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He had, for once, Saturday off. Sure, he wasn’t going to be finished until late Friday night, and it was an early call Sunday morning, but the guest star they needed to film the rest of the episode had been grounded at the Denver airport due to lightning and long story short, everything in Vancouver would temporarily grind to a halt in… he checked his watch… four hours. Then he sighed, because there was a light drizzle, and Sam, Dean, and Cas still needed to film a good portion of the outside scenes. Dusk was beginning to fall, which was good. Jensen was about to have to dig up a grave, at least partly, which was less good.
He sighed and, realizing that he was feeling a bit tired, chugged a cup of coffee before heading over to where the crew was setting up. He was feeling unpleasantly waterlogged from the rain. Someone handed him another cup of coffee, and he took it, sipping at the warmth. Next to him, Jared shifted from foot to foot, texting furiously.
“Hey,” Jared nudged Jensen. “Look.” He displayed his phone screen, which held a picture of his dog covered in mud and grinning at the camera, tongue lolling out.
Jensen chuckled. “Goofy pup. Kinda like you.”
“Hey,” Jared started, faking indignation, but a harried director started waving at them, so they took their spots and once again became Sam and Dean.
Jensen stabbed the shovel at the damp soil, trying to look like he did this every day and his arms definitely weren’t already burning, Jared holding a flashlight and a fake iron bar to ward off the ‘ghost’ they were hunting next to him. Then, right on cue -
“Dean, look out!”
Jensen threw himself to the ground, getting a mouthful of grass and spitting slightly. Above him, Jared flew backwards, ostensibly thrown by the ghost, landing with practiced precision against a headstone and slumping downward. A trail of blood trickled down from his hairline.
“Sammy!” Injecting panic into his voice, Jensen scrambled for the dropped weapon, swinging it wildly, before he, too, stumbled backward. “Cas! Help!”
They held that position for a minute, then got the all-clear signal. Jensen and Jared stayed in place while Misha was brought in and positioned, and the glow sticks in his sleeves were double checked. They kept coming unstuck and ruining scenes.
Then the camera was rolling again. Jensen jumped up, swinging the weapon, and was thrown backward once again. Jared was still slumped on the ground playing dead. Misha strode over to him, taking a stance in front of him. “Go, Dean,” he shouted, and Jensen threw himself toward the grave, digging furiously.
Grunts of exertion and assorted sound effects came from where Misha was guarding Jared’s body, and Jensen thunked the shovel into the hollow wooden box laid at the bottom of the fake grave with no small amount of relief. He scrabbled for salt, shaking it liberally over the grave, and then struck a match, tossing it in.
Knowing that the ghost was supposed to lunge at him one last time and give him a dramatic cut along his cheekbone, he braced himself, and the wire he was attached to yanked him backward.
“Scene,” the director called, with no small amount of relief.
Jensen groaned.
He heard Misha swear, followed by Jared’s voice. “Oh, Jesus, is he all right?” Then there was the sound of feet pounding on the ground, and his two favorite co-stars were bent over him, worried expressions on their faces.
Then he realized that his back actually hurt rather a lot, and, instead of being hurled off camera to land on the grass, he’d been hurled off camera and smacked his back (and lower side) into a spare gravestone. From the waves of pain crumpling through his body, it had landed a blow right on his kidney.
“Ow,” he murmured, dazed.
“Jensen?” There was a tech leaning over him, too. He thought the man’s name was Joseph. Intern.
“M’good.”
“You’re not good,” Misha told him, brow creased with worry. Jensen reached up and attempted to smooth it out. “We’re taking you to get that looked at.”
He and Jared hauled Jensen to his feet and led him over to where their exhausted nurse on site was sitting under a tent.
After being poked, prodded, and questioned thoroughly, it was determined that nothing was ruptured or bleeding internally, and he was just going to have one hell of a bruise. “Take the day off tomorrow,” she told him. “Don’t strain it, and go easy on the stunts until you’re healed up.”
He nodded, sipping at the cup of water she’d given him along with the pain pills he’d already swallowed. “Any more scenes tonight?”
“No,” she answered, cutting a severe look over to the forlorn director. “You’re going home and relaxing.”
Jensen was feeling a bit woozy, so it didn’t take much to get him to agree, and then he and Jared were driving to the place they shared during filming. Jensen let his head fall back with a thump. He wanted to sleep, he really did, but he’d had too much coffee and he was just buzzed. “Jared. Talk to me.”
Jared slipped the car through a yellow light, raising his fist to knock three times on the roof. “Okay. Uh. I’m going to propose to Gen soon. Bought a ring and everything.”
Jensen gaped. “You sly dog! Why am I only just finding out about this?” He sat up straight. He was happy for them, they were a good couple, but he couldn’t believe Jared hadn’t told him already.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m thinking about doing it in front of our favorite painting, that’s your cue to call me a sap.”
“Sap,” Jensen retorted dutifully. “That’s sickeningly adorable.”
“Now, what about you?” Jared asked. “You got anyone special?”
Jensen resolutely didn’t think of worried blue eyes. “Nah, you know me. Lone ranger type of man.” He mimed throwing a lasso.
“Uh huh.” Jared sounded skeptical. “That’s not how you throw- okay. Sure.”
The car pulled into their drive and they stumbled up to the door, both exhausted. Jensen beelined for the kitchen, pulling takeout from the fridge, while Jared cooed over his dogs in the other room. “Hey,” Jensen yelled. “You want lo mein?”
Jared’s voice floated back. “I’m good, I’m just gonna crash.”
Jensen took the styrofoam container and retreated to his room, flopping onto his bed and shoveling noodles into his mouth. After a moment’s consideration, he yanked a bottle of whiskey from his nightstand. He wanted to sleep, but the coffee was still in his system.
Sighing, he pulled up his favorite streaming service, scrolling through available shows and movies. Nothing really caught his eye. Navigating somewhat clumsily to the search bar, while balancing a forkful of noodles, he typed ‘cowboy’ one-handed, and adjusted his computer screen so he could see better.
Huh. There was one that looked interesting, seemed to be pretty new. “Brokeback Mountain,” he said, rolling the name around in his mouth. He took a swig of whiskey and, figuring what the hell, clicked on it. It had Anne Hathaway, it couldn’t be bad.
He was hooked almost from the second it started. Jack and Ennis were hired to herd sheep all summer. Jensen, taking another drink and realizing that, while the effects of the caffeine were wearing off, the pain pills certainly weren’t, and they were hastening his path to intoxication. He wanted to be a cowboy alone in the mountains but for his coworker and a fuck ton of sheep. It seemed peaceful. True cowboy life.
And no, he wasn’t noticing that Jack’s eyes looked a lot like Misha’s in color, because he was really starting to identify with Ennis, and Ennis sure as hell wouldn’t notice something like that. He was a cowboy, a real one.
Jensen took another drink.
Onscreen, Jack and Ennis were drinking, too. Jensen matched them, swallow for swallow. He could be hungover tomorrow, he didn’t have to work.
Then they were - Jack was leaning in, and - huh. Okay.
He rewound a few seconds, hitting play again.
And again.
Yup, they were still having sex in their tent.
That was, he admitted, entirely unexpected. Maybe he should have read the movie synopsis. Still, because he wasn’t homophobic, he kept watching. And okay, that was - hey, actually, this movie was getting pretty sad. By the time Ennis, still in love with Jack, had married Alma instead, and Aguirre had refused Jack a job for the crime of loving another man, Jensen was well on his way to being thoroughly trashed and would forever deny his intense emotional investment in the story.
He watched as the two men grew further apart, still sipping at his whiskey, and scrambled for his phone, intent upon conveying his message to Misha.
> dont let us fall apart like them
He nodded firmly at the text he’d sent, pleased, and turned his attention back to the screen.
He drank as their marriages fell apart, as they went on their fishing trip, as they argue, Ennis crying and Jack holding him tightly.
> i’ll hold u when u cry like jack held him
< Jensen, are you all right?
He closed the phone. He’d respond to Misha soon, as soon as he figured out if he actually was all right. Onscreen, Ennis picked up a postcard, one he’d sent to Jack a time back. Jensen’s breath caught. Had Jack sent it back, refused it? Refused Ennis’s love?
There, stamped in red, was the word DECEASED.
Jensen let out a choked gasp, eyes glued to the screen. He took another few swallows of whiskey, as the situation seemed to call for it. Ennis saw Jack’s death, a violent killing as opposed to the accident it supposedly was.
Ennis visited Jack’s parents, was met with cruelty from his father, and was denied the chance to spread Jack’s ashes on Brokeback Mountain.
> id take you back to the mountain
Ennis found Jack’s shirt in his closet, wrapped around Ennis’s own, bloodstained one.
> dont lets lose time. not like they did
Ennis stared at the shirts in his own closet, the order of them now inverted, him holding Jack in death.
< Jensen? What’s happening? What do you mean?
< Are you drinking? Do I need to come get you?
“Jack, I swear,” Ennis whispered, his voice broken. Jensen gave up any pretense of not crying and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, taking another swig out of the bottle. He felt completely ravaged, emotionally devastated. He also felt exhausted. Fumbling for his phone, he tapped out one last message before falling asleep.
***
He woke up close to noon the next day with a raging headache to an amused Jared standing in his doorway and knocking on the doorframe. “You good?”
Jensen groaned, flapping his hand. “Shut up. Water.”
Jared presented him with water. “Why did Misha call me to check on you? He sounded worried.” He leaned against the wall, sweaty, obviously having just come from a run. Health nut.
Chugging the water, Jensen took a moment to collect his thoughts. His back hurt, he’d been injured on set. He’d come back, eaten lo mein, watched a movie, and drunk more than he’d intended to. He’d watched - oh. Yeah.
Then he remembered the glow of his phone screen amid the sharp burn of the whiskey and the emotions swirling around in his head, and blanched, scrambling for the device.
He had thirteen missed calls from Misha and only a vague memory of whatever the hell he’d texted the other man. He flicked the phone open.
“I got drunk, texted dumb stuff,” he explained to Jared, who was hovering nearby with Advil.
“It wasn’t the weird Jar Jar Binks porn a fan sent you again, was it?”
Jensen nearly threw the phone, settling for swatting Jared on one arm. “Shut up, no.”
Jared retreated. “Okay, okay. Got it. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
Then Jensen was left alone with his phone and a very, very large pile of regrets that was growing by the second, because there, the last message he’d sent before passing out, was i think i want 2 date u.
Sent to Misha.
And the kicker was, it wasn’t wrong. Jensen did want to date Misha. He just… didn’t want to be queer in the film industry, because that never ended well. And he wasn’t too sure about dating someone he knew for damn certain his father wouldn’t approve of - that was, someone who wasn’t a woman.
And he’d never actually dated a man before.
And it was Misha. His co-star. His friend. Both of those were relationships he didn’t want to fuck up.
He changed clothes and brushed his teeth, scrubbing his face and glaring at himself in the bathroom mirror, while he tried to figure out what to do. “Jared,” he yelled.
Jared, from the kitchen where he was crafting a fascinating sandwich with ingredients one wouldn’t normally put on a sandwich because neither of them had gotten groceries in weeks, yelled back. “What is it?”
“If I drunk texted someone that I wanted to date them, what does that mean?”
There was a pause. Jensen glared at himself in the mirror even more. Jared fed the dog a treat, wondering if that was a trick question. “Uh, it probably means that you want to date them. Why?”
Jensen didn’t answer.
Jared appeared in the bathroom door. “Wait, you. Oh. You. You texted. And he. Was it?”
Nodding, Jensen pointedly didn’t meet Jared’s eyes. “It was.”
“And his reaction was to call you a bunch of times, then call me to check in on you later when you didn’t respond. I don’t think he’s going to hate you, if that’s what’s gotten you so concerned.”
Jensen reached for his razor before deciding that his hand wasn’t steady enough for that one and that the scruff would just have to stay. “He’s, y’know, a he.”
“Yeah.”
“A man.”
“Yup, pretty sure.” Jared squinted at him. “Jensen, are you repressed? Is that what this is about?”
“I’m not repressed,” Jensen complained. “I’m just coming to terms with it.”
“You want my advice? You’re getting it anyway. Just talk to him.” Then Jared was gone, leaving Jensen to consider that shiny new idea.
Talk to him.
It was, after all, still Misha. His friend. Who was, if his call log and Jared were to be believed, not pissed off at him at all.
Before Jensen quite knew what he was doing, he was in a taxi on the way to Misha’s hotel.
***
He hesitated in front of the door to room 256, hand raised to knock. What if this went badly? He paced a few steps. But what if it went well?
The door opened in the middle of his deliberations, roughly five minutes in. Misha leaned on it, still in his sweatpants, dark circles under his eyes. “Are you going to pace out here all afternoon,” he queried, “Or are you going to come in?”
Jensen slipped into the room. “So.” He started. “About last night.”
His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d slept through breakfast and forewent lunch in favor of a minor mental breakdown, and Misha held out a hand to stop him from continuing. “I have a kitchenette, and I have eggs and bread. So you’re getting eggs and toast. Then we’ll talk, okay?”
Finding that plan agreeable, Jensen stood meekly while Misha fried eggs and made toast, then plated the meal and set it on the hotel desk. “Sit down,” he said tiredly, and Jensen obeyed.
The meal was very good, and he ate quickly, thoroughly conscious of Misha moving around the room behind him.
“Misha,” he said quietly, and the rustling stopped.
“Mm?”
“About last night.” Jensen took a deep breath. “I was drunk. And watching Brokeback Mountain. I’m sorry if I bothered you.” He turned in the desk chair to face Misha, who was sitting at the end of the rumpled bed. Their knees almost touched. Misha looked very human suddenly, and Jensen ached to hug him.
“So you didn’t mean it,” Misha concluded, staring at the floor. “That’s what I figured.” He sounded almost sad.
“I didn’t say that,” Jensen found himself saying. “I did mean it. I just, I should have told you sober. And also not over text.”
“You want to date me.” There was no inflection in Misha’s voice. “ You want to date me. ” There it was. Incredulity dripping from every word. “You’re straight!”
“Not as straight as I seem,” Jensen offered, managing a crooked smile. “Yes, Mish, I want to date you. You’re one of my good friends, you make me smile, I’m happy being around you, I want to make you happy.”
Misha met his eyes hesitantly, and Jensen did his best to project calm and certainty, only one of which he was feeling (it wasn’t the calm).
Then, quite unexpectedly, chapped lips were on his and Jensen was kissing Misha. One hand cradled the back of Misha’s head, fingers running softly through his hair, and the other settled firmly on his waist. Jensen was, he corrected himself, kissing Misha and enjoying it immensely.
Pulling away and grabbing Jensen’s hand with his own, Misha smiled, a faint hint of red tinting his cheeks. “I’d like to date you too.”