I've been running on fumes every since Misha left a week ago.

Even though I have Dani in my bed every night, sleep continues to evade me. Part of the issue, I know, is the adjustment to my circadian rhythm; ever since I got with Misha I've had way better things to do at night than sleep.

But I'll have to make the transition back to normalcy, at least for the next month and a bit. The holiday season is fast approaching, and so is Dani's due date. And Misha isn't there anymore. At least my insomnia will come in handy when the babies are keeping us up all night.

More than anything, I want Misha here when they're born. He's amazing. He can pat and burp and feed and change babies like nobody's business, and most importantly, he knows how to take care of the big baby that I've become.

I'm Jensen fucking Ackles and a year ago I didn't cuddle or try to cook romantic breakfasts or beg and plead on my knees for a quickie, or show any semblance whatsoever of weakness or emotional vulnerability.

But that was before a beautiful thing called Mish happened to me.

I pull into the parking lot of the hotel where we booked the convention, and turn off the ignition.

It's an elegant mass of stone and marble, an old building that has been graced by its fair share of celebrities over the years.

The manager booked us in an effort to further expand the hotel's convention circuit, and the showrunners appreciate the opportunity to treat our fans to an early Christmas present. So despite my wife's pregnancy and the fast-approaching holidays, I was convinced to stay the entire weekend. It should be a pretty awesome event; all autograph sales will go to charity, and we're expecting our biggest turnout yet.

Bundled against a cold I'm not used to back home, I pull my navy wool pea coat tighter around my torso and walk through the revolving doors into the main lobby.

There's a fireplace across from the front desk, hypnotic flames dancing behind the glass and licking at the brown kindling. The room is spacious, warm and inviting, with a gold and white theme.

Jared joins me shortly, followed by a few other cast members. Most of the crew and workers arrived a few days ago to set everything up.

After checking in, Jared and I are introduced to our event manager: a tiny brunette in a pencil skirt and red cardigan, who gives us her contact card and our room keys.

Jared and I have adjacent rooms on the third floor, and Clif and the bellboy tend to the luggage while our manager gives us a tour of the grounds.

We stop by the vendors' room, where bracelets, posters, lanyards and countless other memorabilia are being unloaded on tables. She also gives us matching itineraries, and familiarizes us with the hidden hallways so we can avoid the crowds when getting around.

"There will be food carts placed out during panel breaks," she explains, "as well as room service meals available."

We pass by the elevators and I notice that multiple signs have been put up to direct the crowds that will arrive in a few hours.

"And this room is where the convention will be held." Row after row of chairs are being placed in the giant space we've been led into; people are hustling about with clipboards while workers are steadily building the stage. The speakers blare to life as the sound system is tested. "The green room and ticket station are still being set up by the convention staff."

The event manager reminds us about refreshments in the morning and lets us settle into our rooms.

I opt for a short nap to try and refresh. Unfortunately, my alarm goes off before I can achieve anything more than a shallow doze.

I change into a white t-shirt and grey jeans before shrugging into an additional, plaid button-down to fend off the slight cold.

Jared emerges from his room at the same time as me, wearing black skinny jeans and flannel, and trailed as usual by Clif.

Clif was unhappy about me making the drive here on my own. He usually drives Jared and I to and from conventions in the black SUV, but I told him it wasn't worth him making the trip out to Malibu.

"Ready," Jared inquires, pocketing his keycard. I can already hear the commotion coming from downstairs, and I know that the fans sure are, lining up along the hotel walls and dressed in clunky cosplay.

"I'll be ready when I've had a coffee," I yawn. "Or two."

"Let's go grab some."

Misha and I don't have a panel together today. Instead; I have a joint one with Jared to start, followed by Misha and Rob. The sound check went well; lighting is a go; the bodies bustling around with clipboards and pens and earpieces slowly filter out of the room.

I grab a coffee in the green room, which is now freshly stocked.

Doors open half an hour before show time, and the room begins to fill steadily with the fans.

Swarmed by body guards, Jared and I get ready and take up our positions backstage, waiting for the signal to head on.

Our panel is a blast. We say some pretty Internet-worthy things, throw our heads back and laugh heartily, feeding off of the incredible energy in the room.

I look out at the audience, their faces blurry and indistinct in the sea of bodies. They're soaking our presence in, making me feel like a million bucks. But oh, how they would hate me if they knew what I was doing to Dani. My wife has her own loyal following among the fans, girls who would scratch my eyeballs out with their little manicured nails if they knew I was cheating on their gorgeous idol.

Thinking about how the fans would react makes guilt stir in my chest. I wish I could make them, the world, understand how it is. I'm not trying to hurt anybody; I just love Misha.

I look down at the ring on my right hand gripping the microphone, lost in a vortex of turbulent thoughts while Jared distracts the audience with a story about my guitar-playing.

I love him, I mouth, ever so subtly. Nobody sees, of course. 

The lines for autographs and photo ops are endless. I take up my position next to Jared in the photo op room, across from the cameraman and handlers standing in front of the screen.

Cliff stands off to the side while we take pictures with the fans in various different positions. It's a whirl of funny, awkward, and romantic poses, hugs and smooches and props. I love seeing the fans' smiles, knowing I'm making their day a little brighter.

A few teenaged girls that have been clinging to me just a little too long refuse to release their grip, and Clif has to step in. He literally pries them off, whimpering and mewling, while I try to fix the clothing they've pawed to a rumpled mess. Flustered and wide-eyed, I clear my throat and force a smile as the next people in line are called over.

Misha's up next with Rob. I watch the blue-eyed men interact easily on stage. They work the panel expertly, with insults and witty remarks and playful quips and banter that set the audience off time and time again.

Misha is incredible. He's got this smile, it's like a fucking million-watt lightbulb. And his laugh...it takes my breath away, leaving me with the knotting sensation of somersaulting butterflies in my stomach. How are these people in the audience not climbing over each other and the chairs to jump him on stage?

I observe him from a distance, amazed that I've spent countless nights naked in his arms. It doesn't seem real.

I notice he's still wearing the ring I gave him, right next to his wedding band. The contrast is striking: a symbol of pure, familial devotion juxtaposed with one of intense, heated passion and forbidden love.

Most would say that I'm an idiot for risking everything like this. I take in his blue-eyed smile, thinking about how my wonderful family and job and fanbase are all on the line for him.

But my fans, endless hate, the end of my career and life as I know it, are all a small price to pay in order to be with him, to feel so alive.

I'm straight-up obsessed.

Which is why, when I walk in on the Supernatural family in the green room some time later, and Misha is casually eating pieces of fruit off of Matt Cohen's bare torso, I completely misplace my shit.

"Hey, you finally joined us," Misha brightens. He gestures to the array of strawberry slices trailing down Cohen's abs, and has the audacity to ask, "what do you think?"

Matt is a fucking stripper with a death wish, is what I think.

I give him a look that says to move his beautiful ass pronto and spin on my heel, exiting the room.

It's mere moments before Misha joins me out in the dim hallway. I've snuck away from Clif and I know I don't have long.

"So we're having dinner with the crew later," Misha ventures, visibly perturbed by the steam coming out of my nostrils.

"How about-" I lean in close, close enough for Misha's breath to hitch audibly "-we fuck that shit and go up to your room instead?"

***

We almost don't make it to the room.

"How did you - survive - without me," Misha breathes between the urgent, rough kisses I'm planting on his lips as soon as we lock the door behind us.

I push him up against the cool, wooden surface, and we immediately start fumbling with each other's belt buckles.

"I have no fucking clue," I pant, yanking his jeans and boxers down in one swift tug just as mine slip to the floor, and desperately pressing our bodies together until our groins are achingly flush.

A shudder of relief courses through me at the intimacy of skinship - my head spins - and something instinctual inside me screams finally.

Misha feels so good, so comforting and safe and secure when his body is glued to mine.

I thrive on these moments of closeness, any barriers between us lying discarded on the floor. He recharges me. It's as if every moment I'm not with him, my battery life is slowly draining out; my breathing is shallower, my soul feels somehow heavier and the need to see him builds until it becomes explosive - and when I finally manage to shred our clothes and align our bodies, slotting against him so perfectly, I can breathe again.

It's dizzying.

All the societally-fuelled inhibitions about revealing one's private parts seem to go out the window. It's all backwards when I'm with him - I want to get naked and get crazy with him like I want my next breath. I despise any and all boundaries between us, which is why undressing him often proves fatal for the buttons on his shirts and the thinner, more easily-torn fabric of his underwear.

The bed seems a million lightyears away in this fog of lust. So I lower Misha onto the hardwood on his hands and knees, and drape myself over his body, working him open as best as I can and hoping that all of our vicious fucking will prevent him from being torn in two.

Our ragged breaths tangle in the air as I slide my fingers in and out of him, scissoring and stretching, and somehow the terrifying intimacy is nowhere near enough. I need to be as deep inside of him as I can get or I might implode.

I place my hands on top of Misha's balled fists, fluttering kisses across the nape of his neck, burying my face against his hot skin until I feel him nod beneath me. Then, spreading the fingers of his fists apart so mine can slide between them, I align myself at his entrance and thrust home.

Misha keens low, head dropping between his shoulders when our thighs slap together, and my kisses intensify with sheer, devastating relief at having finally completed the circuit.

Crazed with desire, I alternate between brutally deep thrusts and tender, affectionate kisses raining up and down his back.

Our bodies work like a well-oiled machine, fluid, sensual movements making the floorboards creak.

I'm desperate for more of him, more, lips working feverishly at every inch of skin I can reach while I jackhammer into him.

Misha senses when I'm close to the edge and turns to face me, still speared on my cock.

Our kiss makes desire rocket from my stomach to my head, my vision swimming and my knuckles white with their grip on his hands.

It seems as though our every kiss is laced with desperation, like our bodies are biologically hardwired according to a ticking time bomb which is set to go off at some looming, undistinguishable point in the future. Until then, every touch - every blessed contact between our bodies - is animalistic with passion and raw need.

I don't pull out after I've shot my load deep inside of Misha, nor after he's painted ropes of white cream on the floorboards beneath us. Instead I hover over him, struggling to catch my breath as he spasms along my length with the aftershocks of our orgasms.

"Again, Mish," I plead. And again and again and again we go.

Hours later, we wipe away the evidence of our passionate lovemaking and collapse onto the king-sized bed.

Misha rolls his eyes as I kiss first Jen and then Sen before crushing him against me.

My body has grown accustomed to sleeping with him. It's craving him now, adamantly refusing the warmth of another body or a pillow as a substitute.

I need his body lying next to me like this, need his legs wrapped tightly around mine, his breathing on my neck, the tickle of his disheveled hair on my cheek.

"Jensen," Misha whispers.

"Yeah, baby."

"I'd love to cuddle all night but the others will be wondering where we are."

"I don't cuddle," I amend instinctually, even as my arm squeezes his shoulders tighter against my chest, our limbs interwoven in a hopeless tangle under the sheets. I make no move to leave, instead dropping kiss after kiss into his dark hair.

A minute passes as the sweat cools on our bodies, my muscles impossibly loose and relaxed as Misha slumps against me.

"Jensen," he tries again.

"Mish, ask me if I give a flying fuck what they think."

Silence.

"Okay, but if they ask where we went and it comes down to bullshitting some story, you get to do the honours."

"I'll do anything."

They'll go through a million different scenarios, anyway, before they assume we're sleeping together.

Mish smells and feels divine in my arms, and I can't help running my nose through his fluffy, dark hair. It's a little too long, the strands flipping at awkward angles and curling at his neck, and it's strikingly hot.

"I'm worried about JJ," I confess at long last.

Misha slides his hands down my chest and waits patiently for me to continue. "She's been acting up a lot lately, and it isn't normal for her. It's not good behaviour and I can't encourage it or allow it...but I don't know what to do."

"Disciplining them is hard."

"I don't want to deal with it. I wish you were there."

"I don't think she needs to be punished. I think she's acting out because she's scared."

"Scared?"

Misha's hands smooth over my hips, and the persistent fluff that resides there. I hate it, he loves it.

"Yeah, it's to be expected, really. There's a big change about to happen in her life-"

"The babies."

"Exactly. She's used to being the only child, getting all of your love and attention. I think she's scared that's going to change."

I close my eyes, relishing the sensation of his fully naked body pressing me into the mattress.

"So you're saying-"

"She needs to be reassured, not punished. Her temper tantrums are probably just her efforts to get your attention and keep you for herself as long as she can."

"And the nightmares...you think she's worried she'll be abandoned or something?"

"I'm sure in her three-year-old mind that's a real possibility."

"I'll need to talk to her."

"Mhmm. Let her know she won't be ignored or pushed aside when the babies are born. Let her know she's important too, and always will be, no matter what. The babies aren't a threat."

"Speaking of the babies...Dani and I have been brainstorming names."

"Oh yeah?

"She wanted Celeste for the girl," I roll my eyes.

"And you vetoed that."

"Because I'm the man of the house, obviously."

"Right," Misha disagrees cheerily. "Hey, man of the house. You ready to tell me the clown story yet? Your mom didn't go into details."

I shudder bodily, wrapping my arms tighter around Misha in a vice-like grip.

I don't know how long I sleep, just that I sleep.

It feels miraculous: succumbing to my exhaustion for the first time in days with euphoric ease in Misha's arms. 

I wake up to the sound of a phone vibrating on the nightstand.

Misha mumbles softly before rolling onto his side. I admire his smooth, toned back, trailing my fingers across his trapezius muscles as he thumbs through the device. "Dinner in forty," he yawns.

The crisp, white sheets rustle loudly as he rearranges himself next to me. I tuck my head under his chin and press a kiss to his collarbone while he wraps his arms around my waist. "I'm surprised Clif hasn't knocked the door down."

I groan, burying my face into his pecs.

"I'll fucking fire him."

I just want to stay in bed with Misha forever. He's so gut-wrenchingly beautiful when he sleeps, his face positively cherubic; my heart fills to bursting, straining against its ribbed prison.

I can practically feel it pound out of my chest and leap onto the floor. Yeah, there it is...twitching on the hardwood.

"Jensen." Misha grabs my face with both hands and pulls me up to eye level. "We need to go."

"Fine," I grin, pulling the sheets up over our shoulders. "After one last round."