Work Text:
Jensen thumbed the small fold of paper in his jacket pocket with a slight frown on his face, glaring a hole into an empty spot on the concrete floor. The room around him hummed with activity, lights, and small conversations as he and the other actors on set waited.
There was so much waiting in acting.
Sometimes they filled the time with energy and trades of play, but not this evening. It was one of the many new days with Misha not on set, Cas not in their story.
And, honestly, it had been going fine. Really.
How long ago did Misha put this in his pocket? Jensen's eyes glanced up involuntarily to scan the room, used to seeing Misha standing there, chin jutted out with silent pride, in on the private joke of knowing a secret was discovered at a perfectly inappropriate time.
Misha wasn't there.
If this had been then, before, Jensen's face would have broken out into a smile. He would have leaned up against the prop dresser, chuckling, unfolding the paper to read the note that now haunted his buried fingers. He felt far away from that version of himself. Now, he felt a weight on his chest.
He didn't want to be here.
"Hey, are we good?" Jensen asked nobody in particular. Impatient. Amy, his makeup artist, shuffled around toward him to check his hair and face. Not what he meant.
Amy smiled up at him. "All good. You good?"
Jensen sighed and returned her smile.
Somehow, hours later, Jensen found himself in his trailer. He'd palmed the note on his way off set, and felt it now in his hands. Why was he being so damn emotional? Snap out of it, dude.
He slapped the unopened note on the small counter and moved to the fridge to get a beer. He should have just had his driver take him home. But it's late, and he's here, and he just wanted to be alone.
Jensen sat on the couch after twisting his beer open, and brought his phone out from his pocket. He had all notifications turned off, except for texts and calls. His phone was silent, no messages missed. That was preferable. He didn't want anyone to need something from him tonight.
He opened up his texts, found his last conversation with Misha. He smiled at a selfie Misha took of himself, sweaty, standing in front Todo's grave. Captured mid-run, taken from Hollywood Cemetery. "Thank God neither of us are in Kansas," the caption read. Sent two weeks ago.
hey mish. Jensen paused. Couldn't think of anything else to say. Hit send.
The phone screen slowly dimmed as Jensen's eyes stared ahead, unfocused, drinking his beer.
The phone lit up again.
Jens, flattered I'm on your mind so late.
Jensen's eyes flicked to the time; it was 1am in Vancouver.
isnt it only 1am. night is young. but youre getting old
The message marked read right away. Jensen began typing again.
besides, its your fault. i found a fuckin note in my green dean jacket. how long has that been in there dude
Again, the message was read right away. He saw a wave of dots appear. Disappear. Appear. Disappear.
A feeling stirred in Jensen's stomach. Misha is many things, but indecisive isn't one of them.
Did you read it?
Jensen blinked at the message. He hadn't.
not yet, i just got back. its not as fun when its an inside joke party of one. hold on
He sighed and got up, took a step toward the note. He set his beer and phone down on the counter and, picking the folded note up with his hands resting on the smooth marble, opened the note. Misha hadn't texted back yet.
Jensen's heart panged at the sight of Misha's scrawl across the paper. This one was longer than usual.
YOU ARE THIS QUIET THING
A SECRET
THAT RINGS LOUDLY
WHEN I'M ALONE AGAIN,
IN HAUNTED MOMENTS,
MEMORIES, NOW ONLY
FADING IMPRESSIONS
ON MY SKIN
Jensen stared at the paper, unmoving. The muscles under his ribs flexed, absorbing the tense pressure now seizing his body.
His slow swallow was painful, scratching at his throat on the way down. After a few moments, he numbly picked up his phone again.
mish, you romantic son of a bitch. its good, is it one for your book?
No, that one is private.
Jensen's cursor blinked on his screen. He had no idea what to say. The game had changed.
-
The game had begun when Jensen found out Misha spent his mornings writing poetry over his coffee, stealing quiet moments to himself to write.
"You what? Really?" Jensen had said, surprised.
"Yeah, it's nice. Almost like a way of meditating. It centers me," Misha replied seriously.
Jensen nodded slowly. "No. That's really cool, man. Anything you would share? Or like, it's private?"
The corner of Misha's mouth twitched in a small smile. "You’d like to read my poetry, Jensen?"
"Hey, I didn't know you were soft inside and outside, dude." Jensen playfully poked Misha's side pointedly. He didn't find anything soft there, but the joke landed anyway. "Yeah, let's see it."
Misha laughed and turned away. "Maybe."
A few days had gone by without it coming up again. Splayed boredly at a table somewhere off set, Jensen got quickly tired of his phone and looked around. The sight of a pad of paper reminded him of Misha, writing poetry in his quiet mornings.
An idea came to him, an easy way to mess with Misha. He'd found a small piece of paper and pen, and wrote out,
"You ain't the only poet. I'll show you mine if you show me yours:
big cocks are red, but my balls are blue
when I have to stand here looking at you"
Obscenely proud of himself, Jensen folded up the paper and wandered back towards the set where they were still preparing a scene, making minor adjustments and discussing the script. Misha was chatting with someone. Everybody was being annoyingly productive. Jensen had to wait another twenty minutes for the director to call them to their places. Smiling, Jensen handed Misha the note subtly, positioning his face for the serious conversation their characters were about to have.
Misha quirked an untrusting eyebrow at Jensen but slowly unfolded the note, stepping onto his mark. Jensen cleared his throat and stared at him seriously, exuding professionalism.
Misha unfolded the note as the crew hushed to prepare the scene, one of them announcing the take number and holding out the clap board. Misha's eyes bulged and his face cracked into a smile, and he shook his head and shoved the paper into the brown trench coat.
The scene was called. Misha composed his face. Jensen met his eyes with intensity. Misha returned the stare in earnest, but Jensen could see a crack coming. All it took was a slightly exaggerated twitch of Jensen's left eye for Misha to fold before his line even got out.
"You asshole," Misha muttered, smiling and shaking his head.
The director sighed as Jensen doubled over.
-
Jensen blinked back to the present. He still hasn't responded, now staring back at the note.
it isnt the same without you here, man.
Jensen wasn't sure how else to respond, but his heart was pounding hard and slow, and he swam in the recognition that the Good Times were in the past, as they always seem to be. Misha had been oddly electric, filling a room, giving it light and excitement. Like an energy magnet. This quiet thing. Now, all the rooms felt empty.
I miss you too, J.
—
hey, when do you get in?
Jensen sat in his apartment. The past few weeks of work had been exhausting, feeling more like work than usual. The news that Misha was coming back for an episode was exciting, as it gave him and Jared a reason to celebrate something after a dull lull.
An uninteresting football game played on mute, and Jensen stood up to shift through his records. It was a rare evening he got to get home at a decent time, and he intended to make an effort to enjoy it. He flipped through his albums when his phone buzzed.
Getting a red eye now. Nightmare. My room was booked for tomorrow. I guess they just saw my arrival date and didn’t take note of the time. So I'm motel hunting when I get there.
No red carpet for me. They save that for the fancy boys.
Jensen smirked, but his stomach still rolled with annoyance on Misha's behalf.
its fine, you can crash here.
Jensen yawned and walked back to his record player, having pulled aside Houses of the Holy. He needed something to lift him up, out of this weird funk he's felt trapped in. He didn't want to be a downer while his friend was in town, though he noticed his step felt lighter already, anticipating his arrival.
He turned the volume up, cherishing having the apartment to himself.
You sure? It'll be a late one.
ya, no prob. you never answered tho, what time you get in
Jensen walked toward the kitchen with his phone, nodding his head to the music drifting through his house. He grabbed another slice of pizza, but he didn't feel hungry. His gut felt weird.
1ish. I can get a cab.
No, a fancy limo. My payback to the crew for leaving me hanging.
ha you rebel. definitely not a fancy boy huh. 🙄see you then
Despite his calm demeanor, Jensen's heart danced in his chest. The late hour was no problem–late nights were a part of his life. A smile hit his face. Tonight he had beer, pizza, good music, a clean(ish) apartment, and now Misha.
Funny how it’s the small things that can lift a guy's spirits.
Jensen texted his address to Misha, just in case he forgot. He walked down the hall to grab some linens and a towel, pizza hanging from his mouth. Tossing everything on the couch, he checked his watch. 10:36pm. He felt jittery, excited.
He pictured Misha rolling in, a small bag for his too-short stay in hand. Probably tired, in a rumpled sweater. Jensen leaned against the kitchen counter, picturing greeting Misha with a hug. Breathing into his collar. He tried to remember what he smelled like – never the good cologne that Jensen had, but not bad, either.
Fuck, Jensen needed more friends. He shook his head.
Needing something to do, he decided to grab his coat and run to the gas station. They would need beer.
A few hours later, Jensen only drank through half of the new six pack, an act of restraint he was proud of. He checked his watch – 12:03am. He changed into sweat pants and a t-shirt, feeling weird staying dressed. The pizza was cleaned off the counter and a new beer was in hand.
He flipped the TV to an old slasher flick to pass the time, pausing it only when his phone buzzed.
"Heya, buddy," Jensen answered after only one ring with a smile. He felt the weight in his chest dissipate.
"Ah, hey, so the plane landed just a bit earlier than it was supposed to. That's the good news. Bad news is, no limos this time of night. I'm here in a regular cab for plebeians." It sounded like Misha shuffled the phone to his collar – "No offense to you. You're doing great."
Jensen laughed heartily into the phone. "Ah, well, you won't get any red carpet here, either. I have a handful of beers and a couch with a blanket."
"Hey. That sounds perfect. I really appreciate it, Jens." Misha's genuine response sounded like a purr.
“See you soon, Mish.”
Hanging up, Jensen switched the TV off (Misha hated scary movies) and went back to the record player to turn it down a bit. He wasted some time by putting a few more things away in the kitchen. Why did he feel nervous?
Something about the last few weeks just felt different. A quiet thing.
Knock, knock. Big bad wolf is here.
Seeing the text, Jensen rolled his eyes and went to the door.
"Dang, I didn't know my doorbell was broken," Jensen said as he opened the door.
Misha bathed in the harsh patio light, with a duffle bag, jacket, and a paperback tucked in his arm. "Hey, handsome." Misha’s smile shone on his tired face.
Jensen smiled back as Misha stepped into the home, a friendly hug waiting for him. Strong pats of the hand. A friendly step away. Jensen took a breath. See, totally normal. Misha’s hand delayed a rest on Jensen’s shoulder, but that was normal.
"Ooooh, nice song," Misha said as D'yer Mak'er bounced through the open apartment. Jensen's heart swelled, a bit.
"I missed having a friend with a decent taste in music, Mish." Jensen shut the door, then turned to take Misha's coat and bag.
"Please, sir," Jensen quickly added, exaggerating his movements. "No work for the talent." He brushed invisible dirt off Misha's shoulder.
"Ah yes. That's me. The Talent." Misha laughed. "That was actually my nickname in high school."
Jensen laughed with him, walking over to dump Misha's belongings on the couch.
"Sir, your lodgings. Right here, next to the private library and entertainment room," Jensen added, gesturing toward a small bookshelves (with nothing but music on them, and a random assortment of crap – there may be one or two books hidden on the shelves) and the TV.
"Wow, you know, when my agent said five stars…." They smiled at each other for a second. "It's nice to see you again, friend."
"Want a beer?" Jensen broke away to walk toward the fridge, as Misha groaned.
"Oh fuck yes. You know they're twelve dollars on the plane? If I ever pay twelve fucking dollars for a beer, I…" he trailed off. "Hah, well, I'd probably be an employed actor, so."
Jensen shook his head and walked back to Misha, two beers now in hand.
"Speaking of, do you have to be anywhere early tomorrow?" Jensen asked as Misha twisted the cap off his beer.
"No, just eventually check in to the hotel and run through the script again."
"Great, well, I'm sleeping in. Coffee pot is over on the counter, you'll have the morning to, you know" Jensen gestured vaguely, "do your romantic poet meditation whatever."
Misha's eyes twinkled. "Ah, thanks. I haven't been writing much lately."
Jensen took a swig of his beer. "No? Why not? You're really good. Keep it up, man."
Misha shrugged. "Yeah, you're not bad yourself. You may have a real future in dirty limericks."
Jensen grinned. "If it's dirty, I'm in."
The record was spinning uselessly, making the air suddenly thick.
Jensen walked over to turn the record off as Misha changed the subject.
"So tell me, what's everyone been up to? Tell me how horrible and boring life has been since they kicked Cas."
Jensen shrugged as he walked back. "Honestly, man? It sucked." Misha placed his hand on Jensen's arm fondly. "No. Really. Jared and I have been exhausted, long days, nothing aside from just work and sleep."
Misha's hand still on Jensen's arm, he smiled. "Aww. I know. It's no fun without a target for your bullshit." Jensen laughed.
"Our brooms have zero use now." They both cackled at the inside joke.
They sunk back into their friendship like Misha had never left. Things felt good again, Normal, sane. Misha was stretched back on the couch, his shirt riding up slightly. Jensen reminded himself he didn’t notice the small exposed flesh above the line of his jeans. After a while, sitting on the couch and laughing between yawns, proud of the space between them he kept, Jensen stood up.
"Alright, man, I know you've gotta be tired," he said, stretching his back.
"Yeah, just me, right? The only old man here," Misha said as Jensen's back let out a small crack.
"Hey, but don't be expecting any morning room service. Save that for the Hilton."
Misha stood up as well. "You mean you won't even service me while I'm here?" Jensen's smile was leaking across his face before the sentence was even finished, ears turning red.
"Yeah, I slammed head first into that one."
"And I mean–" Misha covered his mouth to pull back his laughter. "I mean like, slammed. Head first."
Jensen cackled and rested his hand on Misha's shoulder. "I fucking can't with you man." He pulled him in for another hug. "Missed you, Mish."
"I missed you too, Jens." Misha hugged him back. Jensen's laughter died quickly as Misha's body pressed up against him. He lifted his head slightly to lean his cheek into Misha's and smiled.
Maybe the hug was a little long, but Jensen didn't care. He was tired, he missed his friend, and it was only them here, anyway. Boundaries never crossed their minds before.
"Love you buddy," Misha said as Jensen finally pulled back. Misha's breath smelled like gum, sleep, and cold porter. Jensen blinked at him, and he knew affection leaked from his face.
"Love you too, man. Sleep well." With a final manly clap to Misha's shoulder (officially making their hug totally platonic, Jensen thought to himself – why did he think that to himself?) Jensen turned and walked down the hallway with a slight wave. The tips of his ears were still burning.
Back in his bedroom, Jensen's off-beat breathing really started to fuck with him. For no good reason, his face felt hot. He closed his door and took a slow breath. Nothing had changed, everything was normal. Same old Misha. He was back, and if they were lucky, that meant he'd be signed on to do more.
So why was he freaking the fuck out. He was tired. He sat on the bed and wondered at it all. Jensen had a lot of friends. Too many friends. But some friends were different.
Jared, undeniably his best friend. No moments of unknowing, his person laid bare to his best friend in all the good and the bad.
Friends from before Supernatural who stuck around despite the absences, who would be there with a joke and a drink, a fishing trip and a good meme.
Misha… Jensen's heart swelled. He was funny, kind, chaotic, charming, romantic, smart, genuine. His laugh filled a room, made it alive. Misha was magnetic, and Jensen felt drawn to him. Everybody adored him, and the fact he picked Jared and Jensen as his friends felt special. From the beginning, they wanted Misha to love them. Jensen craved his laugh, like tasting air after holding his breath. The way Misha giggled with his shoulders raised, the way he squinted his brow, the way he moved with quick intention when his mind was made up. The fucker was like some goddamn manic pixie dream dude, and Jensen could tell he was charmed by him.
Impressions on my skin.
Misha had soft skin. Muscles sleeked by running, a sharp chin that cradled full-faced dimples, and plump but chewed lips. Jensen felt a heat flicking low in his gut. The boy was pretty. Prettier than men had any business being, in general.
Jensen licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He was thirsty. He had a bathroom in here, and he could easily get some water in here, but he could also just as casually slip into the kitchen. It would make sense, it wouldn't be weird at all. This was his apartment, after all. It had only been, what, ten minutes? Misha was probably not asleep yet.
Without thinking much more about it. Jensen stood up and walked back out of his bedroom, down the hall toward the living room.
Misha was bent over the couch, tucking a sheet into the corners. He heard Jensen approaching and turned over his shoulder. "Good morning, sleep well?"
"Thirsty," Jensen replied gruffly. He gestured toward the kitchen.
"I bet you are, dirty boy." Misha said in a transatlantic twang, making Jensen laugh again. His neck felt hot.
As Jensen got a glass, he peered at Misha over the kitchen counter. Misha was looking back at him, smiling. He was crouched near the couch, now, looking comfortable in gray sweatpants and a loose black shirt. His hair was fussed, a crooked smile resting on his lips. Jensen wanted to be touching him, and he didn't know why. He turned away to slowly fill his glass from the sink.
Jensen, now with a full glass of tepid water, turned back toward the kitchen as Misha walked toward him. Misha learned a hip against the counter, arms crossed, still smiling. His biceps pushed against his knuckles, and Jensen was momentarily distracted by them. He tried to think of the last time he and Misha were alone, in a setting this intimate. At work, ten minutes here or there in a trailer before a scene, at a few dinners together. People always just feet away.
Jensen gulped when he realized neither of them had spoken again. He met Misha's eyes.
Misha looked like he was trying to read Jensen. Like he was an I Spy book, hiding something Misha sought.
"Who did you write that poem for, Mish?" The words slithered out of Jensen's mouth, nervous but direct. Surprising, since his ribs felt like they were going to vibrate out of his chest.
Misha smiled and looked down. "Ah. Yes." He searched the ground, now. "You know, I thought at the time, I was off the show for good. I mean, I'd hoped not, but–" He shrugged and looked back at Jensen. "You know I'm a romantic at heart."
Jensen's face felt hot. "Yeah, you're a sap." He stood there with his full glass of water, unmoving. "Do you, ah. Do we have a 'quiet thing'?"
Misha tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. He didn't answer. Instead he brought a finger up to rest on his lips, his tell for overthinking something. He looked away and ran a finger along his bottom lip. Jensen's eyes followed it.
Misha finally spoke, after a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "I was actually inspired by something you said, in a way." Jensen looked back up at Misha’s eyes, confused now.
"Remember the note you left in my mug, in my kitchen cabinet? I almost poured coffee over it."
Jensen looked away, trying to remember which one that had been.
Misha remembered. "You say you're quiet, but I don't buy it, cause I've known all we said, even if it's kept in your head."
Jensen broke the stoic silence of the kitchen with a laugh. "God, I really am quite the fucking poet." He didn’t mention that wow, Misha had remembered it, that was a while ago, now.
"No, no," Misha said, laughing and stepping a little closer and leaning a hand against the counter. "I liked it, I did."
"It was after you called yourself the quiet victim on the set," Jensen remembered. "I didn't want to let you off the hook that easily."
Misha was smiling to himself again. "Yeah, yeah, I remembered that. I liked it because you said ‘we’, ’all we said’. Sort of, you know, that you and I can have like, this whole conversation without saying anything at all." He looked back up at Jensen.
Jensen nodded, looking away to place his still-full water glass on the counter next to Misha. "Yeah," his voice sounded rough and he smiled. "Which is probably good, since you can see my words are shit. I rhyme like Dr Seuss."
Misha let out a laugh that wrinkled his nose. Jensen returned a small smile, but something about Misha's easy expression made Jensen feel a hunger creeping behind his eyes.
The laughter died, but the electricity left over in the air from it did not. Misha's eyes flickered down to Jensen's parted lips. They lingered there, unashamed – or was that in Jensen's imagination?
A breath locked in Jensen's chest as Misha looked back up to meet his gaze. His eyes were shining, dilated in the light, maybe, and his chin lifted up ever so slightly. Inquisitive.
He was too sober for this, but…
Fuck it.
Half a step, and Jensen had already taken it. He didn’t say anything, but he felt his chest moving too fast. A flicker of surprise flashed across Misha’s face, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. His breath sounded heavy, his blue eyes were still searching. Jensen’s mind was swirling with unfinished thoughts, What the fuck was he doing? But he was closer now, to Misha, and that felt right.
Misha tilted his head slightly and now looked directly at Jensen’s parted mouth, letting his breath roll over them, torture them with heat and moisture. A question. Jensen’s heart was pounding in his throat. He didn’t know what to do, so he closed his eyes. He felt Misha’s hand on the back of his neck, like he was seeking balance. Jensen’s own hand dug into the side of the counter, the other hanging uselessly at his side. He opened his eyes, hungrier this time. He wasn’t sure who moved first, or maybe they both moved at the same time, but the boiled breath between them mixed and his lips were now pressed against Misha’s lips. A trapped groan immediately rolled out of Jensen’s throat, releasing more heat into their kiss.
Misha's lips felt soft and pliable, his chin rough with stubble and angles. Heat stumbled down, rolling toward Jensen's navel. Oh.
Jensen felt cool skin under his hand before he realized his hands were on Misha, pulling him closer, impossibly closer. The kiss was chaste, but it felt like the most sensual moment in Jensen’s memory.
When Jensen hesitated to take a shaky breath, their eyes met again. A quick pause, and like one limb they moved together again, their grips on each other becoming desperate and their kiss damn near violent. The only sound Jensen could hear was his heart pounding in his ears.
Their nostrils flared with urgency, like the world was ending. Misha pulled Jensen against him, tighter, and the rush of feeling so much of Misha – his pecs, his stomach, his thighs – pulsed through Jensen's chest. A gasp suddenly escaped Misha's mouth, breaking their kiss, and Jensen realized his body had responded quickly, a hard betrayal now finding friction against Misha's hip bone.
Jensen took a small step back, chest catching.
Misha said nothing, but grabbed Jensen’s wrist to pull him closer again.
The absolute chaos of it all, in this private emotional sanctuary of zero judgment, cleared Jensen's mind of any second thoughts and he swayed back toward Misha, drunk off the adrenaline.
Misha leaned his head back, causing shadows from the sharp light of the kitchen to play across his cheek bones, up his neck. His eyes searched Jensen's, comfortably intimate. Misha looked at Jensen like he was the only thing that existed in the room, in the world.
Jensen sighed and leaned his head forward, taking Misha's posture as an invitation. He let his lips rest softly on Misha's throat, applying slight pressure as he chased the shadows that hid chilled skin. His head was rattled, a sweet cocktail of cortisol and endorphins rushing through his veins.
A small groan vibrated through Misha's vocal cords to Jensen's lips as he reached the base of Misha's throat. It was then Jensen realized his free hand had again moved just under Misha's shirt, once cool skin now burning to the touch. Jensen pulled his head back with his eyes closed, and Misha moved forward to press their foreheads together.
"The fuck is this, Mish?" Jensen muttered aloud. He wasn't complaining.
Misha sighed. "I don't know. What isn't it?"
Jensen pulled back slightly. "I'm not like– I don't…" Jensen trailed off and looked away. "I mean, I've liked all kinds," Jensen swallowed. "But fuck, Mish, you make me…" Jensen shook off his confusion, not needing to finish his bulky heavy sentences. His thumb dug into Misha's hip bone, clinging.
"I know, I know. I'm just really good looking," Misha said with emphasis. Jensen laughed. Misha looked elated and on fire.
"See, look what I started," Jensen let himself joke. His eyes had found Misha’s now red lips again.
"I prefer just…" Misha tailed off when a lump rose in Jensen's throat. "Do we have to call this… anything?" Misha tilted his head to catch Jensen's gaze again.
Jensen slowly shook his head to say no, they didn't need to. Misha still had him by the wrist, but Jensen wasn't going anywhere.
Misha continued slowly. "Does everything need a label? Can't it just be… well." Misha tugged the corner of his lip up in a small smile.
But Jensen knew. "This quiet thing?"
Misha's eyes twinkled. "Yeah, that."