Nobody Sees, Nobody Knows [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter One

6:45 A.M.

What am I doing up at this ungodly hour?

Tearing across this verdant expanse of grass, pale sunlight glinting off the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, ragged breathing pumping through the cool, crisp air?

I'm jogging.

And it's not because I wouldn't rather be napping in my trailer with my hand buried in a bag of Doritos; it's because I'm an actor. And this is the price I pay.

I gasp for each shaky breath, the muscles in my legs begging for mercy. But they're not getting it, because I need to stay in shape. Fortunately or unfortunately, pudgy isn't in Castiel's character description and a certain Robert Singer would have my head on a plate if I compromised my physique. That is, if my wife doesn't beat him to it.

My sneakered feat pound across the terrain, churning up clouds of dirt and eating at the grass. Through the perspiration in my eyes, I make out the lush scenery around me. And smile.

This is the field I jog through every morning before filming: acres upon acres of rolling hills, set against the backdrop of the rising sun... It's breathtaking.

Literally.

I groan and propel myself forward. I'm getting too old for this.

I realize I need to tap into my special reservoir of energy if I want a snowball's chance in hell of making it back to my trailer in the next five minutes.

So I conjure up the faces of my children, my wife.

Grunting, I urge my feet onward and squeeze my eyes shut. I imagine little West jumping into my arms and calling me the strongest daddy in the world. I imagine Vicki running her hands appreciatively down my torso, imagine her lip curling at the muscles rippling under my skin.

I can do this.

I sputter, practically choking on my own sweat as it pours down my face.
Then my phone goes off, an irksome vibration in my hipbone; it's a text from Jensen. Dude knows I'm busy jogging right now...

I squint, fighting the glare of the rapidly-rising sun, and try to hold the screen out steadily in front of me.

Jensen: hey Mish ik ur running rn if I'm right u have 3 minutes to go u can do this, man :)

Despite the fatigue dragging at every atom of my body, the corners of my mouth quirk upwards in a soft smile. Just like the stupid, goofy emoji.

He knew I could use the pep talk in these last, gruelling minutes of my jog. This is why he's my best friend.

Somehow, his thoughtfulness gives me a spur of energy I didn't know I had left in me - perhaps more so than thoughts of my family - and I pick up the pace.

I run like fucking mad.

The other thing that always helps during the final stretch is deep thought. So I get to thinking about life, my goals and aspirations, and my most defining characteristic: my weirdness.

I fucking hate complacency. Like in the Matrix, people are like brainwashed sheep hooked up to machines, living a fake reality, and being okay with that. Mainstream media, big tech, billionaires control everything we see and know. And we let them, because they're rich, famous and beautiful. We idolize them. They can get away with anything, control everything, and we're all too damn stupid to blink and look around and ask ourselves why? Well, I've asked myself all of it. I continue to assess my life and wonder daily: is there any meaning and purpose and excitement and benevolence in my life? Those are the things I'm searching for, and the driving force behind much of the work I do.

I know about Hollywood, and I want no part in it.

I know that child sex trafficking is not a conspiracy theory. Slave labour is not a conspiracy theory. Rape, pedophilia and grooming in Hollywood are not conspiracy theories. The idea that people are being protected because they're beautiful, rich and famous is not a conspiracy theory. I know. But people would rather not talk about it.

I want to. I want to raise awareness and make an impression, like a handprint or maybe a whole-body print, on this world. I want to leave ripples. I want to create lasting change, so that the positive impact - and not just my human descendants - will succeed me.

Because nothing else is real. None of it is meaningful. It's just a gruelling, cyclical monotony. A trap. We're like guinea pigs running on wheels inside the big cage called planet Earth, unaware of the futility of our own repetitive actions. What the fuck kind of life is running on a wheel? Over and over and over again. To me, recklessness - and not repetitiveness - is addicting.

Didn't Albert Einstein define insanity as repeating the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? People need to wake up.

I want to scream at these people: make something of yourselves, do something with your lives.

The thought makes my lips twitch in rueful smile as I finally stagger onto the trail leading to the courtyard of the studio. Sweat soaks through the back of my shirt, down my neck, as I bend at the waist to catch my breath. With a forearm, I wipe my face dry and stretch my arms overhead, letting the breeze cool me as I look around. People are already milling about in their usual hustle; the place is perpetually a hive of activity.

I wave to the the first A.D., Kevin Parks, not that he deserves it. The show cast is a bunch of egomaniacal, sociopathic, murderous, manipulative, conniving sons of bitches - but whatever.

"Hello Misha," he smiles, sauntering up to me. "Photoshop any more lewd pictures of you and Jensen today?"

"Sadly, no," I respond without missing a beat. "But it's only seven o'clock."

"The day is still young," he agrees, and we share a laugh. "Well, you'll have to get in the zone somehow. Today's a big day."

Yeah, I'm a little bit excited for filming today. I shouldn't be. I've kept that excitement mostly to myself; everyone thinks I'm dragging my ass through this ordeal. But secretly, I'm way more excited than I'm entitled to be.

The lead-up to what today culminates in has been huge. Everyone - Eric Kripke, Sera Gamble, Jeremy Carver, and now Robert Singer - has been working towards this to varying extents over the years. We've all played a part. Show-runners, executive producers, directors, writers. Today it's happening. Today it's on us actors.

"You volunteering to suck face with me behind one of the grip trucks?"

Kevin laughs nervously and proceeds to scram, leaving me to my journey.

I spot the camera crew assembling, coffee in almost everyone's hands, and groan as I run a hand through my slick hair. I could really go for a piping hot soy latte right now...

My muscles are quivering with fatigue and I'm practically bathing in my own sweat, so I head immediately for my trailer. It's my second home: my personal haven. Not that number three on the call-sheet would be given a palace to live in on set, or, well, even decent living arrangements, but it's enough.

At least there's always soundstage six - a warehouse full of props - to take naps in. Except prop storage typically smells like a bong from all the times Jared and crew members smoked weed in there.

Eagerly, I wrench open my trailer door and stumble inside. I'm so exhausted that I want to drop to the floor and kiss it.

"Hello, beautiful," I sigh in relief as I pad across the floor towards my small bathroom.

Suddenly, a voice from the shadows snaps me out of my reverie and I almost piss myself.

"Why, I didn't know you cared."