The room soon fills with sleepy actors, trickling in with coffees and five-o'clock shadows, looking harried and sleep-deprived. I guess it pays to be a heavy drinker sometimes, because I'm not feeling the effects of our night out in the slightest. 

Playful animosity and lighthearted banter soon saturate the atmosphere as they settle down around me at the oak table. Jared fixes me a staple platter of eggs, bacon, and orange juice.

Presently, he's filling Richard and Rob in on how the cast of Supernatural are all a bunch of freeloaders who raid all of his good beer and let themselves into his trailer whenever they please.

"What can I say, we're a tight-knit community," Mark defends, dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

As the conversation progresses, howling laughter erupts in the room, hearty claps on backs and lips stretched around food in jovial smiles.

Despite the ambience of camaraderie, the gulf between Misha and I yawns bigger and bigger. Even though he's sitting beside me, he feels more distant than ever. It's a distance that stretches and stretches with each passing day that he refuses to acknowledge us.

I slug back the rest of my juice, simultaneously forcing down a muted wave of anguish.

How long can we keep this up? How long can we keep going through the motions, evading the delicate truth of our situation? It's only been a month apart from him, and I feel as though we're different people already, ghosts of the him and I that I used to know.

A blanket of panic smothers me, suffocating.

Ten, twenty years from now, we definitely won't be the same people. The show will end; our paths might not intersect like they do now. We'll be old, with flecks of grey in our beards, grandfathers maybe.

And the space between us will always be too full of all the time we let slide by, all the words we didn't say, all the passion and fire in our chests that we doused with societal expectations and family pressures and the stress of our work. How we fasted for so long, curbed our desire for each other. How we each forgot the topography of the other's body, once bared openly with earnest passion and loving solemnity. As though not talking about it, skirting around the truth in a perpetual game of lava, could ever make those feelings, those desires, go away.

When our joints are aching and our hard, lean bodies are softened with age and our stamina is, for once in our lives, lacking - is that when we'll finally realize what we missed? Is that when we'll break down in anguish over years lost and words unspoken - when it's too damn late?

I have to know. I don't want to be treading water forever, waiting and wondering what if and had I and if only. I have to know if Misha's walking away entirely of his own accord, or if there's anything I can do, anything at all, to change his mind.

Complacency nearly ruined my chances with him once before; I won't lose him again for lack of-

"Hey, Jensen, you gonna eat that bacon," Mark queries lightly.

I blink, running my tongue over my bottom lip and swallowing.

Feeling as though I've snapped out of a nightmare, I glance around me and then down at my limbs, as if checking for decrepitude. Relief washes over me. I've still got time.

Then my gaze rises to Misha, this man I've shared so much of myself with and who's shared so much of himself with me, and something snaps inside me.

A sudden tightening in my chest cavity bids me to grab onto him, pulling him onto my lap. Unease cinching my insides tight, I squeeze my eyes shut and stormily exhale the breath I've been harbouring, softly panting my insecurities and inhibitions against the sandpaper roughness of his stubbled cheek. It's not too late.

"You can eat it," I barely remember to reply, keeping my voice quiet to hide a tremulous note.

Mark raises a puzzled brow before snatching my plate away without further ado.

I tighten my hold on the lean body in my arms, snuffling soft and desperate around his neck, sipping at him with hungry lips. I hold him like my only tether, my celestial anchor.

When he turns his head, a mix of befuddlement and reservation darkening his eyes, I numbly brace myself for the impact of a long trajectory. I keep my lips pressed harshly, jaw locked in bottled determination, ready for shit to flip, but he simply rolls his eyes and the conversation about the holiday break resumes anew.

My breathing gradually steadies, anxiety quelled, as I trace the topography of misha's knuckles with my thumb. But the melee of thoughts in my head is still vying with the other actors at the table for my attention.

Despite the many eyes on us, I kiss his neck. It's a landmark gesture for me, openly admitting to everyone in this way that I have feelings for him. I've sat him on my lap when I was drunk and kissed his neck discreetly between photo ops, but this is both at the same time, done soberly, publicly.

Because I'm done with my little forays into melodrama. The past couple of weeks have bled me, not only of energy but also of any lingering reservations, any inhibitions, when it comes to publicly showering Misha with my affection. Maybe it won't win him back, but at least I'll know I was honest with myself and those I care about.

Of course, I intend to respect Misha's wishes in front of his fans; he's got an image to maintain, after all. But within the Supernatural community, I'm not embarrassed in the slightest to admit that I hunger for him. For all of him.

It isn't going away; the molten core of my love for him is as fiery and consuming as ever, so much so that the effort of concealing it is thoroughly depleting, draining. And after being on Tumblr, I realize the joke's been on me all along. I haven't really been fooling anyone but myself, anyway. Seriously.

Love is a strong word, I once said during a panel. I love you Misha, I declared on television.

And, honestly, maybe the term unicorn laugh is an insult to unicorns.

Exactly what am I doing? Breathing fire? Regurgitating? Being stabbed in the gut? Oh, wait-

Nope. Misha has spoken.

One simply does not act the way I act around Misha unless hopelessly smitten. That's it. That's all there is to it. It really isn't that complicated. Why do I try?

Oh, and note to self. Please keep staring at Misha heterosexually. It definitely helps to establish the platonic premises of your relationship.

I once read somewhere that looking at someone unblinkingly for six or more second reveals desire for either sex or murder. And I've seen the gifs of myself looking at Misha as Dean. At times I couldn't tell if they were gifs or JPEGs, the staring was so long and profound.

And I sure wasn't told by the directors to look at Cas in a manner that would statistically crown the episode as peak gay, so what was I thinking? Hey Mish, listen, bro. I don't know how to flirt so I'm just gonna stare at you until you marry me, okay, bro?

And next up on Supernatural: how to platonically suck your bro's dick. Platonically.

Just...wow. And it isn't enough that some of that shit has to qualify as the longest eye contact in the history of television; my thirsty ass just had to sneak in some appraising once-overs of Misha when I thought the camera was focused elsewhere.

There is no need to pick any of this apart. It's blatant. Everyone knows. I'm exposed.

The atmosphere in the room is bright with light parries, witty cracks, benign jabs. And Misha is the same sarcastic oddball as ever on my lap, brilliant and clever and funny, rarely giving a straightforward answer.

But I can't find it in myself to join in. My thoughts meander, cleaved between self-admonition and the attractive angel in my arms.

An angel who plays video games like an uncoordinated monkey, as Rob so lovingly contributes to the discussion.

I chuckle and dust the pad of my thumb along Misha's cheekbone as he defends himself with characteristic grace and wit. My fingertips proceed to trace the planes of his face and neck while he speaks, catching at his collar. I mouth into the cotton smoothed over his clavicle, tracing his Adam's apple as he swallows a bite of whole grain bagel. Misha's brow and lips are pinched, but he remains stock still as I pepper his throat with gentle, fluttering kisses.

Releasing a sigh, grated and forced from being harboured against my will, I can feel them fall away. The small threads I would always take care to brush meticulously into place in order to maintain my image: the short, succinct answers to fans' questions, the internalized and distant persona, all the denial. My sword and shield and armour are falling away, and I feel more vulnerable than ever. And it's incredible.

Misha drains the last of his tea and I swipe my tongue over the seam of his lips, chasing the bittersweet taste. He's visibly ruffled, terse, but cooperative.

I hide my face in his neck, a kindling desire riding my pulse bred by the warmth and weight of him on my lap. When I sense that he's relaxed again, I lick the last traces of fragrant tea from the smile ticking at the corner of his mouth. He responds with a derisive hiss that makes me chuckle, jaw going taut.

I smooth my hands reassuringly over his thighs, which, needless to say, feel glorious. They're warm and firm in my tight grasp, muscles bulging through the thin cotton. One of his best features.

Misha's a fair bit slimmer than Jared and I; his shoulders are less broad, his waist and hips quite slender and then - oh, shit, those thighs. Even when he's swimming in the rest of his outfit, his thighs are pushing the limits of his pants.

Look at them, I groan inwardly, softly kneading his quads with my hands. So big and beefy and-

Damn, I'm actually a slut for Misha's thighs.

They are such a distraction when he's walking around my hotel room in nothing but his boxer briefs.

I remember on several occasions, Misha had, like, ten tons of crap to pack for his travels, and I was just sitting around, deliberately not helping. Because he wasn't wearing pants and if I got up to help...I wouldn't be able to watch. I know my behaviour was annoying and must have infuriated Misha beyond belief, but I was just so damn pleased by the view, I had to snap a few more pictures for my private collection.

And I have had the honour of learning first-hand that he doesn't like to wear boxers often, because they tend to ride up on those ridiculously muscled thighs, which is why briefs are his underwear of choice. My personal favourite is nothing.

Oh, how I'd love to Mish Reach™ my way down his pants right now. But as much as I want to see some Misha meat unclothed, I understand that I don't exactly have a green light to do that at the moment.

So I resign myself to nuzzling Misha's collarbone and kissing the warm skin there, my brain whirling with a vortex of thoughts like shit, this man has some of the most incredible thighs on planet Earth...uuuugh. Please let me live for one second... Did he have to bust out these pants? Fuck, I am so weak...kill me know... Mmmm, thunder thighs... I'm gonna cry... Okay, this is officially a crisis... My heart is going to give out... I didn't know such a kink existed but at this point I'm not even questioning anymore...

The latest trend in the Mish Reach™ has involved me fighting fans for Misha's thighs. I've even had to apologize to one girl for leaving scratch marks on her wrist. But I think fans understand that I'm very emotionally invested in Misha's thighs. They're important to me.

Because I am a simple man who appreciates the simple pleasures in life. Misha's ass. Misha's thighs. Misha's eyes. Misha's hair. Misha's mouth. Misha's hands. Misha's tum...

And his tum is beautiful. Thoughts of kissing, nibbling, blowing on, nipping, licking, just eating it, consume me. I used to absolutely love taking little itty bitty nibbles of that smooth, tan flesh. It's just the right amount of squishy, firm yet soft and freckled and perfect. The most malleable little belly ever.

Jared's booming laughter jolts me roughly out of my thoughts. Which I'm sure are normal thoughts because Misha's a super fit, healthy guy with some delicious, solid parts to him that every sane individual admires...

The others are now guffawing over the recollection of that time Jared fucked up a scene and set us back days because the shoot included explosives and breaking glass.

But I'm still busy administering an overdue mental beat-up to myself. Jared was right. I have no excuse, moping around like a sad sack of shit. So many people in the world who are enamoured with Misha Collins are forced to watch him from afar, grateful just for the opportunity to breathe the same oxygen as him. And here he is, sitting on my lap without complaint, and I get to wrap my arms around this incredible, incredible man and hold him close and I'm not fucking thrilled? I am the luckiest man alive, and it's time I started playing the part.

If the fans knew that I had him, that we slept together and showered together and cooked for each other and he let me name his friggin' ass cheeks, and then I let him slip through my fingers...they'd have my head.

I mean, one only has to look at him to understand how ridiculous I've been. He's beautiful. Beautiful. Simply stunning, easily the most gorgeous man alive and one of the strongest people I know.

Closing my eyes, I nose into the crook of Misha's neck, snuffling against the warm skin there as my hands shamelessly clutch a firm wealth of perfect ass through his pyjamas. That's another thing I love about Misha's thighs: they're attached to Jen and Sen.

"I love you," I whisper just behind his ear. He doesn't say anything, and I don't need him to. It's enough for me, just being able to voice my feelings freely like this. I suppose that only someone who's harboured secret feelings for his best friend for eight years can appreciate the luxury that is this little freedom.

As it is, I don't feel worthy. I'm no better than his fans, just a simple man who enjoys frisky angels named Mish, like everyone else on the planet. But, by some miracle, I actually got to call him mine for a little while. And I might even have a chance to fix things between us.

So I'm grateful that Jared hasn't been going easy on me. Sometimes I need the sense knocked into me, especially when it comes to Misha.

And Jared has been more than happy to help me out in this regard. Because alongside being the biggest prankster on set, he is also the biggest Cockles fangirl in existence, both literally and figuratively.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

In fact, some fans believe I'm hopelessly gone and that they should just pray for Jared, because he's the poor, unfortunate soul who's gotta deal with Misha and I. He would totally roll with that, milk it for all it's worth. I work hard, but the credit belongs not to me, he'd gripe soulfully. I didn't start the Cockles fire; it was always burning...

Yeah, personally, I think he's doing just fine. Maybe even having a tad bit more fun than he should be.

Misha leans back to whisper in my ear, "I have to pee."

I press a soft kiss to his temple before scraping my chair back to give him enough room. He excuses himself to the others and slides off my lap, then makes his way to the men's restroom.

As soon as Misha's out of earshot, Jared grabs the lapels of his coat and begins to fan himself with them, panting lightly.

"Whew. Is it just me or is it getting gay in here?"

I duck my head, cheeks colouring rapidly.

"What can I say," I grin flippantly, "I got myself one of the hot angels-"

"Yeah, man, what's up with that?" Rob chuckles in dismay, just as Mark exhales: "Jensen, you thirsty little ho. I thought you were so far in the closet you were sucking dick in Narnia! Since when do you do hotel lobby PDA?"

Cheeks scalding, I hoist my bottom lip noncommittally.

"I can't help it. He's just...so perfect, I-"

And then, before I can fetch a pair of earplugs, Mark starts belting out the lyrics to some Meghan Trainor song, Pellegrino tapping out a beat on the oak table.

"Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the t-"

"From the Jensen to the Misha," Jared supplies lyrically.

"Aww, come on," I grouch over the raucous laughter that ensues. "Again with the bottoming theories? Seriously? What do I look like, a friggin' sperm bank to you people?"

I wait expectantly in the burgeoning silence, punctuated by dry coughs, for some kind of validation. Anything.

The guys just shift their glances, awkwardly avoiding my stare while rubbing the back of their necks. I shut my eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

"I am going to ask this once," I sigh, "just once, and then I never wanna discuss this topic with you again. Exactly why am I the bottom?"

"Well, okay," Rob interjects hastily. "It's not like we have scientific proof that you're the bottom..."

"...but we sort of do," Jared finishes awkwardly.

Pellegrino shrugs, lifting a forkful of scrambled egg to his lips.

"Plus, Misha's a total daddy."

"It's in the way he walks," Richard explains apologetically. "He's got this look about him, like...he can get ass anytime he wants, you know?"

"Oh," I say quietly, shoulders slumping with defeat and realization. "Right."

"Hey, look, man," Jared soothes earnestly. "For what it's worth, I think the bottom is the strongest in a gay relationship. It takes a lot of bravery and trust and-"

"And a strong asshole," Rob appends, nodding solemnly.

"-absolutely." Jared leans over and places both hands on my shoulders, eyes brimming with sympathy and understanding. "Nobody here thinks it makes you any less of a man."

I duck my head complacently as Jared gives my back a hearty slap.

"Thanks, guys," I mumble. 

Richard awards me a wistful half-smile. 

"No problem, dude. Any time."

"Seriously, I think it takes guts," Rob pats my shoulder consolingly. "I mean, I know I couldn't do it."

"What, get fucked in the ass?"

"Yeah," Rob pulls a face. "I mean a bro-job is one thing, but I feel like once anal is involved it becomes too...real, too-"

"Too gay?"

"Yeah," he laments, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "And it's scary, because from what I've heard...once you go gay, you stay."

"Nah, man, it's cool," Jared assures. "Just say no homo halfway through."

The table dissolves into sniggers.

"Hey, I didn't actually eat anything," I gripe amidst the laughter, suddenly achingly aware of the empty void that is my stomach. "Did you guys snag all my food?"

"Here, have mine," Richard sighs, pushing his plate forward. "Thanks to you and your man back there, I'm full on gluten-free homo, anyway."