It's only when I swing my fist around, landing it in the wooden shelving, that the searing pain finally registers.

It shoots through my palm, drawing my attention to the thin veil of sweat coating my body, the pungent breadth of silence around me, the rivers of red, raised lines on my skin. I stare at them, dumbfounded, each shaky breath escaping between my lips with a shudder.

I've snapped.

I've finally snapped under the weight of this burden. But my stupid, dilapidated heart doesn't get it, atria and ventricles pulsing in union to keep me tethered to a life I don't want.

I slump against the wooden table leg and sink in a heap on the floor, cradling my head in my hands, knees pulled up towards my gnawing, empty chest.

I remain in this disposition of resolute defeat, hollow and raw with betrayal, a terrible curdling in my stomach that threatens to empty itself again, trying to reassemble myself. Time is a meaningless concept now, and I don't know how much of it trickles by, nor do I care.

My dad ventures out to find me around lunch time, urging me to stop working and take a goddamn break, but the chastisement dies on his lips when he gets a good look at me. I don't bother to explain that anger and loss have left a gnawing wound in my stomach that would make eating impossible. He wouldn't understand that Misha's absence is a very physical ailment, an aching in the crevices of my bones like a cancerous sore.

He treats my hands, but doesn't know what else to do. Granted, he's never found his son in the throes of anxiety such as this before. I am not a man who cries. I haven't made time for tears, not like this, in decades. Now my eyes are freaking industrial factories of that shit. It's pathetic, and this thought spurs me to rise to my feet and follow him back to the house.

I clean up so as to look presentable for my family, join Dani in bottle-feeding, changing and bathing the babies, all the while ignoring the upheaval of my heart.

I move through the days on autopilot, jaded and dazed, feeling the winded crush of my soul gradually breaking down.

Face pulled thin, eyes heavy, I answer when spoken to but don't volunteer any information regarding my state, not even to my concerned wife. We sleep in the same bed, have breakfast at the same table, but we're like strangers. If it weren't for the babies consuming almost every waking second of our existence, I would spend all day in the workshop.

I only leave the shop when the night is a cobalt black outside the windows, the glow of the house an inviting beacon in the deep darkness.

Winter's kiss is marked in the snap of chill in the air, permeated by the sounds of traffic and the deep, braying bark of a dog.

I trudge through the front door, kicking off my shoes and pocketing my keys, taking in the dark woods and jewelled tones adoring the walls. This is my home, the flagrant décor accented by mahogany and the scent of Dani's jasmine tea. It's beautiful, lavish, decked out with holiday trimmings and crystal chandeliers. And it feels empty, devoid of the only thing that matters to me.

Even in shallow sleep, my heart continues to ache for what it can't have. It shudders as I toss and turn in the sheets, chills racing down my spine. He's there, rolling up the shore of my memories.

In my dreams we're lying in bed together, sunlight melting through the window and dancing across the delicious planes of his body, sheets slung haphazardly across his hips. It's vivid, detailed. The contours of his hands, so smooth and warm and supple with their long, dainty fingers. The dark hair curled around his ears, the faintest kiss of blush suffusing his sharp cheekbones. The exact curvature of his smile, lips spreading slowly over pearlescent teeth, cheeks tainted with a warm flush and head lightly head bowed with adorable boyishness. It's all there.

My mind reels back to the feel of his body, how snugly I fit against the slim curves of his form. I loved to rest my head against that constant reassuring heartbeat, as he traced his thumb over my knuckles.

Our bond was forged of moments like those: enmeshing my hand in his, our idle whispers mingling in quiet splendour. Morning like those, when he looked even more angelic than ever, tucked faithfully against my chest under the crisp sheets, radiant skin aglow with ethereal health and soft snoring bubbling forth from his parted, rosebud lips. I see his hair, regularly askew, sunlight pooling in a display of golden beams across his complexion.

I see all of it in hyper-sensitized relief, seared into my memory. I feel how he would cling to me in his sleep, those big blues opening wide and gazing searchingly around until they found me, slipping shut again with relief.

I remember the corners of his mouth curling upwards into each kiss, teeth biting flesh, those soft, supple, tempting cherub lips perked in his token smirk.

Damn, he looked good on his back. Looking up at me with hooded, dilated ocean eyes, larger and brilliantly bluer than eyes should have a right to be, body arching like a cat under my intimate touches.

And he has a body that demands to be worshipped. My mind and my muscles have subconsciously memorized the feel of that tantalizingly slender thing - like a route taken so many times over - how every smooth, hard plane felt under my fingertips, how soft and sweet his skin was when I sucked it between my lips and breathed it in and scraped my teeth lightly across it.

For most of my life I didn't understand what love had to do with sex. In my mind they were completely different, polar opposite ends of the spectrum, but with Misha it finally made sense. His ass wasn't just some hole to fuck, but a truly beautiful thing. Every spastic clench, every twitch of muscle, every gasp or wince, was beautiful to me.

He's tattooed his fingerprints across every inch of my skin, imprinted to last a lifetime. The feel and sound of our combined heartbeats, the unfocused, relaxed tilt to lips and eyes when I pleasured him, still scorch my soul. Every soft exhale of bliss, breath warm as it rolled over skin, mouths taking in the flesh of another, the tight curve of his spine and slender cut of his hips: all of it is cemented in my memory, blossoming into full richness in my dreams.

I captured these moments, these sights and sensations, by taking a snapshot with my eyes, tucking them away for later. Because I knew every night could be our last.

Misha and I would have so much sex that by the end of our nights together the intercourse was no longer even sexual, just an intimate gesture like hugging or holding hands.

I remember how it felt to stay up late with him in his trailer, chest light and fluttering, conversation drifting into soft whispers to each other. We talked forever, especially in the beginning. I wanted to escape the dizzying hype of filming and the media's badgering questions and be just the two of us laying together, no rush or urgency. I wanted to divulge who this beautiful creature with the body of a statuesque angel was.

I wanted to bone him, yes, but I also wanted to know everything about him. I lay in the dark and watched him in silent wonderment, listening to him, learning him like my favourite subject. Chin resting on my fist, body still humming and throbbing deliciously from the many times we'd loved each other in the night, I'd lean forward, hungry to hear all he had to say. I was lost, mesmerized by the way his mouth moved, by every syllable that slipped from those berry lips and flowed into the space between us, forming stories of his childhood, his dreams.

He's been in a terrible accident, he's been mugged, he was homeless for some time and poor for longer, father pretty much out of the picture. I wanted to make it all better, give him the moon and stars if that's what he wanted. I wanted to love and protect him from the world itself.

Despite the hardships he's endured, Misha has blossomed into an incredible person with such a full and meaningful life. He's spontaneous, eccentric, outgoing, with magnificently alluring quirks. He believes life is wasted on caution, living with a brilliant, electrifying vigour.

And that's how he takes his lovers too. Between the sheets he has just as much passion, so much to give and so eager to please.

He believes in experiencing the world the way it's meant to be experienced, with youthful, daredevil escapades, dynamic and dangerous in a way that compelled me to him right away. Oozing sex appeal, that candidly handsome Russian pulls everyone into his orbit, can charm a person out of their clothes and make them adore him.

That's the man I fell in love with.

I wake up several times throughout the night to rock Arrow or Zeppelin or both, because Dani needs the rest and I want to let her sleep. I might as well, seeing as I couldn't sleep for long even if I wanted to.

At around eight the next morning, I fall groggily against the doorframe of the nursery, pressing my fingers to my aching temples. Sunlight rolls in from the streets outside and spills onto the hardwood panels.

It takes great effort to drag myself to the washroom and brush my teeth. The face I see in the mirror is tired, sunken with the weight of agony.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I fix myself a cup of coffee and settle at the table with my script pages. The aroma of dark roast wafts from my steaming mug like a blossoming flower. It's sharp and bitter, biting as it permeates my tongue and melts warmly throughout my chest.

Digits fingering the edges of the script pages absently, I try to study the notes, but my mind keeps trudging through the dark and sombre recesses of my psyche, dwelling on Misha's memory.

I duck my head to my drink, sheltering my pain with clawed fingers, not sure if I can deflect any more. Heart ricocheting against the ribcage that houses it, I breathe in the wisps of steam. How am I supposed to let him go?

A sigh traipses out of my mom's lungs, drawing my attention to her presence in the doorway.

She regards me with a wrinkled brow, lips pulled tight over questions. The trepidation of a tightrope walker is evident in her face. Good.

"Do you want to talk about it," she finally blurts, breaking the long, pregnant silence.

I shake my head, a scowl my tacit venom.

"No. It's my burden to bear, alone." I made the mistake of falling in love with someone who would leave me, someone who didn't believe in us. I thought we were beautiful; he thought we were crumbling. It doesn't matter who was right because, ultimately, we were erased.

Maybe I was infatuated with an idea, a foolish whimsy. Maybe our relationship was doomed from its genesis; maybe we're just two actors skilled at hiding and ignoring the truth, a secret which means nothing to the world. But it meant something to me, meant everything.

"Jensen, I'm so sorry about the way things turned out. I know it must be hard. But please don't shut yourself off. Talk to me."

"What's there to talk about?"

"I said before that I wanted to know more about you and Misha, and I do. I really do want to understand, Jensen." She slides onto the stool next to mine. "I'm here. I want to listen, so talk to me."

But I can't explain Misha and I by answering simple, clinical questions.

"There isn't much to say," I manage, lips twitching in a taut smile. "I fell in love with an angel and he smote me. The end."

The coffee burns my tongue and scalds my throat, but not as much as the truth behind those words.

I hunch over the script pages, a man crumbling under the weight of my sins. I pushed my desire to fruition. It was my choice, my undoing, my heartbreak to sort out, my story. She'll never understand.

"Dmitri's a good man," my mother sighs. "I'm sure it wasn't like that. I'm sure this is hard for him too."

I'm sure it is. It's hard to be two men who love men against the world. But we didn't have to do it alone; he broke us apart. He washed his hands of me and now I have to pick myself up and move on. I'll go about my life, my ritualistic excursions. I'll fill the gaping emptiness with routine and habit. I'll go on surviving, because Misha isn't coming back to me.

"You used to talk about him all the time, back when you bothered to call home," my mother murmurs, triggering a soft, melancholic smile on my lips. "I remember how excited you were when you met him."

I recall Season Four Jensen. Naïve, young, infatuated me, before I married, right after I met Misha. I was bright-eyed and starry-gazed, laden with the drug of love, gushing earnestly to interviewers about my first impressions of Misha: how crazy and cute he was, how I loved him from the bottom of my heart, et cetera. It was lamer than an afternoon soap, but I couldn't help falling in love with him.

And yeah, I was pretty obvious. When I would stroke his cheek on camera, I'm surprised no one could hear the unspoken promise, set to a sensually throbbing beat, tonight I'm fucking you.

Our relationship was noticeable in the way we would stand and posture ourselves, leaning in to each other, moving around each other with a synchrony and ease that can only be perfected with intimate practice.

We fall into place so effortlessly because we know how the other moves, can anticipate each gesture because we're completely in sync with each other.

Not to mention the conversations we would have with just our eyes.

We communicate so much through eye contact - like our own secret language - and that connection gives us a way of expressing ourselves that only we understand, which always comes in handy when hiding a relationship from the public.

Then there were the less subtle cues.

Misha told the fucking Gay Calgary magazine that he loves penises...

and I've explicitly called him hot on stage, so we've hardly been careful. If I don't smarten up, this pain will have been all for nothing; we'll be broken up and exposed to boot. Since I can't risk that, I have to convince the world I can't stomach gay couples.

"You were so whipped. He was your," my mother smiles, tapping her bottom lip in thought, "what was it - angel boy cuddly toy. Damnit, I can't believe I was so blind. You were in love with him all this time."

It's true. The few months we spent together will soon be but a blip in Misha's memory. But for me, it's been eight long years...

The relationship between us was reckless and Misha's a man of impulse. He's drawn to danger like a moth to a flame; being with me was like scratching an itch, a cruel experimentation that he could box up and file away with the other crazy shit he's done. On to building schools in Africa.

But I'll never stop loving him.

"I wanted him," I manage, swallowing back the too-hot coffee. "I was so scared."

I indulged in fantasies, about the two of us living together as a couple. I thought about who would get which side of the bed, about what kind of dog we might buy. We'd stay up facing each other in bed with our noses almost touching and talk about how we'd never been better off in our lives, and it wouldn't matter if we were poor.

That's after we'd have the best old-people sex four bedroom walls have ever witnessed. The loud, hot, sweaty kind that wakes up the children and warrants sitting down for a family talk and cringe-worthy explanations about how when two people love each other very, very much...

Why can that never be us? I'd love to come home to Misha. I'd love for him to fold me up in his arms after a long day of work and treat me to his delicious culinary masterpieces. He'd let me throw my socks all over the place. He wouldn't complain if I wanted to lounge around on Saturdays in my boxers with a beer and video games. He'd like my beergut if I ever developed one, would still want to worship my body in bed after dinner. Misha knows me inside and out, the things I've done, who I am, rough edges and all, and he thought my flaws were beautiful. He put up with all my antics, with a compliant okay, Jensen.

And we wouldn't be that couple that hasn't had sex in a month because busy times. Fuck that. If I have to do the bills while simultaneously balls-deep in Jen and Sen, so be it. Life is too short not to be fucking Misha Collins on everything, all the time.

I want a life like that, no pretenses or lies, being true to myself and my needs and desires.

"It all makes sense now," mom murmurs. "That Teen Choice Chemistry thing you guys won for Destiel..."

"Destiel isn't real," I scoff. Those long looks of suppressed longing on set weren't directed at Cas...

They were for Misha.

What people don't know is that Misha touched my soul in more ways than one, not just as the angel Cas. He became every fiber of my being, so stunningly captivating that I would have done anything for him. I'd have dropped to my knees for that man, or on my back, or ass in the air, anything he wanted. Anything.

"So it really is true," mom quips, lips flicking just the hint of a smile. "All the handsome men are gay."

But I'm not a man who likes laying with men in general. I don't look at other men. I only see one, with smouldering, robin-blue eyes and a voice the timbre and cadence of an angel.

"He's not gay," I mutter. "He loves Vicki."

"And what are you going to do about her?"

"You mean after I shoot her," I deadpan. "Nothing, mom. He's better off with her."

She won't love him like I would. But that's not the point. It would have been cruel to keep Misha shackled, censoring our every word, living a life of secrecy. I'd be wrangling his free spirit. That's all I have to offer him: sneaking through back doors in the dead of night, measured words and reigned-in gestures, a muted love.

"You're giving up."

My eyes shoot venomous daggers at my accuser. I'm not the apathetic one. I'm not the one who gave up.

"What more could I possibly do?"

"You could marry him."