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

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jared is, as usual, impossible to work with during filming next morning. We've got the crane right up in my face, and the camera rig moving on its tracks around me, getting a full 360-degree shot, so he knows that detail matters. Every flexion of a facial muscle, every twitch of my lips or spasm in my jaw means a retake, and Singer gets pissed at all of us rather than placing the blame squarely on him. The nonsensical gesturing and prompts from our beloved director don't help either.

After about a thousand unsuccessful takes, he finally throws in the towel and calls for ten.

"Can you boys try a little more..." Jared mocks in a hushed voice, miming a vague, flippant motion with his hands. "A little more...you know-"

"Shut up, he'll hear you," I scowl, digging out my phone from my jacket pocket and leaning on the doorjamb of the main bunker room.

"Who, Bob? Nah, he's talking with the sound guys. But seriously, stellar directing back there, very helpful. He really brought his A-game to the table."

"I think your antics have more to do with the production delay than his directing does..."

I push off of the doorframe with my eyes still glued to the screen and start to head out, but Jared grabs hold of my jacket sleeve.

"Hey, wanna go out for drinks tonight," he asks brightly.

I glance up from my Twitter app with a huff. I'm trying to remember how to retweet, but the basic operations are lost on me. I feel like an old geezer trying to make sense of this social media crap, just tweeting dumb shit with my notorious side-glare emoji and occasionally making livestreams on Facebook that I don't know how to properly terminate.

"I don't know, man. It's going to be a long day filming; I just wanna-"

"Exactly. We could all use a break. Come on, everyone'll be there."

I hike a shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. "Okay. But I have to remember to head over to hair and makeup beforehand, for my haircut."

***

I like the bars here in Vancouver. They're small and dark, and nobody bothers us. We sit huddled in a booth at the back and signal the bartender when we're ready to order.

I'm sitting crammed next to Jared in the booth, across from Misha and both Marks, and Rob and Richard join us at some point in the evening, despite not having been on set for a while.

Cap pulled low over my disgruntled face, I knock back my drink in petulant silence, a little too buzzed and more than a little disappointed by the seating arrangement to engage in conversation. But, between the lapses in my attention caused by Misha's hotness, I glean than the topic is JaxCon.

This year, the convention will be hosted at a different hotel than where we're staying. And I won't be seeing much of Misha except from the green room, because our panels are at different times and we'll have virtually no breaks.

Which is probably a good thing, as there won't be any scandalizing of the handlers who knock on my hotel room door. Not that I've ever answered naked and covered in Misha's bodily fluids...but they have knocked while Misha was passed out on my bed after a good morning blowie. I had to extricate myself from his grasp and drag him into the bathroom before quickly pulling on any assortment of our clothing that I could pick up in time on my way to the door.