I hear Jared swallow uneasily over the swishing of the windshield wipers whipping back and forth across the window.

"Divorce is a big decision," he stresses. "Take some time to think about this, talk it out with Dani, run through your options..."

I nod numbly, biting my lip. But the process would take anywhere from three months to two years; there certainly won't be any rushing of things either way.

"Yeah, I know... Thanks, man. For being here for me right now...for, um, you know. Everything."

"Hey, dude, it's no problem," he assures me earnestly. "I told you you could tell me anything. I want to help, however I can."

"You can hold a candlelight vigil for me once all this crap finally kills me," I chuckle humourlessly.

"Hey, no," Jared says firmly. "Don't think like that. Envision the best possible scenario and focus on that."

"Okay," I mumble, a faint smile tugging the corners of my mouth. "Um...the best scenario involves Misha, obviously." The small quirk lifts into a broad, downright gooey gaze as I play along. "Marrying me. Um, and a wedding cake - there'll be a wedding cake with marshmallows that nobody will guilt-trip me for eating."

What I neglect to mention is how I'd burn off the calories from said marshmallows: long, intense man-on-man action that would rival the most brutal CrossFit workout, so awesome Misha and I would be leaving the bed in wheelchairs.

The concept of marriage to that man is exhilarating. It would take some getting used to, living with him. When you're the only man in the house, things are a certain type of way; all eyes turn to you when a spider is found that needs to be killed, you get harped on daily about leaving the toilet seat up, and so on. But two men living together sounds...easier, somehow. Simpler.

There's no guesswork with two men pleasuring each other. The equipment is the same, and familiar plumbing makes things less awkward, less frustrating and more satisfying. Especially because Misha and I were never shy when it came to communicating what we wanted from the other. So we'd be the couple sitting at the dinner table, eating one moment, and fucking each other on it the next, just because we'd feel like it.

If I die from a heart attack, it'll be the sex and not the burgers that kill me. He can put that on my tombstone.

"And his ass will look fantastic in his suit," I list off. "And then we'll go on a honeymoon, in-"

"-Russia," Jared supplies knowingly, "so you can see Misha sink and shrivel with patriotism for the motherland. Yeah, dude," he snorts. "We know. Thanks to all of the gushing you do at cons, everyone knows you're into some weird kinks."

"Okay, that's partly you," I grouse. "You're always making it worse-"

"Maybe, but you're the one walking into it, every time," he chuckles. "Remember the crab trap story about you and Misha at MinnCon? You didn't even try to deny anything. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize...you've always gone along with the innuendoes and insinuations, all giggly and shy and shit. Which was weird. For a straight guy." He snorts. "Now I know why you weren't more upset."

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

Um, yeah, because I had to cover my crotch with my hand the whole time the insinuation got me so excited.

"A straight guy would've gotten all offended - like, uptight and shit - but, damn, you were all dopey, gummy smiles. I mean, you can be so cold, like - frigid - to people, you know, even at cons and stuff, but Misha can make your rude ass dissolve into a fit of hysterics just by existing."

I duck my head and absently rub the back of my neck with one hand, laughing short.

"I'm not that bad-"

"Are you kidding me, bro," Jared cries incredulously. "All he does is walk onto the stage and open his mouth and you lose...your...shit - like you piss yourself laughing every single time, dude. You never laugh at my jokes but Misha doesn't even have to say anything and you're all oh my precious Mishi you're the best I love you so much my anus is ready. Like, what the fuck, dude?"

The bright headlights of oncoming vehicles stab out into the downpour and darkness, temporarily blinding me as the lighthearted atmosphere dies down.

There's a lengthy pause, weighty with apprehension, before Jared's tentative question beaches the silence. "So...are you gonna be okay, man?"

"Yeah," I reply, dragging my shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "I mean, it ain't friggin' lovely, but I'll survive."

"You sure? 'Cause I could fly out to your place, if you need-"

"No way; Austin's, like, twenty plus hours away and it's Christmas tomorrow. You need to be with your family. Just do me a favour and...don't take them for granted, you know? You love them, they love you...that's a really... That's a big deal. Be happy."

Another pause.

"I'm sorry about what happened with Misha," Jared murmurs reluctantly.

My lips twitch, a small smile sliding across my lips.

"Don't be. I don't regret it. I mean, I did...at first. But not anymore."

The love that I have for Misha is the only part of me that still feels alive. My heart beats for him, whether he cares or not. Even though he has a knack for fucking me up, leaving me feeling like a part of me is missing in his absence, I've known true love because of him and it was...fucking awesome. I don't need a happy ending to reassure me that what we had was real.

We were temporary, fleeting, and it wasn't long enough for me. Forever wouldn't have been long enough. But we were real; I guess all good things really do come to an end.

"I do wonder, though... Fuck, I can't help but think - if I'd reacted differently, worded things a little better...is there anything that would have changed Misha's mind, you know?"

Probably not. He was so adamant that he was doing the right thing. But if this is right and we were wrong, then why does it feel like I've been plunged from heaven into hell? 

"When did it start," Jared inquires softy. "I mean, when did you know-"

"Immediately."

When I first caught a glimpse of him, I was rounding the corner of Stage Three on my way to the wardrobe trailer, just about to shoot 4x01 after rehearsing with Jim. Misha was bent over right outside the door tying his shoelaces, exposing a petite, denim-clad ass so fine it made me pull up short and do a breathless double-take...and the rest is history.

I'd never looked at a man's ass before and thought it beautiful. But fuck if this one wasn't. Perfectly sculpted, with finely-developed cheeks, small and firm and tight.

Of course, he's infinitely more than a beautiful ass attached to a toned body. But that knowledge came with time, as I got to know him.

"Were you...were you mad at him? Scared? I mean-"

The answer is swift and simple: "fuck yes."

Damnit, everything was so good, so normal in my life. I wasn't looking for something more. Then Misha came along, overturned all the order and neatness, and it was like I was living, breathing, moving, for the first time in my life. He had this...magnetic pull. I couldn't resist falling into his orbit.

And I knew, the moment that veil was torn, that I was vulnerable. I realized there would be bruises, scars. How could it turn out any other way, when I was falling for a married man?

"You're not...you're not gonna move on from him...are you." It isn't a question; it's a painful truth, a hard pill to swallow but indisputable nonetheless.

I've got nothing without him; I'm no good with him gone. And yet I can't escape him, because he burns under my skin, flooding my veins and consuming me from within. Somehow, I keep coming back to him, falling into that same orbit of his in spite of the plethora of logical reasons to stay way. There's no fucking off switch for it. My mind runs on a single track that leads back to Misha every single time. I still want him, still want to fight for a relationship that he's reduced to wisps of smoke and dwindling ashes.

That's what you do, when you love.

There's nothing I wouldn't do for him. He had me praying, for crying out loud. Like Cas did with Dean. Just another way that man brings me to my knees, and I swear, the old Jensen would laugh in my face if he could see the puddle of soft, gooey mush I've become.

The truth is that nothing he asks for could ever be too much. It will always be anything you want, baby with that man. What's that - the moon? No problem. The entire universe? Coming right up.

And all I ever asked of him is that he'd let me love him.

"Well, I'm not going to start falling into bed with random men now," I reply belatedly, unable to dispel the pained rasp in my voice. "Probably should, though." It fucks me up ten times worse because he's the only man I've ever slept with. Because he was my first in so many ways and all that bullcrap, my heart will probably never catch a break.

"Okay, because you know what they say...the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else-"

"Yeah, well, I can't," I mumble tightly.

"Why not?"

"Because." I swallow with effort, my constricting throat beginning to push an ache up through my face.

A fuck-binge wouldn't work. I'll never be able to let another man touch me, love me, know me on any real intimate level.

With Misha it was different, it was right. We were one flesh, hearts and minds and fucking souls fused perfectly. Crushed together, bodies contoured like they were made for each other, sweat-dampened skin pluming hot and trembling with fierce need. We were erratic panting, hot and forceful, and desperate kisses that swallowed sobs, engulfing the scarce oxygen between us. Arms cinching tightly around heated torsos, fingers gouging slick trap muscles, mouths dragging sensually slow over trembling, fevered skin, legs locked and thighs gripping, flexing, urgently. Squeezing with no intention of ever letting go.

Then he let go.

"I just...no one else does it for me anymore, you know?"

Up ahead, the airport looms against the troubled sky. The downpour has hit a lull, and a mere light rain taps softly against the roof of the car.

"So he really is the cock of the block, huh?"

"Jared."

"What," the fucker sniggers. "They don't call you Cockles for shit."

My breath caches in my throat as my heart slams against my ribcage. The pitiful makings of denial rumble in my chest for less than a second before I admit thickly, "Misha's fucked me up so bad, man."

"I'll bet my left nut he did," Jared laughs low. "Probably ripped you a new one-"

"Why does everyone always assume I'm the bottom," I grind out tightly, searching through the underground parking lot for an available space.

I mean, Misha did rip me a new one. Almost did the same with the bed, and the wall behind the headboard, too. But Jared doesn't need to know about the Olympic-level sex I've had with his friend.

"I don't know about you, but it's obvious the way Cas throws Dean around that Dean would take cock and just about anything else for him. Remember the alley in Season Five? Why the fuck else would you let him rough you up like that without putting up a fight?"

"Keep your mouth shut concerning shit you don't know shit about," I grouse.

But it was kind of hot, him grabbing me by the collar, pissed all to hell, shoving me into brick walls and growling demoralizing things in my face. Kind of like what Misha's done to me emotionally.

And just like Dean didn't lift a finger against Cas during the attack, despite being a well-conditioned hunter, I would surrender myself to Misha without a fight. If he wants to throw punches, physical or emotional, then I'll be doubled over his fist without an ounce of resistance in me. His to obliterate.

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

"Look, man, I'm not trying to stir up shit," Jared sobers. "But if I don't know shit about Destiel, then...enlighten me. What's your fucking deal with it?"

I grit my teeth against the headache hovering behind my eyelids. Why shouldn't I just tell him everything, make it a friggin' package deal? My search for fucks to give is still turning up Error: None Found, Please Try Again. So I'm going to be point blank honest with him and he can think whatever he wants of me.

"It made me jealous of my own character, for one thing," I confess. "For another, I knew I couldn't get into it at cons without slipping up and exposing myself. Then there were the pretences I had to keep up, like...overcompensating, I guess, and, God, just...so many things."

"Okay dude, I hear you but...coming across as a homophobic prick is only gonna turn Misha off even more. And you said you wanted to get him back-"

"I do. I just wish he wanted that too."

But he doesn't. Which is cool. I'll just fight for the both of us. How heavy can the weight possibly be?

Does it matter, when I've already established I would carry the weight of the world for him?

***

Mack picks me out in the crowd despite my hat and sunglasses, by the gaggle of beefy, no-neck security personnel I'm herding. We spend the ride back catching up and ribbing each other like good-natured siblings.

After settling into a guest room, she joins the extended family downstairs for storytelling, games and dinner.

We sit around the table smiling like energizer bunnies, but the jovial ambiance is deceiving. When we all exchange Christmas gifts that night, Dani gives me a brand-new, wine-coloured Gibson guitar, but in the privacy of our room, after telling each other everything, she gives me divorce papers.

And I feel nothing at all.

***

Neither Dani nor I want to spend Christmas Day embroiled in conference calls and meetings with our attorneys.

But I need to at least inform my PR team of the recent...complication, so I arrange a phone meeting to go over options. I'm supposed to confirm everything I do with them. Not that I enjoy a panel of individuals dissecting my life, but they need to be the first to know the truth before shit hits the fan, in order to more effectively conduct damage control. I've delayed long enough.

I'm half-expecting them to tell me I'm an idiot, that this could ruin me, sabotage the show. After all, everybody uses everybody in the entertainment business. Sometimes we celebrities are just income machines, moneymaking puppets for the higher-ups. And I'm starting to become more of a liability than an asset.

But they're surprisingly professional and level-headed about it, agreeing that a calm divorce is best - uncontested and quick. We'll need to wait some time for things to settle down in the aftermath, and in the meantime, I have to try not to say anything damaging.

They stress, albeit needlessly at this point, the importance of 'keeping my hands off Mr. Collins' in the public eye. Apparently that's been an issue.

There are already some pretty incriminating pictures out there. The ones presenting the strongest case are just long-distance shots, mostly blurry and not very conclusive...

but if a string of more decisive images ever surfaces, we'll need a plan.

Denying despite the evidence is an option. But who knows the extent of the content the paparazzi has on me? We could push the manipulation of any digital footage. But denouncement is risky, and could possibly expand the cheating scandal into blatant deception of the fans.

Another option is...and my mouth dries at the thought...confessing their authenticity.

Nobody bats an eye anymore over HollyWood divorces. The celebrity circuit is full of precisely-organized charades, couples set up by management to conceal affairs. Many of the successful populars behind hit-making global phenomena are fucking their managers, taking their producers to bed to guarantee their careers. Even those who haven't fucked their way to the top are rarely in stable, monogamous relationships off-camera, and when lies are exposed, divorce papers are signed faster than fingers can be snapped. I would know. Being on the other side of the silver screen, I know disheartening things about America's finest, myself included.

But an actor who splits from his wife and then comes out as gay and romantically involved with his coworker?

It would be bad enough if I were only guilty of infidelity. Yeah, everyone will side with Dani and bash me on social media. But homosexuality...that calls for torches and picket signs.

This isn't about a TV show critic giving me a bad review or another celeb badmouthing me. This is the fans and general public loathing my existence.

After everything I've already suffered at Misha's hands, demoralizing ridicule is something I can probably handle. The problem is that coming clean would put Misha's image at risk. I don't want to out him.

I have no idea when the hyped awareness will subside, when the next trend will steal the spotlight. But my life is guaranteed to spiral into a living hell until that happens, a garish whirl of press conferences and obscene magazine headlines and public apology videos, not to mention Internet confrontations and social media fights.

Even after this blows over, my career will probably never go back to what it was. This is it: the definition of losing everything. If this were for Misha, I wouldn't be feeling the slightest sting. But we're not even together anymore. He's taking on other acting roles, happy with his family, and I'll be facing the backlash alone.

I can already see the incessant flashing of cameras and chaotic swarms of aggressive reporters, stumbling bodies, clicking shutters and raging accusations. I see the astounded TV show hosts, trending hashtags that defame me, billboards and bus stop side ads vandalized with bold, red graffiti, the scandal-mongering news articles.

As if reality isn't bad enough, even the most 'credible' sources will snap the story up and feed the public their own doctored bullshit about how evil I am. Leaping to conclusions is what they do, alongside spewing never-ending lies.

Preparations are underway, in the form of non-disclosure agreements to keep things under wraps, plans for injunctions if we need to shut down rumours. Luckily, I have connections with moguls and heavy hitters from all walks of life. Not just other celebrities, but Fortune 500 marketing executives and top-notch attorneys.

And still, my head is spinning once I've finally survived the dreaded confrontation. Trembling with disbelief and the familiar pang of nausea searing through my core, I climb the stairs to my bathroom and clutch the edge of the marble counter with whitening knuckles.

It's starting.