Fic: Prime & Paint
Title: Prime & Paint
Author: bree_black
Pairing: Jensen/Misha, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,500
Betas:dress_myself_up, gwendolynd and a_happy_place.
Disclaimer: Sadly, none of this is real.
Spoilers: Generally, for S6.
Summary: While rehearsing a scene between Dean and Castiel, Jensen gets a bit more covered in fingerpaint than he expected.
Notes: Written for the spn_j2_xmas exchange for spacefragments. A combination of a few wants, including the prompts “rituals, protective sigils, writing/drawing on skin” and “character bleed.” I hope you like it!
Jensen hates stepping out of the warm shower and into a cold, empty apartment. It’s his own damn fault, he knows, because he made the decision to move out. It hadn’t seemed right to stay in the house after Jay and Gen were married and most of the time Jensen doesn’t regret his choice, but he does get lonely sometimes. It had been nice knowing someone else was around, even if it meant losing any semblance of peace or quiet, and the ability to keep the fridge stocked for longer than a day.
Jensen wraps a towel around his waist and walks into the kitchen, leaving foot-sized puddles on the hardwood floors. He takes a bottle of vitamin water out of the fridge then grabs the thick orange envelope he’d dumped on the marble counter on his way in. He’d finished work two hours ago and they’d be shooting with the sunrise the next morning. Jensen deserved to take the night off, but of course he’d choose reading the new script over playing video games alone.
The pages are loose and four different colours, like the script has been patched together by four different people using four different printers at four different times. It probably has been - the writers are taking a really collaborative approach this season - which is great, except that it meant the actors have to be prepared for endless last-minute changes. Jensen settles down into the new leather couch he likes far less than Jared’s ratty old armchair, and starts to read.
“The Soul Survivor” - Supernatural Season 6, Episode 18
Jensen chuckles at the cheesy pun. He straightens the thick sheaf of papers in his hands, then lets himself sink into the script. Jensen’s done this hundreds of times. It feels less like reading a script now, and more like reading - or maybe living - a story. He’s spent six years wearing Dean Winchester’s skin, and he’s getting maybe a little too comfortable there. Jensen doesn’t need costumes, props or sets to get into character now, and the directors barely give him direction. Most days Jensen feels like he understands Dean better than he understands himself, and when he reads a new script he finds himself filling in the sparse lines of dialogue and direction with Dean’s thoughts, feelings and -right now- worries.
“Where’s Sam?” Cas asks from the backseat, and Dean manages not to jump out of his seat or swerve off the road.
“Jesus, Cas,” he says, “could you be any more of a stalker?”
“I apologize,” Cas says. “Also, I am neither Jesus nor any relation of his.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, thanks Cas. What are you doing here? Got a lead on the Holy Grail or something?”
“No,” Cas answers. “I have a lead on Sam’s soul.”
Dean slams his foot down on the brake and skids to a halt on the shoulder. “What? What is it?” The sensation of hope is intensely painful, like it’s burning a hole through his chest. If Crowley couldn’t retrieve Sam’s soul, and neither could Death, who on Earth could?
“You,” Cas says, staring at him in the eerie way Dean’s sure means Cas is reading his mind or something. “You can go get it.”
An hour later they’re checked into a crappy motel room in rural North Dakota. The dark green wallpaper’s patterned with golden stalks of wheat, and the pattern repeats on the bedspread. Dean sits on the edge of one of the beds - he’d asked for two doubles out of habit - and kicks off his shoes. Cas stands by the window, leaning against the ledge, uncertain.
“Spill,” Dean orders.
Cas purses his lips, but finally speaks, haltingly, as if he’s forcing his words out one by one. “You can’t go into the Cage - it has to stay closed, of course - but you’ve been to Hell and survived so we know you can go down there again. I believe,” Cas continues with some hesitation, “that if you can get near to the Cage, you might be able to extract Sam’s soul from the outside. It’s not supposed to be there, after all.”
Dean raises one eyebrow. It takes him less than ten seconds to make the decision and another minute to swallow his pride and ask. “Okay, I know you have your own stuff to worry about. But you’ve been to Hell and back too, and with a lot less damage. How many burgers do I need to buy you to get you to run that errand for me?”
Cas shakes his head with a small smile. “I would if I could, Dean. I will help you however I can. But I do not believe I would be able to extract Sam’s soul. I believe... I believe Sam’s soul will respond to you, that it will come to you - and only you - if you call it.”
“You’re saying Sam’s soul belongs to me or something? Like it’s a puppy and I’m its owner?”
“Something like that,” Cas says, “though I don’t think we should share that analogy with him.”
“No, probably not,” Dean agrees. This new Sam doesn’t get angry, exactly, but he can definitely be insulted. Dean pauses. “You really think this will work?”
“I can’t be certain,” Cas says. “But if you insist on pulling the thing out, it’s the last idea I have.”
Dean stretches his arms above his head and cracks his knuckles. The only thing he can imagine that’s worse than going back to Hell is never getting his brother back. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
Jensen’s alarm goes off at 5:30am, giving him just enough time to get to set and through hair and makeup before shooting starts at sunrise. This week’s episode is about werecats - werecats! - that transform when the sun comes up. He, Jared and a couple of guest stars stand around and stare at the rising sun for awhile, holding their respective breaths as if waiting to see if they’ll turn into giant cats.
Bob calls “cut!” when they lose the light, and Jared, predictably, makes a run for Kraft Services. Jensen follows him, even though he’s not really hungry. The next scene they’re scheduled to film features Sam shooting all of the giant cats, execution style. All Jensen has to do is stand in the background looking mildly horrified, and that doesn’t require much preparation, so it’s not like he has anything better to do.
“Have you read the script for eighteen?” Jared asks through a mouthful of completely-inappropriate-for-breakfast tuna salad.
“I tried to read it last night, but I fell asleep after a few pages,” Jensen admits, picking at a blueberry muffin.
“What?” Jared asks. “We got off work at like, eight. You’re turning into an old man, dude.”
“Lay off,” Jensen says, giving up on his muffin. “I just appreciate the value of a good night’s sleep.”
“No, you’re prematurely middle-aged. You need to get laid.” Bits of tuna flying out of Jared’s mouth as he speaks. “Drink strawberry daiquiris, dance to ABBA or whatever you people do to stay young.”
“Hey,” Jensen hisses, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “Be quiet.” Thankfully, no one else eats lunch at nine in the morning, so they’re alone. “I don’t need you outing me with ABBA.”
“Relax,” Jared says. “Your secret’s safe with me. You need to chill out, though. No wonder you’re falling asleep so early. Seriously, get laid.”
“Unless you’re volunteering,” Jensen says, grimacing at the idea, “I don’t have a lot of prospects.”
“You know what? If you keep being such I grouch I might just need to get Gen’s permission to rock your world.” Jared stands and gathers the debris left behind after his eating rampage. “Now come on,” he says. “Let’s go kill some werecats.”
Sam hasn’t been enthusiastic about getting his soul back since Crowley and Cas had both indicated it might leave him a drooling mess, so Dean elects not to tell him about the plan. Sam’s on his own hunt anyway; he likes it if they split up every once in awhile so he doesn’t have to pretend to be a real boy.
“So you’ll kill me and I’ll go to Hell,” Dean begins to say, then pauses. “You know I went to heaven last time, right?”
“Yes, I’ll just condemn you before you go,” Cas says, like he’s reading the Chinese food menu. “For lechery or gluttony or wearing polyester.” Dean has had a lot of weird conversations with Cas, but this just might be the weirdest.
“And you’ll be able to bring me back?” Dean asks. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Cas, it’s just that Dean doesn’t see the point in both he and Sam being stuck down there forever.
“Yes. I have a plan that should make the process...speedier than last time.”
“And that is?”
Cas reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out two small objects: a short stick of bamboo, sharpened to a point at one end, and a small glass bottle filled with black liquid. “We need to give you a few more tattoos.”
Dean chokes on his mouthful of coffee. “Your plan is to give me a tattoo?”
“Tattoos,” Cas corrects. “Plural. Protective symbols and runes. One of them will bind you to me, making it easier to bring you back. The others will protect you from harm while you’re in Hell.”
Dean scoffs. “Nothing can protect me in Hell,” he says, “least of all a magic tattoo.”
“There’s no call to be so sceptical,” Cas says with a frown. “Protective tattoos have existed for thousands of years in cultures all around the world. In Japan, women get tattoos to make themselves look like goddesses, because it confuses evil spirits. In Irag, a dot tattooed on the tip of a child’s nose protects him from illness. Australian Aborigines tattoo their arms to protect themselves from boomerangs, and Burmese warriors believed certain tattoos made them invincible. In Thailand, powerful tattoos called Sak Yants are believed to serve a variety of functions, including protection from bullets...”
Dean waits for Cas to trail off. “Okay,” he says, “there’s lots of lore, I get it. How many of these things are you giving me?”
“As many as you need,” Cas says, unscrewing the lid of the ink bottle. “Take off your shirt.”
Jensen slams down the script, and scrambles for a phone. He’s not sure if the first one he finds is his Canadian phone, but he has bigger things to worry about. He punches #2 on his speed dial.
“Hey,” Dani says, voice suspicious. “Why are you calling me? You only call me on weekends.”
“This is an emergency,” Jensen says, suddenly light-headed.
“Oh god,” Danneel says, “have you met a cute boy or something?”
“Worse. They want me to take my shirt off on the show. Like, for an entire scene.”
“So?”
“So I’m not in shape for that! I can’t do this, Dani.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can. Your fans will be absolutely thrilled.”
“Maybe if it was four years ago they would be,” Jensen insists, “ but Jared’s got all the shirtless scenes now for a reason.”
“Baby,” Danneel says, exasperated. “I’ve witnessed a lot of your crazy freakouts over the years, and this makes the top ten. They say actresses are vain, but you spent more time worrying about how you look than all the women I’ve worked with his year combined.”
This is not the sympathetic reaction Jensen had expected from his oldest friend and pretend wife. He’s almost grateful when he hears the beep indicating he has a call on the other line. “I’ve gotta go,” he says quickly, pushing blindly at the buttons on his phone.
“Hey,” Misha says, altogether too cheerful for Jensen’s present state of mind. “What’s up?”
“Uh, nothing,” Jensen answers. “I’m just...sitting alone in my apartment on a Saturday night.”Like a total loser, he mentally adds.
“Living on the edge,” Misha says amicably. “Have you read the script for eighteen?”
“Most of it,” Jensen says, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart. “It’s pretty...intense.”
“I know right?” Misha agrees. “The fans are going to go nuts. How do we make that seem not gay?”
Jensen pretends to laugh, though he wants nothing more than to disappear. He hadn’t even thought of that. As if the shirtless thing wasn’t enough, he’ll have to contend with a whole new set of rumours about his sexuality once the episode airs.
“Anyway,” Misha continues, “I’m on set Monday to put in my obligatory three-minute appearance. I was thinking we could rehearse a bit.”
“Yeah,” Jensen agrees automatically, though they’ve never practiced in advance before. “During lunch, at my trailer?”
“See you then,” Misha says and then the line goes dead. Jensen pulls off his shirt and goes to the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror.
Monday morning, Jensen is so nervous that he keeps twitching in his seat as they apply the fake blood to his face. The makeup girl slaps him playfully on the arm a few times, and accuses him of being as bad as Jared, for once. He doesn’t have trouble making it through the morning’s scene - it’s mostly just Jared kicking the shit out of a stuntman while Jensen stands in the background looking shocked. The closer they get to lunch, though, the tighter the knot in his stomach squeezes.
He jumps about three feet in the air when Misha jerks open the door to his trailer. The ham sandwich Jensen had been trying to make himself eat goes flying and lands with a splat on floor.
“Hey,” Misha says, as Jensen regains his composure. “Oh, uh, sorry I scared you?”
“No, it’s okay,” Jensen says. “I’m just a little high-strung lately. Jared says I need to get laid.” It slips out before he can help himself.
“Sound like a pretty great relaxation plan, actually,” Misha says, slowly, leaning against the table covered in fanmail. Jensen finds himself distracted by the way Misha’s long fingers fiddle absently with an envelope. “Maybe you should.”
“What?” Jensen says. “Oh, yeah. Danneel’s pretty busy in LA right now, but maybe I’ll go down next weekend.”
Misha shuffles through Jensen’s mail, reading a few of the return addresses before he answers. “Right. Sure.” Jensen hates it when people say ‘sure’ like that when he mentions seeing Danneel. It makes him feel naked. And speaking of naked...
Jensen’s stomach flips uncomfortably, but he presses on. “Should we rehearse?”
“Yeah,” Misha says. “Actually, I just need your body.”
“What?” Jensen asks, and he hopes his voice doesn’t sound as squeaky to Misha as it does to his own ears.
Misha holds up a small jar. “Finger paint,” he explains. “They want to shoot Cas actually painting on the symbols, and they think the fans will notice if they’re not my hands on screen. So I have to learn to draw the things, and they’re kind of complicated.”
Fuck, Jensen’s internal voice screams. Fuck fuck fuck. He wants nothing more than to walk - no, run - out of the trailer, but he can’t think of an excuse that isn’t really, really suspicious. Fuck.
“Okay,” he says, doing his best impression of nonchalance and pulling his t-shirt over his head. “Though I really think my skills are being underused in this scenario.”
Misha’s eyes linger on Jensen’s chest as he looks him slowly up and down. Jensen feels his cheeks go hot, and he resists the urge to cross his arms protectively over his chest. “Can we get this over with?”
Misha frowns, but he looks back to Jensen’s face, at least. “Okay,” he says, crossing the room to sit on the couch. He pats the seat next to him and Jensen takes it, turning his back to Misha.
“If it helps you can get in character,” Misha offers, voice gentle, and Jensen hates that it means Misha can tell something’s wrong, but he closes his eyes anyway.
Castiel’s hands are surprisingly warm against his skin. Dean had expected them to be cold, like angels are made of ice or marble or something. Instead, his hands are broad, soft and almost hot against his skin. Dean feels his muscles relax under the touch, despite himself.
“This may sting a little,” Cas warns, moments before Dean feels a sharp point of pain. He jerks reflexively, but the needle-thin tool is so tiny the pain fades almost as soon as it begins.
“I apologize,” Castiel says. Dean shrugs the apology off before he realizes he should probably stay still, and Castiel sighs in frustration.
“Sorry,” Dean says, and focuses on keeping his body still as a statue.
Castiel continues his work, shifting periodically to reach back for more ink. The first symbol he draws is on Dean’s shoulder - the connection rune, which he’s told Dean is supposed to tie the two of them together so that Cas can reel him out of Hell like a fish out of the ocean. It takes Cas a long time, and the shape feels complex, full of intricate spirals.
“How long is this going to take?” Dean asks. He finds the whole thing frustrating, like that game little kids played in grade school, writing invisible words on their friends’ backs and making them guess. He’s desperate to go to the tiny motel bathroom and examine himself in the mirror. He taps his fingers impatiently.
“Be still, child,” Cas orders, and if Dean didn’t know better he’d think Cas was making fun of him. Dean freezes, reflexively, like an extremely obedient child, or maybe a pet. His own willingness to obey embarrasses him, and he snaps irritably back.
“Hey, buddy, I don’t have all day,” Jensen says, then frowns at himself.
Misha laughs. “Sorry...buddy, these things are really complicated. They’re based on like, real rituals so I don’t want to fuck them up.”
“It’s okay,” Jensen says, surprised at the way he keeps sliding between Dean’s voice and his own. “I don’t need to eat any lunch anyway.”
Misha chuckles. “Alright, alright, I take your point. That’s it for the connection rune. Now I need to do some protection marks; they’re easier.” His hand slips low on Jensen’s back, cold fingerpaint nearly touching the waistband of Jensen’s jeans. Jensen shivers despite himself, and feels a blush rising on his face.
“You can get back into character, if you want,” Misha says, voice low and focused as his slippery fingers slide across Jensen’s skin.
It’s a little more painful when Cas is tattooing Dean’s lower back, like the skin is more sensitive there because it’s not used to being touched. This symbol is different - the shapes are composed of sharp angles and the design is much smaller. Cas has to lean in so close that Dean can feel his warm, wet breath against his back. It’s not a comfortable feeling, so Dean tries to keep his mind elsewhere.
Dean thinks about Sam’s soul, and about fighting his way through Hell to get to it. He knows Cas has chosen the tattoos carefully, and he’s even mentioned something about mixing holy water into the ink. He’s painting symbols for peace, safety, courage, strength, passion and love. At Dean’s urging, he’d even agreed to add the bulletproof one. Dean’s never been this prepared for a fight, but he’s still scared shitless.
“Turn around,” Cas commands, shifting to give Dean some space to move. “The love rune needs to go over your heart.”
Dean turns, uncomfortable. Cas seems to feel no similar discomfort as he begins to tattoo the center of Dean’s upper chest. Dean goes cross-eyed trying to watch him work without moving his neck.
Castiel’s long fingers, shaking, brush over Dean’s nipples...
“Hey!” Jensen says, forgetting the fingerpaint and pressing his back into the couch.
“Sorry,” Misha says, but he doesn’t look sorry at all, and he sets the jar of green fingerpaint aside. Before Jensen can react, he wraps his hands, still wet with paint, around the back of Jensen’s neck and pulls him into a kiss.
Misha’s lips are rough against Jensen’s mouth, his tongue insistent and his breath erratic between kisses. For once, Jensen doesn’t feel the urge to run. He pushes forward against Misha, smearing the bright green paint on his chest onto Misha’s grey t-shirt. Misha’s fingers feel like they’re burning Jensen’s skin - like the sharp pleasure-pain of a tattoo. Jensen grips Misha’s shoulder tightly, wanting him to feel it too.
Misha grunts and pushes Jensen back onto the couch. Jensen could push back if he wanted to - and he’s stronger than Misha - but he goes with it, unconcerned by the way the paint on his back is undoubtedly ruining his couch. Misha straddles Jensen’s knees and leans forward, pressing his half-hard cock against Jensen’s body. Jensen shudders and gasps, then leans up to capture Misha’s mouth with his own. Somehow, Misha has gotten green paint on his chin.
Misha kisses a line from Jensen’s mouth down his chin and throat to his chest. He circles Jensen’s nipple with his tongue and it goes as hard as Jensen’s cock. “You’re so beautiful,” Misha murmurs, and Jensen almost believes it. He strokes Misha’s hair, which is as close as he can come to saying ‘you’re beautiful too’ while Misha is sucking on his nipple.
Misha thrusts his hips down against Jensen’s again, driving his back against the couch and pressing their erections together. Jensen whimpers, but he doesn’t feel self-conscious because the sounds Misha’s making are even more desperate - and also fucking hot. Jensen almost sobs with relief when Misha straightens to return his mouth to Jensen’s, simultaneously undoing the button of Jensen’s jeans.
They tug Jensen’s jean and boxers down with some difficulty, getting them just past Jensen’s knees before giving up and returning to more kisses. Misha braces himself on one arm near Jensen’s face and wraps his other hand around Jensen’s cock. His palm is still slick with fingerpaint, and it feels slippery-cool against Jensen’s sensitive skin. Misha’s grip is firm and his strokes start slow but speed up steadily. Jensen lies back and tries not to get too lost in the sensation. He knows it must seem like he’s being lazy, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so overwhelmed by his own body. He knows he’s going to come soon, way too soon, and he desperately tries to focus on something - anything - but the building pressure.
“Misha,” Jensen pants. “I think we’ve got paint on the -”
“Shhh,” Misha hisses, still working Jensen’s cock. “No talking.” Then he puts two of the fingers of his free hand into Jensen’s mouth, and Jensen shuts up. Misha’s fingers taste like fingerpaint. The taste is surprisingly not bad - heavy and saltier than skin - and it has to be safe to eat, if they give it to kids, right? Jensen sucks at Misha’s fingers enthusiastically, moaning around them as Misha strokes once, twice more before Jensen comes, shaking violently.
Misha presses his weight against Jensen until Jensen stops shaking, and he’s grateful because he feels like he might be about to fly into a million pieces. The consequences of what’s just happened - the ruined couch, the whole Misha-knows-he’s-gay thing, the fact that Jared was totally right that he needed to get laid - are just beginning to sink in when Misha finally speaks.
“It’s not a big secret, you know. Also not a big deal.” He bends to kiss Jensen, and it takes Jensen’s breath away. He looks up and into Misha’s eyes, soft and gentle and completely free of judgement, and feels his worries start to slip away.
”But,” he gasps, still slightly out of breath, “they want me to be on TV without my shirt!”
The non sequitur barely seems to phase Misha. “If that makes you uncomfortable,” he says in a voice Jensen is pretty sure is supposed to sound like a therapist’s, “we have another three weeks to rehearse the scene.”
Misha raises one eyebrow and smiles the single most lecherous grin Jensen has ever seen. Jensen can’t help but smile back. He lowers his eyes, looking towards his own stomach, where Misha’s hard cock is still pressing against him. “I think,” he says carefully, “we haven’t quite finished with this rehearsal yet.” Jensen reaches for Misha’s belt buckle.
“Jen, we need you on set,” Jared says, walking in without knocking. He freezes when he looks over, and Jensen is suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look, shirtless and covered in smears of green paint and his own semen, his pants tangled around his knees.
”Hey, Jay. Listen I -” Jensen stammers.
Jared grins, smile wide and white. “Thanks the fucking lord, finally!” he exclaims, pumping his fist triumphantly. “Maybe now you won’t be such a crotchety old man.” Jared slams the door as he leaves, and Jensen overhears him telling Bob that Jensen’s on the can and will need a few minutes.
As they wash green paint - water soluble, thank god - off Jensen’s back and Misha’s throat, Misha starts to laugh.
“What?” Jensen asks, though he feels a lot like laughing himself. He’s almost giddy, as if a huge weight has abruptly been lifted from his shoulders.
“Oh, I was just thinking about what the fans would say if the actual show went anything like that rehearsal.”
Jensen tries to make a face, but finds he can’t stop smiling. “Speaking of, let’s go make the magic happen.” They exit the trailer together, hand in hand and mostly paint-free - at least until their next rehearsal.
When Cas is finished, Dean hurriedly pulls his t-shirt back over his head. He takes a few quick steps away from Cas, back into the safety of his own personal space bubble.
“Okay so...” he says, a little too loudly. “That’s that, then.”
“Yes,” Cas says, voice as neutral as ever. “That is that.”
“So I guess you should kill me then,” Dean says, the words sounding even more ridiculous out loud than they did in his head. “So I can go get my soul-puppy from Hell.” Dean would never admit it, but he’s still more than a little nervous about this whole plan.
“Dean,” Cas says, putting a hand awkwardly on Dean’s shoulder. “I will bring you back, I promise. Relax - you have nothing to be afraid of.”
“Sure Cas,” Dean says and he knows that shouldn’t mean much, but he feels strangely reassured.
Author: bree_black
Pairing: Jensen/Misha, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,500
Betas:dress_myself_up, gwendolynd and a_happy_place.
Disclaimer: Sadly, none of this is real.
Spoilers: Generally, for S6.
Summary: While rehearsing a scene between Dean and Castiel, Jensen gets a bit more covered in fingerpaint than he expected.
Notes: Written for the spn_j2_xmas exchange for spacefragments. A combination of a few wants, including the prompts “rituals, protective sigils, writing/drawing on skin” and “character bleed.” I hope you like it!
Jensen hates stepping out of the warm shower and into a cold, empty apartment. It’s his own damn fault, he knows, because he made the decision to move out. It hadn’t seemed right to stay in the house after Jay and Gen were married and most of the time Jensen doesn’t regret his choice, but he does get lonely sometimes. It had been nice knowing someone else was around, even if it meant losing any semblance of peace or quiet, and the ability to keep the fridge stocked for longer than a day.
Jensen wraps a towel around his waist and walks into the kitchen, leaving foot-sized puddles on the hardwood floors. He takes a bottle of vitamin water out of the fridge then grabs the thick orange envelope he’d dumped on the marble counter on his way in. He’d finished work two hours ago and they’d be shooting with the sunrise the next morning. Jensen deserved to take the night off, but of course he’d choose reading the new script over playing video games alone.
The pages are loose and four different colours, like the script has been patched together by four different people using four different printers at four different times. It probably has been - the writers are taking a really collaborative approach this season - which is great, except that it meant the actors have to be prepared for endless last-minute changes. Jensen settles down into the new leather couch he likes far less than Jared’s ratty old armchair, and starts to read.
“The Soul Survivor” - Supernatural Season 6, Episode 18
Jensen chuckles at the cheesy pun. He straightens the thick sheaf of papers in his hands, then lets himself sink into the script. Jensen’s done this hundreds of times. It feels less like reading a script now, and more like reading - or maybe living - a story. He’s spent six years wearing Dean Winchester’s skin, and he’s getting maybe a little too comfortable there. Jensen doesn’t need costumes, props or sets to get into character now, and the directors barely give him direction. Most days Jensen feels like he understands Dean better than he understands himself, and when he reads a new script he finds himself filling in the sparse lines of dialogue and direction with Dean’s thoughts, feelings and -right now- worries.
“Where’s Sam?” Cas asks from the backseat, and Dean manages not to jump out of his seat or swerve off the road.
“Jesus, Cas,” he says, “could you be any more of a stalker?”
“I apologize,” Cas says. “Also, I am neither Jesus nor any relation of his.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, thanks Cas. What are you doing here? Got a lead on the Holy Grail or something?”
“No,” Cas answers. “I have a lead on Sam’s soul.”
Dean slams his foot down on the brake and skids to a halt on the shoulder. “What? What is it?” The sensation of hope is intensely painful, like it’s burning a hole through his chest. If Crowley couldn’t retrieve Sam’s soul, and neither could Death, who on Earth could?
“You,” Cas says, staring at him in the eerie way Dean’s sure means Cas is reading his mind or something. “You can go get it.”
An hour later they’re checked into a crappy motel room in rural North Dakota. The dark green wallpaper’s patterned with golden stalks of wheat, and the pattern repeats on the bedspread. Dean sits on the edge of one of the beds - he’d asked for two doubles out of habit - and kicks off his shoes. Cas stands by the window, leaning against the ledge, uncertain.
“Spill,” Dean orders.
Cas purses his lips, but finally speaks, haltingly, as if he’s forcing his words out one by one. “You can’t go into the Cage - it has to stay closed, of course - but you’ve been to Hell and survived so we know you can go down there again. I believe,” Cas continues with some hesitation, “that if you can get near to the Cage, you might be able to extract Sam’s soul from the outside. It’s not supposed to be there, after all.”
Dean raises one eyebrow. It takes him less than ten seconds to make the decision and another minute to swallow his pride and ask. “Okay, I know you have your own stuff to worry about. But you’ve been to Hell and back too, and with a lot less damage. How many burgers do I need to buy you to get you to run that errand for me?”
Cas shakes his head with a small smile. “I would if I could, Dean. I will help you however I can. But I do not believe I would be able to extract Sam’s soul. I believe... I believe Sam’s soul will respond to you, that it will come to you - and only you - if you call it.”
“You’re saying Sam’s soul belongs to me or something? Like it’s a puppy and I’m its owner?”
“Something like that,” Cas says, “though I don’t think we should share that analogy with him.”
“No, probably not,” Dean agrees. This new Sam doesn’t get angry, exactly, but he can definitely be insulted. Dean pauses. “You really think this will work?”
“I can’t be certain,” Cas says. “But if you insist on pulling the thing out, it’s the last idea I have.”
Dean stretches his arms above his head and cracks his knuckles. The only thing he can imagine that’s worse than going back to Hell is never getting his brother back. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
Jensen’s alarm goes off at 5:30am, giving him just enough time to get to set and through hair and makeup before shooting starts at sunrise. This week’s episode is about werecats - werecats! - that transform when the sun comes up. He, Jared and a couple of guest stars stand around and stare at the rising sun for awhile, holding their respective breaths as if waiting to see if they’ll turn into giant cats.
Bob calls “cut!” when they lose the light, and Jared, predictably, makes a run for Kraft Services. Jensen follows him, even though he’s not really hungry. The next scene they’re scheduled to film features Sam shooting all of the giant cats, execution style. All Jensen has to do is stand in the background looking mildly horrified, and that doesn’t require much preparation, so it’s not like he has anything better to do.
“Have you read the script for eighteen?” Jared asks through a mouthful of completely-inappropriate-for-breakfast tuna salad.
“I tried to read it last night, but I fell asleep after a few pages,” Jensen admits, picking at a blueberry muffin.
“What?” Jared asks. “We got off work at like, eight. You’re turning into an old man, dude.”
“Lay off,” Jensen says, giving up on his muffin. “I just appreciate the value of a good night’s sleep.”
“No, you’re prematurely middle-aged. You need to get laid.” Bits of tuna flying out of Jared’s mouth as he speaks. “Drink strawberry daiquiris, dance to ABBA or whatever you people do to stay young.”
“Hey,” Jensen hisses, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “Be quiet.” Thankfully, no one else eats lunch at nine in the morning, so they’re alone. “I don’t need you outing me with ABBA.”
“Relax,” Jared says. “Your secret’s safe with me. You need to chill out, though. No wonder you’re falling asleep so early. Seriously, get laid.”
“Unless you’re volunteering,” Jensen says, grimacing at the idea, “I don’t have a lot of prospects.”
“You know what? If you keep being such I grouch I might just need to get Gen’s permission to rock your world.” Jared stands and gathers the debris left behind after his eating rampage. “Now come on,” he says. “Let’s go kill some werecats.”
Sam hasn’t been enthusiastic about getting his soul back since Crowley and Cas had both indicated it might leave him a drooling mess, so Dean elects not to tell him about the plan. Sam’s on his own hunt anyway; he likes it if they split up every once in awhile so he doesn’t have to pretend to be a real boy.
“So you’ll kill me and I’ll go to Hell,” Dean begins to say, then pauses. “You know I went to heaven last time, right?”
“Yes, I’ll just condemn you before you go,” Cas says, like he’s reading the Chinese food menu. “For lechery or gluttony or wearing polyester.” Dean has had a lot of weird conversations with Cas, but this just might be the weirdest.
“And you’ll be able to bring me back?” Dean asks. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Cas, it’s just that Dean doesn’t see the point in both he and Sam being stuck down there forever.
“Yes. I have a plan that should make the process...speedier than last time.”
“And that is?”
Cas reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out two small objects: a short stick of bamboo, sharpened to a point at one end, and a small glass bottle filled with black liquid. “We need to give you a few more tattoos.”
Dean chokes on his mouthful of coffee. “Your plan is to give me a tattoo?”
“Tattoos,” Cas corrects. “Plural. Protective symbols and runes. One of them will bind you to me, making it easier to bring you back. The others will protect you from harm while you’re in Hell.”
Dean scoffs. “Nothing can protect me in Hell,” he says, “least of all a magic tattoo.”
“There’s no call to be so sceptical,” Cas says with a frown. “Protective tattoos have existed for thousands of years in cultures all around the world. In Japan, women get tattoos to make themselves look like goddesses, because it confuses evil spirits. In Irag, a dot tattooed on the tip of a child’s nose protects him from illness. Australian Aborigines tattoo their arms to protect themselves from boomerangs, and Burmese warriors believed certain tattoos made them invincible. In Thailand, powerful tattoos called Sak Yants are believed to serve a variety of functions, including protection from bullets...”
Dean waits for Cas to trail off. “Okay,” he says, “there’s lots of lore, I get it. How many of these things are you giving me?”
“As many as you need,” Cas says, unscrewing the lid of the ink bottle. “Take off your shirt.”
Jensen slams down the script, and scrambles for a phone. He’s not sure if the first one he finds is his Canadian phone, but he has bigger things to worry about. He punches #2 on his speed dial.
“Hey,” Dani says, voice suspicious. “Why are you calling me? You only call me on weekends.”
“This is an emergency,” Jensen says, suddenly light-headed.
“Oh god,” Danneel says, “have you met a cute boy or something?”
“Worse. They want me to take my shirt off on the show. Like, for an entire scene.”
“So?”
“So I’m not in shape for that! I can’t do this, Dani.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can. Your fans will be absolutely thrilled.”
“Maybe if it was four years ago they would be,” Jensen insists, “ but Jared’s got all the shirtless scenes now for a reason.”
“Baby,” Danneel says, exasperated. “I’ve witnessed a lot of your crazy freakouts over the years, and this makes the top ten. They say actresses are vain, but you spent more time worrying about how you look than all the women I’ve worked with his year combined.”
This is not the sympathetic reaction Jensen had expected from his oldest friend and pretend wife. He’s almost grateful when he hears the beep indicating he has a call on the other line. “I’ve gotta go,” he says quickly, pushing blindly at the buttons on his phone.
“Hey,” Misha says, altogether too cheerful for Jensen’s present state of mind. “What’s up?”
“Uh, nothing,” Jensen answers. “I’m just...sitting alone in my apartment on a Saturday night.”Like a total loser, he mentally adds.
“Living on the edge,” Misha says amicably. “Have you read the script for eighteen?”
“Most of it,” Jensen says, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart. “It’s pretty...intense.”
“I know right?” Misha agrees. “The fans are going to go nuts. How do we make that seem not gay?”
Jensen pretends to laugh, though he wants nothing more than to disappear. He hadn’t even thought of that. As if the shirtless thing wasn’t enough, he’ll have to contend with a whole new set of rumours about his sexuality once the episode airs.
“Anyway,” Misha continues, “I’m on set Monday to put in my obligatory three-minute appearance. I was thinking we could rehearse a bit.”
“Yeah,” Jensen agrees automatically, though they’ve never practiced in advance before. “During lunch, at my trailer?”
“See you then,” Misha says and then the line goes dead. Jensen pulls off his shirt and goes to the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror.
Monday morning, Jensen is so nervous that he keeps twitching in his seat as they apply the fake blood to his face. The makeup girl slaps him playfully on the arm a few times, and accuses him of being as bad as Jared, for once. He doesn’t have trouble making it through the morning’s scene - it’s mostly just Jared kicking the shit out of a stuntman while Jensen stands in the background looking shocked. The closer they get to lunch, though, the tighter the knot in his stomach squeezes.
He jumps about three feet in the air when Misha jerks open the door to his trailer. The ham sandwich Jensen had been trying to make himself eat goes flying and lands with a splat on floor.
“Hey,” Misha says, as Jensen regains his composure. “Oh, uh, sorry I scared you?”
“No, it’s okay,” Jensen says. “I’m just a little high-strung lately. Jared says I need to get laid.” It slips out before he can help himself.
“Sound like a pretty great relaxation plan, actually,” Misha says, slowly, leaning against the table covered in fanmail. Jensen finds himself distracted by the way Misha’s long fingers fiddle absently with an envelope. “Maybe you should.”
“What?” Jensen says. “Oh, yeah. Danneel’s pretty busy in LA right now, but maybe I’ll go down next weekend.”
Misha shuffles through Jensen’s mail, reading a few of the return addresses before he answers. “Right. Sure.” Jensen hates it when people say ‘sure’ like that when he mentions seeing Danneel. It makes him feel naked. And speaking of naked...
Jensen’s stomach flips uncomfortably, but he presses on. “Should we rehearse?”
“Yeah,” Misha says. “Actually, I just need your body.”
“What?” Jensen asks, and he hopes his voice doesn’t sound as squeaky to Misha as it does to his own ears.
Misha holds up a small jar. “Finger paint,” he explains. “They want to shoot Cas actually painting on the symbols, and they think the fans will notice if they’re not my hands on screen. So I have to learn to draw the things, and they’re kind of complicated.”
Fuck, Jensen’s internal voice screams. Fuck fuck fuck. He wants nothing more than to walk - no, run - out of the trailer, but he can’t think of an excuse that isn’t really, really suspicious. Fuck.
“Okay,” he says, doing his best impression of nonchalance and pulling his t-shirt over his head. “Though I really think my skills are being underused in this scenario.”
Misha’s eyes linger on Jensen’s chest as he looks him slowly up and down. Jensen feels his cheeks go hot, and he resists the urge to cross his arms protectively over his chest. “Can we get this over with?”
Misha frowns, but he looks back to Jensen’s face, at least. “Okay,” he says, crossing the room to sit on the couch. He pats the seat next to him and Jensen takes it, turning his back to Misha.
“If it helps you can get in character,” Misha offers, voice gentle, and Jensen hates that it means Misha can tell something’s wrong, but he closes his eyes anyway.
Castiel’s hands are surprisingly warm against his skin. Dean had expected them to be cold, like angels are made of ice or marble or something. Instead, his hands are broad, soft and almost hot against his skin. Dean feels his muscles relax under the touch, despite himself.
“This may sting a little,” Cas warns, moments before Dean feels a sharp point of pain. He jerks reflexively, but the needle-thin tool is so tiny the pain fades almost as soon as it begins.
“I apologize,” Castiel says. Dean shrugs the apology off before he realizes he should probably stay still, and Castiel sighs in frustration.
“Sorry,” Dean says, and focuses on keeping his body still as a statue.
Castiel continues his work, shifting periodically to reach back for more ink. The first symbol he draws is on Dean’s shoulder - the connection rune, which he’s told Dean is supposed to tie the two of them together so that Cas can reel him out of Hell like a fish out of the ocean. It takes Cas a long time, and the shape feels complex, full of intricate spirals.
“How long is this going to take?” Dean asks. He finds the whole thing frustrating, like that game little kids played in grade school, writing invisible words on their friends’ backs and making them guess. He’s desperate to go to the tiny motel bathroom and examine himself in the mirror. He taps his fingers impatiently.
“Be still, child,” Cas orders, and if Dean didn’t know better he’d think Cas was making fun of him. Dean freezes, reflexively, like an extremely obedient child, or maybe a pet. His own willingness to obey embarrasses him, and he snaps irritably back.
“Hey, buddy, I don’t have all day,” Jensen says, then frowns at himself.
Misha laughs. “Sorry...buddy, these things are really complicated. They’re based on like, real rituals so I don’t want to fuck them up.”
“It’s okay,” Jensen says, surprised at the way he keeps sliding between Dean’s voice and his own. “I don’t need to eat any lunch anyway.”
Misha chuckles. “Alright, alright, I take your point. That’s it for the connection rune. Now I need to do some protection marks; they’re easier.” His hand slips low on Jensen’s back, cold fingerpaint nearly touching the waistband of Jensen’s jeans. Jensen shivers despite himself, and feels a blush rising on his face.
“You can get back into character, if you want,” Misha says, voice low and focused as his slippery fingers slide across Jensen’s skin.
It’s a little more painful when Cas is tattooing Dean’s lower back, like the skin is more sensitive there because it’s not used to being touched. This symbol is different - the shapes are composed of sharp angles and the design is much smaller. Cas has to lean in so close that Dean can feel his warm, wet breath against his back. It’s not a comfortable feeling, so Dean tries to keep his mind elsewhere.
Dean thinks about Sam’s soul, and about fighting his way through Hell to get to it. He knows Cas has chosen the tattoos carefully, and he’s even mentioned something about mixing holy water into the ink. He’s painting symbols for peace, safety, courage, strength, passion and love. At Dean’s urging, he’d even agreed to add the bulletproof one. Dean’s never been this prepared for a fight, but he’s still scared shitless.
“Turn around,” Cas commands, shifting to give Dean some space to move. “The love rune needs to go over your heart.”
Dean turns, uncomfortable. Cas seems to feel no similar discomfort as he begins to tattoo the center of Dean’s upper chest. Dean goes cross-eyed trying to watch him work without moving his neck.
Castiel’s long fingers, shaking, brush over Dean’s nipples...
“Hey!” Jensen says, forgetting the fingerpaint and pressing his back into the couch.
“Sorry,” Misha says, but he doesn’t look sorry at all, and he sets the jar of green fingerpaint aside. Before Jensen can react, he wraps his hands, still wet with paint, around the back of Jensen’s neck and pulls him into a kiss.
Misha’s lips are rough against Jensen’s mouth, his tongue insistent and his breath erratic between kisses. For once, Jensen doesn’t feel the urge to run. He pushes forward against Misha, smearing the bright green paint on his chest onto Misha’s grey t-shirt. Misha’s fingers feel like they’re burning Jensen’s skin - like the sharp pleasure-pain of a tattoo. Jensen grips Misha’s shoulder tightly, wanting him to feel it too.
Misha grunts and pushes Jensen back onto the couch. Jensen could push back if he wanted to - and he’s stronger than Misha - but he goes with it, unconcerned by the way the paint on his back is undoubtedly ruining his couch. Misha straddles Jensen’s knees and leans forward, pressing his half-hard cock against Jensen’s body. Jensen shudders and gasps, then leans up to capture Misha’s mouth with his own. Somehow, Misha has gotten green paint on his chin.
Misha kisses a line from Jensen’s mouth down his chin and throat to his chest. He circles Jensen’s nipple with his tongue and it goes as hard as Jensen’s cock. “You’re so beautiful,” Misha murmurs, and Jensen almost believes it. He strokes Misha’s hair, which is as close as he can come to saying ‘you’re beautiful too’ while Misha is sucking on his nipple.
Misha thrusts his hips down against Jensen’s again, driving his back against the couch and pressing their erections together. Jensen whimpers, but he doesn’t feel self-conscious because the sounds Misha’s making are even more desperate - and also fucking hot. Jensen almost sobs with relief when Misha straightens to return his mouth to Jensen’s, simultaneously undoing the button of Jensen’s jeans.
They tug Jensen’s jean and boxers down with some difficulty, getting them just past Jensen’s knees before giving up and returning to more kisses. Misha braces himself on one arm near Jensen’s face and wraps his other hand around Jensen’s cock. His palm is still slick with fingerpaint, and it feels slippery-cool against Jensen’s sensitive skin. Misha’s grip is firm and his strokes start slow but speed up steadily. Jensen lies back and tries not to get too lost in the sensation. He knows it must seem like he’s being lazy, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so overwhelmed by his own body. He knows he’s going to come soon, way too soon, and he desperately tries to focus on something - anything - but the building pressure.
“Misha,” Jensen pants. “I think we’ve got paint on the -”
“Shhh,” Misha hisses, still working Jensen’s cock. “No talking.” Then he puts two of the fingers of his free hand into Jensen’s mouth, and Jensen shuts up. Misha’s fingers taste like fingerpaint. The taste is surprisingly not bad - heavy and saltier than skin - and it has to be safe to eat, if they give it to kids, right? Jensen sucks at Misha’s fingers enthusiastically, moaning around them as Misha strokes once, twice more before Jensen comes, shaking violently.
Misha presses his weight against Jensen until Jensen stops shaking, and he’s grateful because he feels like he might be about to fly into a million pieces. The consequences of what’s just happened - the ruined couch, the whole Misha-knows-he’s-gay thing, the fact that Jared was totally right that he needed to get laid - are just beginning to sink in when Misha finally speaks.
“It’s not a big secret, you know. Also not a big deal.” He bends to kiss Jensen, and it takes Jensen’s breath away. He looks up and into Misha’s eyes, soft and gentle and completely free of judgement, and feels his worries start to slip away.
”But,” he gasps, still slightly out of breath, “they want me to be on TV without my shirt!”
The non sequitur barely seems to phase Misha. “If that makes you uncomfortable,” he says in a voice Jensen is pretty sure is supposed to sound like a therapist’s, “we have another three weeks to rehearse the scene.”
Misha raises one eyebrow and smiles the single most lecherous grin Jensen has ever seen. Jensen can’t help but smile back. He lowers his eyes, looking towards his own stomach, where Misha’s hard cock is still pressing against him. “I think,” he says carefully, “we haven’t quite finished with this rehearsal yet.” Jensen reaches for Misha’s belt buckle.
“Jen, we need you on set,” Jared says, walking in without knocking. He freezes when he looks over, and Jensen is suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look, shirtless and covered in smears of green paint and his own semen, his pants tangled around his knees.
”Hey, Jay. Listen I -” Jensen stammers.
Jared grins, smile wide and white. “Thanks the fucking lord, finally!” he exclaims, pumping his fist triumphantly. “Maybe now you won’t be such a crotchety old man.” Jared slams the door as he leaves, and Jensen overhears him telling Bob that Jensen’s on the can and will need a few minutes.
As they wash green paint - water soluble, thank god - off Jensen’s back and Misha’s throat, Misha starts to laugh.
“What?” Jensen asks, though he feels a lot like laughing himself. He’s almost giddy, as if a huge weight has abruptly been lifted from his shoulders.
“Oh, I was just thinking about what the fans would say if the actual show went anything like that rehearsal.”
Jensen tries to make a face, but finds he can’t stop smiling. “Speaking of, let’s go make the magic happen.” They exit the trailer together, hand in hand and mostly paint-free - at least until their next rehearsal.
When Cas is finished, Dean hurriedly pulls his t-shirt back over his head. He takes a few quick steps away from Cas, back into the safety of his own personal space bubble.
“Okay so...” he says, a little too loudly. “That’s that, then.”
“Yes,” Cas says, voice as neutral as ever. “That is that.”
“So I guess you should kill me then,” Dean says, the words sounding even more ridiculous out loud than they did in his head. “So I can go get my soul-puppy from Hell.” Dean would never admit it, but he’s still more than a little nervous about this whole plan.
“Dean,” Cas says, putting a hand awkwardly on Dean’s shoulder. “I will bring you back, I promise. Relax - you have nothing to be afraid of.”
“Sure Cas,” Dean says and he knows that shouldn’t mean much, but he feels strangely reassured.