slow reluctantly behind a long chain of stagnant vehicles. Loud horns blaring, people on their phones, lights and towering buildings. The colours, smells, and laughter all scream California.

A minute later, I hear JJ stir in the backseat.

"Are we there yet," she whines, pouting with her arms folded over her chest and blinking sleepily at me in the rearview.

"Just a little bit longer, sweetheart," Misha replies. "Why don't you play with those dolls I told you to bring along?"

"I don't want to," she moans petulantly. JJ kicks the back of my seat and I shoot her a warning look in the mirror.

"Come on, it'll be fun," I urge, tapping the steering wheel irritably while I wait for the light to change.

"No," JJ bellows. "I said I don't want to!"

"Watch your tone, young lady," I chastise.

Misha places a hand on my thigh and gives me a reassuring, tight-lipped smile - for which JJ should be grateful.

It's not long before she drifts off again, rosy cheeks flushed and breathing soft and even.

"She gets this behaviour from you, you know," Misha muses in a low voice.

I throw him a questioning glance, which clearly establishes that his claim paints me in a bad light and is, thus, irrelevant.

"That scene at the Crossroads, for example," he elaborates. "If I hear shit like that falling from your mouth ever again, goddammit I will come over and hate-fuck you where you stand."

"Challenge accepted," I chuckle, debating whether or not I should lean on the horn to wake up the sluggish driver in front of me. "You're more likely to punish me by not fucking me."

"I would never," Misha retorts huskily. "I take care of your needs."

"Mhmm. Remember when I asked you to send me a dick pic once and you sent me a picture of James Patrick Stewart," I deadpan.

"Okay, that was just funny."

"Nope." I glare at the dash, punctuating the word with a blare of my car horn before signalling and passing the snail-paced vehicle.

"Daddy, are we there yet," JJ groans again, impatiently kicking her legs.

"No, JJ."

"I hate this!"

"Hey, JJ," Misha brightens. "I'm going to tell you a story, okay?"

JJ's nose wrinkles in faux distaste, but I listen as he dispels her impatience and irritation with funny stories from work.

She's squealing and giggling in no time, and my heart lurches in my chest with the realization that Misha is freaking amazing with her.

The ring I bought for him is burning a hole into my jean pocket, causing an uptick in my pulse as I imagine presenting it to Misha.

It's a wide, silver band with a raised edge in the centre and unique, ornate carvings. Nothing overly extravagant, but special nonetheless.

I had to spew a lot of bullshit to mollify Dani, but my plan worked, and the entire way to the mall I imagine slipping it onto Misha's long, slender finger.

And the best part is that he can wear it in public. It's like hiding in plain sight; no one will know what it means. Except it'll mean the world to me.

We exit the car and Misha unbuckles JJ from her booster seat. He takes one of her hands and I grip the other as we navigate the parking lot towards the mall, in all its crap-bucket glory.

"We're here," he smiles down at JJ, one hand holding an umbrella over our heads. 

"And here comes my breakfast," I mutter, pretending to dry-heave.

The mall is festively decorated and teeming with hordes of people spilling out of every store, vibrant and brimming with activity.

I scan the vast assortment of merchandise in the display windows as we walk, JJ skipping cheerily between us. The foyer is alive with so many buzzing people that the very air is thrumming.

"Ooh, can we buy that," JJ gasps, releasing my hand to point to a baby bed draped with a pink gauze canopy.

"We already have beds," I explain patiently. JJ scowls but accepts my hand again. "What's first on the list, Mish?"

"Carseats," Misha murmurs. "Then sheets, diapers, and clothing."

Misha proposes that we split up, but I won't hear of it. His tight ass is the only thing in this entire godforsaken building preventing me from making a beeline for the exit.

Our first stop is a colourful little store with soft, ambient lighting and a perky, redheaded saleslady. We don't find carseats, but get three glittery, tissue-filled shopping bags of clothing, and the saleswoman gets our autographs.

Not too many people recognize us, what with our aviators and my beanie, but a few hardcore fans stop us after we've hit our third store.

There's a group of about six of them, all avid followers of the show, and of course Misha is only too eager to engage with them. He's amazing with his fans; they drink up his presence in a way that makes me jealous.

They gush over Misha mainly, how chill and awesomely creative he is for renewing his wedding vows dressed in drag, the success of GISHWHES, etc.

One of the guys points out that he's interested in going into performing arts and asks for advice.

"You need to be good at improv," I offer wryly. "A surprising amount of lines on the show aren't actually scripted."

"Yeah, casting directors look for good acting," Misha elaborates, "but they also want also someone who can work as part of a team and who loves what they do. Go for it. Acting is a pretty awesome job." And the cheques are fat.

"Can you, like, tell us about the season you're filming right now," one of them queries after we've signed various surfaces, bodily and material.

"What would you like to know," I hesitate, wary of overstepping my bounds.

"The relationship between Dean and Cas, mainly," a shyer girl confesses. "Destiel, if you will-"

"You will," another smirks emphatically. "It's legit the best part of the show."

"Yeah, the ship totally sails itself," yet another adds solemnly.

Thankfully, Misha has a knack for simultaneously answering and not answering questions that threaten our jobs, so I let him handle this one.

The last few questions are about the twins. It still amazes me how up-to-date everyone is on my personal life. And yet, Misha and I are still a secret, shielded from the public eye by some rare breed of mercy and compassion on the part of fate.

I'm surprised they can't all see it. The bags under our eyes from countless sleepless, steamy nights, the slight limp in our strides, the flush in our cheeks, are all incriminating in my eyes but apparently invisible to the rest of the world. And soon, we'll be wearing matching rings. I hope to fuck the bro ring story carries more weight than it does in my own ears.

I'm afraid it might be just a little too reckless, a little too stupid, even for me. But it's some inane, inherent human instinct compelling me to brand him as mine with a small, round metallic object.

Other couples can stand in front of their closest friends and family and exchange words of love and admiration and rings and a kiss; is it asking too much to give Misha this one symbol of my affection?

I feel like we're living on borrowed time anyway, and I want to hold him a little tighter, kiss him a little deeper, be a little more reckless in showering him with my affection while I still can.

"I like this one," Misha murmurs, fingering a pale blue sleeper with a large teddy bear on the front. "They have a matching one in pink."

I lift JJ into my arms and inspect the clothing while she fiddles with the strings on my sweatshirt.

"And they're on sale," I murmur thoughtfully. "Let's go with it." Misha carefully refolds two sleepers and tucks them under his arm.

I watch in fascination as he browses the wide assortment of clothing, his fingers trailing over different fabrics and colours, teeth biting into his bottom lip with concentration.

Seeing him surrounded by baby bottles and mini high-top convers and mashed peas and applesauce makes my eyes glaze over.

Domestic Misha is my kink, I guess.

JJ gives a frustrated stamp of her feet, drawing me out of my reverie and back to the glaring reality of another impending temper tantrum.

"Shh, were almost done," I murmur, scooping her back up into my arms. Her hair is soft and sweet-smelling and she wraps her little legs around my waist, arms circling my neck.

I have a grand whopping total of three seconds to admire the precious angel in my arms before she kicks me sharply in the side. "Ow," I mutter.

Misha looks up from perusing several baby bottles on display. He accepts JJ from my arms and props her on his hip while studying a pastel pink bottle.

"She's tired," he murmurs, rocking her gently before setting the bottle back down. "It's nap time, isn't it, baby girl?"

"We just need to grab a few more things," I reply, letting my hand fall briefly on the small of his back. "Then we'll get going."

"Did we pick up sheets? I can't remember," Misha mutters, fumbling for a second matching bottle in blue. It's all I can do to not surge forward and kiss his unshaven cheek.

"Yeah, we did. It's on to shoes."

When we're finally finished, we're laden with almost more bags than we can carry, which means JJ is forced to abandon her comfortable perch in Misha's arms and stomp along behind us. She's cranky from exhaustion, but brightens instantly when Misha proposes we stop for crêpes.

Since Dani isn't here, I indulge in a strawberry crêpe that I will be dreaming about for a week probably, and Misha orders a Nutella and banana one which he shares with JJ.

Watching him eat is amazing...orgasmic.

I'm a little jealous of the way that crêpe is making his face crumple with pleasure, the same way it does around round four or five of our nightly festivities...

You shut up, I scowl inwardly at my crêpe before shoving it brutally into my mouth.

***

Jared is lying on his back in my home gym, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, arm muscles straining under the weights he's lifting with clenched teeth.

I lean in the doorway and watch the veins bulging in his forehead and along his arms, the intense expression contracting his flushed facial features.

Just watching him makes me feel like a fat piece of shit.

I said shut the fuck up, I remind the crêpe in my stomach.

It's still pouring outside, the assailing rain beating against the floor-to-ceiling windows that run the entire length of two of the four walls. The heavily-laden branches of surrounding poplars sway in the violent wind, but other than that there's an impenetrable silence smothering the room that has my nerves on edge.

"Jared," I sigh, thrusting my hands into the pockets of my jeans. I wait on bated breath for him to say something, anything.

Jared inclines his head slightly, his hazel eyes narrowing into a hard glare.

He looks as if he just smelled a pile of shit.

"Jensen," he replies, sweeping disinterested hazel eyes over my presence. He doesn't seem angry so much as sullen and hurt.

It pains me to know I did this to him. We've been friends for so long and I care deeply about him. He's always there. I don't know why I keep getting defensive when all he's trying to do is help. It's in his nature; he's so impulsively caring that I sometimes mistake it for nosiness. But I know now that he wasn't prying; he was genuinely concerned about me as a friend. And I pushed him away, repeatedly.

The episode at the restaurant the other day was just the catalyst for his pent-up frustration. I don't blame him for giving me the cold shoulder, not one bit. I just wish I knew what to do, or say, to make things right again.

"Look, man, I'm sorry. I was a dick. I don't know why I'm like this..."

I say, lying.

"Right," he contends, but his tone implies I can take my argument somewhere else.

"I told you, Jared; it's nothing-"

"Then why the fuck don't I believe you?" Jared drops the weights with a clatter, his words invoking a kind of numbing dread in my stomach that stirs and spreads uncomfortably along my body.

"Jared...I'm not ready to talk about what's going on yet, okay? I might never be. I know you want to help but you have to respect that. I promise that the second I need someone to talk to I will come to you-"

He waves a hand in the air to slay the rest of my apology.

"Oh, don't get down off your high friggin' throne for me. I have problems of my own, even though I don't bitch at you because of them."

I bite my lips, teeth scraping apprehensively across the sensitive flesh. "Look. I'm sorry about the other day. I don't even know why I insulted you. I was feeling pretty out of it and I haven't been sleeping and I'm stressed out with the twins coming and the words were just coming out on their own like...fucking word vomit and...I'm just really sorry, man. About everything, how I've treated you lately...everything."

Jared throws me completely off guard by rising to his feet and striding over to me. I brace myself for a blow, but instead he wraps me in a suffocating embrace.

"You know I care about you, dude," he mumbles into my shoulder. "I just want to be here for you as a friend."

"I appreciate that." My lip twitches in a brief smile and I struggle to pry his arms off of me. "I really am sorry."

"It's fine. Just...you do realize that you're not actually Dean, right? It's okay if you ever wanna talk, about-" he pauses dramatically "-feelings. You're human; even macho men need a shoulder to cry on sometimes."

"Alright, alright," I smile grimly, thumping him on his sweaty back. "I get it, man, I do." I hesitate. "Alright, okay. No chick flick moments, please."

Jared eases off and slaps my back with an exaggerated gusto that almost has me doubling over.

"Come work out with me then, tough guy," he smirks.

"You're on."