Dani's talking, but it's all white noise.

I see her lips open around the shape of the words, watch her twist the wine glass in her fingers, the crimson liquid sloshing lazily, but I can't make out what she's saying.

The waves of the ocean smash against the rocks and soak my ankles in misty spray as I stand on the beach before my wife. She's lying on a blanket in the dark, braced on her right forearm. Talking, between sips of her wine.

There are apologies in there, some accusations, too. But I tune her out, focusing instead on the foamy swell sweeping around my ankles, the feel of the wet, packed sand and the cold surf swirling at the rolled-up cuffs of my pants.

To the average passerby, we look like a couple out for a midnight stroll along the beach, the pale glow of the moon and the lulling tide lending the false pretence of romance and serenity.

But the average passerby doesn't know that I have thirty days to respond to the divorce application Dani obtained from her lawyer.

Her grounds for divorce are legion, my passivity and extended absences from home included, but stem mostly from her desire to start over with this man she loves, who worships the ground she struts on in the way she always dreamed her husband would. The way he should. I know I haven't exactly given her a fairytale marriage, so her affair of almost nine months doesn't faze me.

It's definitely an uncontested divorce, filed on the grounds of adultery. We're both coming completely clean, neither of us wanting to drag out the process unnecessarily.

Dani's sharp bark of my name jolts me out of my thoughts, but I don't think she's surprised to realize I'm not paying attention. She says I never really did.

Dani's talking again, and the rush of icy cold surf sweeping under my feet shields me from the words shooting at my chest like fired bullets.

I don't want to hear it. She's sick of saying it. Why do we bother?

I pull my shirt over my head and slip out of my jeans, turning towards the ocean. Leaving Dani on the beach, I wade into the icy waves, blissfully warm compared to my insides. My heart is barren, a wasteland.

I'm running dangerously low on his love.

The corners of my jaw tighten with an ache that veins upwards through my temples as my arms slice through the foamy swell, legs propelling me forward.

When I was with him, I took his affection for granted. Every time I leaned in for a kiss was another opportunity for him to push me away in the name of doing the right thing. He didn't have to go as far as he did with me. His moral conviction has always been stronger, and I know he wasn't comfortable with the affair between us.

But he did everything he did for me. Now, if I could just hear Misha telling me he loves me one more time, I could die in peace. But after how we left things, I know he'd just as soon stomp my ass into the concrete as look at me.  

Pain coils around my chest and squeezes with a vicelike grip, tightening.

Why didn't I realize sooner how lucky I was? And if I had realized, would I have done things differently? Would I have taken him out for dinner, bought him cute romantic shit, made more time for us to simply talk? Or would I have just kept trying to put my dick in him on a regular basis?

Even the fact that he let me top him is becoming harder and harder to believe. Misha is not some sad, little twink. He's beautiful and fiery and funny: wonderful, whereas I'm an idiot. He certainly didn't submit to me like he did because he wasn't capable of fucking me silly.

Now, I can never touch him again. His body is off limits to me, and so are his mind and his heart. I can never look at him again without having to cloak the love I feel for him under the veil of friendly camaraderie. Friends is all we can ever be.

Except it's hard to pretend Misha's nothing more than a friend when, every time I look at him, I see everything I could ever want to have. And how am I supposed to respect these new boundaries he's enforcing when I've seen him out of his clothes more often than in them?

He's the only man I've ever known so...completely. I don't know how not to adore him. Nothing has ever felt as good as his body. He gave it to me willingly on so many warm summer nights under the cool sheets of his trailer bed. I can still feel the softness of those sheets around our naked skin, wrapped snugly around each other. Every swell and curve of muscle, every treasure revealed inch by glorious inch as I slipped off the clothes disguising his beauty...

I want to remind him. If he'd only let me, I'd remind him all night long what we used to have. But not if he's determined to forget. Which he is.

And why shouldn't he be? His marriage is ideal in the eyes of society, a fairytale. Whether it's genuine or a carefully-construed veil doesn't matter; deviance comes at a high price in our world. Why should he risk social standing - risk everything - for me?

His logic makes sense, and yet...I don't know how he does it. Just let me go. Is it really that simple for him? It isn't for me. Something inside of me still cries for Misha, drowning out every other voice of reason.

Somehow, I don't give a shit about any of that stuff he values so much. I'd rather be a nobody living in a rickety old house in Bum Ass Nowhere, USA, and have Misha, than be rich and famous without him. Or Canada. Or fucking Venezuela. Wherever he goes is home to me.

How does he not realize?

He killed a man.

But in spite of what he's done to me, I want to protect him, shield him from the repercussions of our ill-fated love.

I told the higher-ups whenever they would shoot Castiel's fight scenes: if anyone lays a finger on Misha, it'll be the last time they see their finger.

Mark Pellegrino came to this rather grim conclusion during one of his stunts with Misha. It only took me a second to assess the situation as I was walking past the set and then I was on him, ripping him loose from Misha, practically throwing him through the green screen.

Not because I think I'm the shit and can therefore boss my bosses and coworkers around as I please, but because I cared about Misha. I've always been a pushover for him, besotted to the point of stupidity.

***

Back home, I volunteer to sleep on the couch, but Dani and I have been two strangers sharing a bed for so long that she says it doesn't matter.

I lie awake beside her, watching the darkness press at the glass of the window until the grey light of dawn creeps in, heralding the morning.

After breakfast, she and I draft an outline of our parenting and custody agreement.

I never thought I'd be so grateful for the fact that my wife has been cheating on me. But everything I worried about - child custody, support, property, assets, and so on - is practically a non-issue when your partner is equally guilty and thus inclined to cooperate.

After arranging legal representation and filing the divorce application at the courthouse, there are additional fees and formalities required in order to complete the process.

Now it's a matter of waiting for clearance from the Divorce Registry, for notice of the court's decision. Because it's uncontested, we don't even have to go to court; the judgement will come to us once the judge has had a chance to review the material and issue a Divorce Order. We can obtain our Certificate of Divorce thirty days after the Order is granted. Only then will I be legally divorced and entitled to remarry.

So the days pass in a haze, my mind numb and whirling, and my phone vibrating non-stop. I email back and forth with my agent, who regales me with opportunities involving major networks and primetime, meet and greets and photo ops and premieres and galas and other social events.

I'll be boarding my flight out to BC at midday in less than a week. From there, I'm due to fly out to Jacksonville, Florida for the January convention.

I already know it'll go shit, given what I'm going through. But I'll see Misha again. And I'm no treasure trove of romantic eloquence, but goddamnit I will fix things between us if it's the last thing I do.

***

Exhausted after packing for my trip and putting in some work on the shed, I sit on the couch with JJ watching some brain-cell-frying children's show while discussing the cute boy in her class.

JJ preens under my attention, smiling a mushy smile that I know she's inherited from me. They tell me I look at Misha like that, and the convention footage confirms it.

"You really like Caleb, don't you," I murmur, mouth twisting in a playful smile. I thread my fingers through her soft, silky hair, combing tenderly through the sweet-smelling strands.

JJ's cheeks take on a soft, rose tint and she lifts her eyes earnestly to mine.

"I will marry that boy someday," she asserts simply.

Just as quickly as she's informed me of this undeniable eventuality, her attention is captured once more by the TV and she starts swinging her legs, completely rapt. My hand slows in her hair, eventually stilling as I mull over this information.

Thinking about some man stealing my daughter away in the future makes my heart twist with an overwhelming surge of protectiveness. If any man so much as looks at her the wrong way, I'll start swinging.

Every father wants better for their daughter. I don't want her to get hurt. I don't want some man to take advantage of her or break her heart.

Since the beginning of time, man has broken everything he's touched, and hearts are no different. Misha taught me that. But I tell myself none of this shit will happen to her.

And it's this fear of breaking her heart that makes the news I have to deliver so difficult.

When the show's over, I leave JJ with some reading and linger at the bottom of the staircase, hand resting on the polished mahogany rail.

I have to do this. I have to tell her about the divorce underway, especially because everything's already in full-swing. I don't want her to hate me, but I realize this may have been my last opportunity to spend time with her that isn't tainted by the knowledge of the looming separation between her mother and I.

She's mildly surprised when I plop back down by her side, but carries on with her reading. I stare over her shoulder, the words a mere blur of jumbled letters swimming across the page, silently working up the courage to say something.

And then I do. I tell her. And the last thing I expect to hear from my daughter is the quiet murmur, I know.

But that's her response, and I realize that she knew, without being told, what the lack of affectionate display between her mother and I amounted to. My parents and sister, however, seem to lack that intuition.

***

"Whoa, slow down there," Mack urges, panic gripping her voice. "What the fuck? Isn't that moving a little quickly?"

I shift Arrow in my arms, watching as my sister does the same with Zep across the nursery. It's feeding time, and Dani left to see the Good Doctor after we talked to my parents together about our divorce. The latter have been ruminating over the news in hushed tones downstairs while I've been filling Mack in on everything.

"No," I return numbly. "I mean, why wait? She's wanted someone else for almost a year. And I'm in love with Misha. Nothing about our marriage is exactly fixable, sis."

Mack appears dazed as she lifts the milk bottle to Zeppelin's lips.

"B-but, talking-"

"Oh, we talked," I mutter low, pushing my free hand through my hair. "At least, she did."

"And? What did she say?"

"What do you think? That she's sorry, that it's not a fuck you, it's what she felt was right. She loves him."

Mack swears under her breath as the baby in her arms laps eagerly at the milk.

"And when you told her-"

"She was shocked, but ultimately I think she was...relieved. She was feeling really guilty and I think she suspected for some time that my heart just wasn't in it. I don't blame her for seeing someone else. I wasn't really there for her. And even when I was, I still...wasn't, you know?"

My sister shakes her head as I start feeding Arrow.

"I still think this is moving too quickly."

"It's what she's wanted for a long time, Mack. She gave me the divorce papers to sign, not the other way around. And we are taking it slow, keeping it on the down-low for as long as possible. What with the babies, and the inevitable chaos that will erupt...we're just keeping the process nice and quiet for now."

"Okay, but, did you at least try-"

"Mack," I sigh irritably. "Look, this is not something you can fix with chocolate and flowers. We're both in love with different people. This marriage is only hurting us both, holding us back from what we want and need-"

"Why the fuck did you marry her then? Why did you start this mess in the first place?"

I shut my eyes, lacking the patience to dissect my motives one more time.

"What would you have done? Continued to bemoan the married status of your man crush for the rest of your life? I felt like I had to move on."

There's a lengthy pause, in which Mack contemplates my reasoning and I realize, not for the first time, that that's exactly what I'll be doing for the rest of my life.

"Okay," she murmurs, voice laden with a wariness I'm only too acquainted with. "Okay, I get it. It was never going to work from square one."

"It's not that surprising, is it?"

"What, celeb divorces? I never pegged you two for Angie and Brad, but...no, it's not uncommon."

"I know this'll sound weird," I laugh short. "But I think I'm more relieved than anything."

"Well, I guess it must've been a rough couple of-"

"It's not that. If Dani didn't have her own mystery man, if I were the only evil one among the two of us..." I swallow, the thickness of my voice belying my emotion, "I might not get to see the kids as much."

My sister bites her lip, expression softening.

"It'll be okay, bro," she promises quietly.

"Look, I don't know how things are in your fantasy world, Mack. Maybe Misha's my hubby wubby there and we have a dog named Bacon, and that's great. But nothing about reality is okay right now. So just listen carefully. When you become...the sister of that Jensen Ackles freak-"

"Come on, it won't be like that-"

"You don't know that. Nobody knows how this is gonna turn out. I just want you to know I'm sorry you and Josh will be dragged into my mess. Jeremy, too, and Christian and...fuck..."

I bury my face against Arrow's downy head, struggling to maintain composure.

"It'll be okay. You'll see."

"Right," I mutter, the stiff edge of reality hardening my voice a fraction.

"I promise. Besides, I'm already the sister of that Jensen Ackles freak. And that's alright with me. In fact, I'm pretty lucky to be able to call you my bro."

I huff a short, dry laugh.

"I guess I am pretty awesome..."

"You know what they say. All the good ones are gay." I roll my eyes but her expression is genuinely distressed. "Seriously. You aren't leaving us women much to work with," she sighs. "At least there's still David Candy..."

"You mean David Gandy."

"Mmmmm or do I?" My sister grins lecherously.

"Whatever. It's not that all the good ones are gay, just that all the gay ones are good."

"Good in bed, I'll bet," Mack concedes with a smirk. 

"Uh, how..."

"Come on, it's obvious. I heard that the directors asked you and Misha for a brief kiss and the whole crew got free fuckin' live porn. Now when I think about you and Misha behind closed doors I'm imagining the Nagron love scene from that show Spartacus."

"Fresh batch of shutthefuckupcake," I sigh. "Made it just for you, Mack."

"Please. We both know the Christmas tree wasn't the only one with an angel on top of it."

Fuck, not her too.

"You know, contrary to popular belief, Misha did let me top once in a while. And what is Nagron, anyway," I frown.

"What, you don't know about Agron and Nasir? They're my all-time favourite gay pairing."

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

"Are you abandoning ship there, captain," I query with a chuckle.

"You mean Destiel? No, I'm going down with that ship. It's just that many men from this show's era were openly gay and still fucking badass," Mack continues earnestly. "And they were as vicious in bed as on the battlefield, if the show is anything to go by. It all just goes to show what a piss poor term fairy is for gay men. And fruit, and all the other stereotypes of weakness or inferiority. It's like, these guys are so badass that they simply can't suffer a less macho lover than another, equally tough, man. Women are a frail bore to them, you know?"

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah," my history buff sister continues animatedly. "The Greeks and Romans were much more open about sex. We've found the phallic symbol all over Roman jewellery, streets, statues and implements. And we know that Greek men were basically doing it with other men more often than women. Look at Achilles and Patroclus, Alexander the Great and Hephaestion... The period from first century BC to, like, second century AD was literally all sex and graphic, violent gore."

"Are you sure they were actually gay and you're not just-"

"They were gay, or I'm wrong about life," Mack states resolutely.