That's When We Uncover [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Thirty-Two

Every once in a while, we get lucky and find an actual abandoned warehouse to shoot in. Such is the case today.

The producer and production manager explain that we're taking a new approach, having scrapped the Destiel angle to accommodate me, and are therefore behind schedule. There's a new script, and we have a lot of filming to do in order to get to where they want us to be by the end of the week.

The routine is a welcome familiarity: the director motions for us to get into position; the second assistant camera runs onto the set with the clapperboard. Scene. Take. Snap. "Action." And the scene restarts over and over again until we get it just right.

After our first day back, some of the cast and I go bar hopping in the city. We have a little too much to drink and Clif has to keep us from killing each other in fits of inebriated stupor. By the time we arrive back on set, sheets of icy rain are slicing through the cold in a raging downpour.

We seek shelter from the deluge in Jared's trailer, lying back on the sofa, bathed in the flickering glow of the TV and lighthearted ambience while the rain batters the trailer walls.

Mark announces that he's successfully raided Jared's fridge, and the men cheer as a six-pack of beer is deposited on the small myrtle wood coffee table. Within seconds, the beers have all been lifted from the carrying case.

I twist off the cap on mine and down a swallow, guzzling it before belching like the shameless redneck I am.

The hearty chatter and playful banter filling the atmosphere are a sharp relief against the relentless storm outside. It occurs to me, glancing around myself, that I'm truly at home with these guys. I can be myself around them. Only around them.

I don't know why I ever thought I was straight, because women only tire me out. We're just not compatible. I've never felt this level of comfort with Dani or any of my old girlfriends. Females just wind me up, pushing all the wrong buttons and leaving me exhausted, stressed out.

Less than a decade of marriage and I've spiralled downwards from bright, youthful, energetic Jensen to a bitter man. I'm so sick of the pressure, the overbearing regulations, the drama. I just wanna let loose and unwind once in a while.

I tip the bottle to my lips as Jared stands up to put on reruns of old WWE matches. We sag against each other on the sofa, some sitting on the floor, and Jared turns the volume up over the sounds of chip bags tearing and beer being guzzled.

Tossing the remote onto the coffee table, he moves over to where Misha is sitting at the end of the sofa, a few respectable inches away from me.

"Scoot over," Jared hisses, giving the man a light shove in my direction. Jared lodges himself in between Mish and the edge of the couch, and suddenly, fortune of fortunes, Misha Collins is pressed firmly against my side.

I'm weak.

Misha stiffens immediately; I can feel him struggling to maintain as much distance as possible, but the most he can manage is a few nanometers with the way Jared is sprawling bodily against the cushions. He's trapped. But he knows it would be weird for him to make a big deal out of it. So, mouth set in a grim line, he locks his gaze firmly on the flickering screen and keeps quiet.

I run a hand over my mouth and clear my throat. Freeing my left arm, which was previously sandwiched between our bodies, I sling it around the back of the couch, coiled loosely around his shoulders.