Crack, crack and more crack:
I've been having fun over on the Castiel comment fic meme -
The Castiel Comment!fic Meme
Come in and join the fun @ spn_castiel!
/pimp, and just thought I'd share the results so far (though those of you on Mishaland will have seen the first of these already <3.
"I don't get it," Alastair complained, twiddling the detached thumbs of his latest victim. "He's an angel. I should find him disgusting and repulsive but there's something about that eternal expression of confusion that just does things to me."
"You should just tell him how you feel," the victim in question suggested; after two hundred years the weekly appendage-removal-and-disembowelment had become one of Hell's highlights.
"That I want to peel his skin off and wear it?"
"... Maybe you should try flowers and chocolates first."
Unfortunately old habits died hard and shortly after being dragged back to Earth to beat Dean Winchester up for funsies, Alastair found himself hanging Castiel on a hook and zapping him back to heaven. This, of course, meaning he was left with only a corpse for manhandling. A very pretty one. Which, as it turned out, wasn't all that inconvenient really.
See, if he'd been dragging Castiel around on a leash, he'd probably have wound up with some very funny looks from shop assistants and similar, but no one really minded him wheeling his new favourite corpse around the shops and helping him try on new outfits. Castiel's corpse looked rather spiffing in a white hat, and after some deliberation Alastair decided to buy him pyjamas to match before wheeling him back to the hotel - no expense spared, being a resident of Hell and all - to be washed and dressed.
Castiel looked down from heaven, scratching his wings in discomfort. "... do I really have to take my vessel back right now?" Castiel asked Zachariah, all the while wishing Alastair would stop washing between his toes; in part because, well, creepy, and in part because angelic forms lacked toes and the urge to itch something that one did not possess was deeply unsettling.
"You have already cost us eleven hours of your service," Zachariah snapped. "You're letting down the team. Don't you know what the cost would be in man hours if we let every angel who vacated their vessel wait a day before reclaiming it?"
Castiel sighed; upper management always did have a point, even if he didn't necessarily like it. After a moment of not-sulking, because angels, of course, do not sulk, Castiel began the ritual for reclaiming a vacated host, all the while hoping Jimmy wasn't too unhappy about being thrust into the afterlife.
Waking up inside a human body was always terribly disconcerting, not least because of the guaranteed flash of blinding light and getting used to having toes again. But even so, it was even more disconcerting than usual to wake up inside his preferred human body and notice it was currently being held rather close. Rather affectionately, even.
Castiel blinked thrice before rolling over and confirming that yes, Alastair was cuddling him.
"Good morning you unspeakable Hell-beast," Castiel greeted.
"I want to peel off your skin and wear it," Alastair replied, cradling Castiel gently and running his fingers down the angel's back through satin pyjamas. "We should date."
"I would rather tear out my own spine and feed it to rabid dogs."
"Dinner and a movie probably is a little too soon. But there's a damn good coffee shop around the corner from here." Castiel blinked again before trying to pull away from Alastair's arms and finding himself gripped tighter. "I liked you better when you were cold. You should bathe in ice."
"I am not going to date you," Castiel replied as calmly as he could manage. "I do believe this constitutes harrassment."
"I'll see you at three thirty."
And with that Castiel was freed to go about his business after one last friendly pat on the bum.
"He's gotta be pulling our legs," Dean muttered between eating his cheeseburger, Sam staring intently at the coffee shop entrance as he had been for the past ten minutes. "Alastair wouldn't cheat on me."
"What?" Sam asked, half listening, half pretending he hadn't heard what he'd been listening to.
"Alastair always said I was the prettiest."
Sam made a 'hm' of appreciation before shoving Dean sharply in the shoulder. "Dude, look."
Sure enough, three thirty on the dot there was Alastair, bouquet of white lilies in one hand, box of cherry liqueurs in the other. "That manwhore!" Dean snapped before wiping at what definitely was not a single manly tear.
"I told you only a demon would make Castiel wear those pyjamas. The puppies were one thing but the little pink rabbits?" Sam replied before getting out of the car and raising his hand. Alastair looked a little peeved to be pinned back against the coffee shop wall but hey, this was the dude who'd tortured Dean for forty years.
On the other hand, he was holding flowers.
"No good, can't do it," Sam sighed. "Castiel's going to have to wait this one out."
"I can't believe Alastair cheated on me," Dean continued to whine. "He said I was his sugarplum snafflebunny. Why would he do this to me?"
"Listen, Dean," Sam said. "Shut up."
"Bitch."
"Cockmongling fuckstick."
"That's not how it -"
"Shut up."
And so it came to pass that as the Winchesters continued to be utterly useless and Castiel was going to have to take care of this mess all on his own, Castiel had to attend to the coffee shop visit himself. And, in all fairness, Alastair had bought him very nice cherry liqueurs.
Still, it was rather upsetting to find Alastair repeatedly sneaking something up Castiel's trouser leg which was disconcerting in and of itself but all the more disconcerting for Alastair's hands and feet being clearly visible and clearly not anywhere near Castiel's trousers. "Look, Alastair," Castiel began. "There's no easy way to say this but I'm not that sort of angel. Also, you are a filth-encrusted maggot-ridden demon from the blackest swells of the murkiest places in the universe. This isn't going to work."
"You should probably go for decaffeinated then," Alastair replied. "Or half-decaf. Takes the edge off."
"I also think we have some communication issues."
"I thought Spandau Ballet were underrated too."
The tides seemed dark to Castiel which in and of itself was deeply unsettling given it being the middle of the day and over fifty miles from the ocean where he was sat.
Thankfully, even if Castiel's attempts at persuasion were going awry and the Winchesters had been about as much use as a chocolate teapot, not everyone on the planet happened to be that lame, and Alastair didn't really have any way of fighting a demon-killing chokehold once someone with strength enough could actually be arsed to do the job.
Uriel might have sparkled in the glory of saving the day but for scaring the sparkles into submission.
"Uriel! But how -"
"I clearly wouldn't have died in this universe," Uriel snapped. "Now get in the kitchen and make me a sandwich, bitch."
And the patrons of the coffee shop cheered.
THE END.
~ ~ ~
As Dean wakes up he notices three things in order.
One; he has a splitting headache.
Two; his mouth feels like a hobo's been sleeping in it.
Three; he is very, very, very warm.
The first two facts lead to the conclusion that drinking is never as good an idea as it sounds in theory. The third fact, and investigation of this fact, leads to the conclusion that his first conclusion was utter bullshit.
He is very, very, very warm because he has fallen asleep under a blanket, still in his clothes from the night before, and currently has his arms wrapped around an angel.
He may just have woken up but he's smart enough to have drunk just beer the previous night so when he politely suggests to his brain it remind him of the events after he started drinking, his brain actually replies.
He remembers the first bar, mission brothel having gone so horribly wrong the other week and mission alcohol starting a little more successfully, remembers figuring Castiel had willingly consumed beer at the brothel so he'd probably appreciate more. Remembers leaving after three or four bottles when a hen party had taken a little too much interest in the two of them; and normally that'd be great, but he was a determined man and this was mission get-Cas-drunk, not get-Cas-laid-part-two. The second bar had led to another two bottles, and Castiel taking far longer in the bathroom than Dean would have liked before he'd headed in himself and found Castiel hunched over a toilet bowl. Which had been Dean's fault, really, to a certain extent; he'd forgotten Castiel didn't have the same muscle mass as him and, moreover, hadn't eaten properly in literally months. And with anyone else, Dean would've left them to it, but he knew his responsibilities and in all fairness Castiel had at least mistakenly chosen the disabled cubicle to vomit in, so Dean could lock the door and rub Castiel's back without anyone looking in on them.
Castiel had muttered something about never drinking again, and Dean had laughed despite himself because yeah, he could sympathise with that, had made the same mistake all too often, before Castiel had apparently decided he'd finished throwing up. And yeah, it was gross of him to look, but Dean had been really weirded out by seeing clear puke; vowed he'd have to make certain Castiel started eating once in a while, if only to get into the habit of it.
It was a little blurry after that but he knew he'd dismissed Castiel's suggestions of taking a mind-whammy trip back; didn't want to risk an angel with drunken aim materialising them both inside a motel wall which, really, wasn't that likely but he'd been drunk enough at the time for that sort of thought to sound logical, and better safe than sorry. So, like the stereotype, one that had proven itself to be true more than once, he'd wound up with Castiel's arm around his shoulders and his own around Castiel's back to help the angel stay upright. At least Castiel hadn't started singing; probably would have blown out the windows if he'd tried.
And they'd stumbled back to the motel, and there had definitely been an argument at some point because he remembered letting go, storming off for a few seconds before storming back and picking Castiel up again, so it probably hadn't been about anything that important. There had also been a lot of laughter after that for a while, because he remembered just a particular glimpse of Castiel's smile, teeth bright and eyes flashing in crappy street lighting, Castiel's hair blue-black against the backdrop of the town's park, and the thought made his agitated stomach settle a little into something warmer and easier.
They'd got back to the hotel, and Dean had asked something retarded - he couldn't remember the exact words but was fairly certain he'd actually asked Castiel's permission to kiss him, which - damn it, yeah, not his smoothest move, but apparently it had worked because Castiel had kissed him in reply, and he'd thought Castiel was going to be clumsy as hell with being a newbie to all this but no, he really, really wasn't. And his mouth had been softer than Dean had thought a dude's would ever be on the rare occasions he'd given it thought, and he didn't taste like puke which Dean really should have been more worried about at the time, and he'd been all soft and warm and wet and his tongue had been something seriously damned sexy, hadn't accidentally choked him once, and he could have kissed Castiel for hours if the angel hadn't interrupted it by pulling back to yawn really, really loudly in his face.
And then the blur became a little too blurry but there had definitely been an embarrassingly un-manly amount of cuddling under the motel blanket in their clothes and half-talking, half-laughing, all telling the other to shut up so they could get to sleep.
And now this; he's woken up with an armful of angel, which he isn't about to complain about... well, ever.
"Good morning, Dean," Castiel says, and doesn't even have the decency to have bad breath.
"Hey," Dean replies, noticing Castiel's little grimace. Can't blame him; Dean knows he has dragon breath come any morning post-alcohol. "So. Last night. We, uh -" Okay, he's done this with girls, may as well try this for the first time with a guy. "You good doing that again?"
Castiel shakes his head and for a second Dean's stomach drops out because oh, God, this is not something he wants to screw up. "I do not wish to drink again," Castiel says, and okay, Dean figures that's fair enough, and in the middle of figuring this, Castiel decides to lean forward and kiss him again and Dean grins so hard it breaks the kiss for a moment.
Because yeah, apparently he couldn't get Castiel into hookers, and he couldn't get Castiel into booze, but apparently somewhere along the line he's got Castiel into himself.
And he is very, very, very cool with that.
~ ~ ~
Jensen winced.
One of these days Jared was going to learn; Misha had a wife, not a girlfriend. That sort of concrete proof of heterosexuality didn't come easy and the fact Misha hadn't preached about her at length to the screaming fangirls was pretty good evidence if ever it existed that he wasn't just using her to cover up different tastes.
Admittedly Misha's wife had written that book about threesomes but that was just further proof Misha was a lucky bastard, if anything.
Anyway, the point was that Jared neeeded to learn Misha had a wife. And was smart. And confident. You did not aim gay jokes at Misha unless they were about Castiel.
And you sure as Hell didn't dare him to 'prove' he was straight.
Misha shed his jacket before walking over to the restaurant's counter, leaning in and talking to the cashier as if he'd known them for years - though, being Misha, it wouldn't be that bizarre if he had - and returned to the table only half-listening to their conversation, his attention clearly elsewhere.
Jensen grinned when Misha's head snapped up at the first few beats of some song Jensen couldn't place but definitely recognised the singer of. Slow, heavy beat? There was only one way this was going.
Twenty seconds and an amused "What the fuck, man -" later, Misha was settled over Jared's lap, grinding against him, and Jensen could not stop laughing. Only laughed harder when Jared started going bright red and not just with embarrassment; Jared's dick had apparently about as much self-control as its owner, and Misha's dance was definitely not helping.
"Told you not to dare him," Jensen said.
"Whatever, he's only gay for you, dude," Jared replied and oh, Jensen was going to kill him later for dropping him in the shit like that.
Misha just quirked an eyebrow before easing up out of Jared's lap and okay, no way, Misha wasn't going to -
But apparently Misha was, taking Jensen's bottle from his hand and even taking a long swig to empty it before tossing it aside, the drama queen, before Jensen found his thighs were suddenly far too warm and it just wasn't fair that his body instinctively jumped to the conclusion 'warm weight in the right areas equals good times'. Didn't matter that this vantage point meant close observation of Misha's maleness, like the dark tinge of stubble on the stretch of surprisingly tanned neck; Jensen's body was quite content to betray him. And Misha was grinning, but not cruelly as Jensen felt his skin flush in response to the slow, sinuous movements of Misha's hips against his own.
For all of half a second Jensen had considered snapping 'cocktease' before realising that it wouldn't help him look any straighter.
And, okay, as if it wasn't mortifying enough to be given an impromptu lapdance by his coworker, apparently all the silence in their immediate vicinity from other diners who didn't necessarily appreciate the free floorshow had attracted attention other onlookers too.
And, of course, being an upstaging whore Misha had to take the opportunity to finish off the song by climbing out of Jensen's lap to wrap an arm around the big boss and plant a firm kiss on Eric's lips.
"Jared's paying for my dinner," Misha announced before picking up his jacket and slinging it over his shoulders. "And if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I'm off home to make it with a woman." And with a flourish, he was off; Jensen had to wonder how Misha was the only person he knew in real life who made dramatic entrances and exits.
"Only 'cause Jensen got you started!" Jared yelled, before glaring at the bill so far and covering Misha's tab. He might be a bad loser, but at least he was an honourable one.
"So," Eric asked, nonplussed. "Which of you two called him gay this time?"
~ ~ ~
... I REGRET NOTHING ON THAT LAST ONE. If I'd done any actual research I might have, but I didn't and therefore feel guilt-free. Also, technically that's not my RPF cherry, as I once wrote Richard Hammond/Oliver (yes, his car). But seriously, try and picture Misha dancing to Trigger Hippy by Morcheeba (THANK YOU FOR THAT ONE fahrenheit_f430) and tell me you do not either a) go UNF or b) go TEEHEE. Or possibly c) both.
The Castiel Comment!fic Meme
Come in and join the fun @ spn_castiel!
/pimp, and just thought I'd share the results so far (though those of you on Mishaland will have seen the first of these already <3.
"I don't get it," Alastair complained, twiddling the detached thumbs of his latest victim. "He's an angel. I should find him disgusting and repulsive but there's something about that eternal expression of confusion that just does things to me."
"You should just tell him how you feel," the victim in question suggested; after two hundred years the weekly appendage-removal-and-disembowelment had become one of Hell's highlights.
"That I want to peel his skin off and wear it?"
"... Maybe you should try flowers and chocolates first."
Unfortunately old habits died hard and shortly after being dragged back to Earth to beat Dean Winchester up for funsies, Alastair found himself hanging Castiel on a hook and zapping him back to heaven. This, of course, meaning he was left with only a corpse for manhandling. A very pretty one. Which, as it turned out, wasn't all that inconvenient really.
See, if he'd been dragging Castiel around on a leash, he'd probably have wound up with some very funny looks from shop assistants and similar, but no one really minded him wheeling his new favourite corpse around the shops and helping him try on new outfits. Castiel's corpse looked rather spiffing in a white hat, and after some deliberation Alastair decided to buy him pyjamas to match before wheeling him back to the hotel - no expense spared, being a resident of Hell and all - to be washed and dressed.
Castiel looked down from heaven, scratching his wings in discomfort. "... do I really have to take my vessel back right now?" Castiel asked Zachariah, all the while wishing Alastair would stop washing between his toes; in part because, well, creepy, and in part because angelic forms lacked toes and the urge to itch something that one did not possess was deeply unsettling.
"You have already cost us eleven hours of your service," Zachariah snapped. "You're letting down the team. Don't you know what the cost would be in man hours if we let every angel who vacated their vessel wait a day before reclaiming it?"
Castiel sighed; upper management always did have a point, even if he didn't necessarily like it. After a moment of not-sulking, because angels, of course, do not sulk, Castiel began the ritual for reclaiming a vacated host, all the while hoping Jimmy wasn't too unhappy about being thrust into the afterlife.
Waking up inside a human body was always terribly disconcerting, not least because of the guaranteed flash of blinding light and getting used to having toes again. But even so, it was even more disconcerting than usual to wake up inside his preferred human body and notice it was currently being held rather close. Rather affectionately, even.
Castiel blinked thrice before rolling over and confirming that yes, Alastair was cuddling him.
"Good morning you unspeakable Hell-beast," Castiel greeted.
"I want to peel off your skin and wear it," Alastair replied, cradling Castiel gently and running his fingers down the angel's back through satin pyjamas. "We should date."
"I would rather tear out my own spine and feed it to rabid dogs."
"Dinner and a movie probably is a little too soon. But there's a damn good coffee shop around the corner from here." Castiel blinked again before trying to pull away from Alastair's arms and finding himself gripped tighter. "I liked you better when you were cold. You should bathe in ice."
"I am not going to date you," Castiel replied as calmly as he could manage. "I do believe this constitutes harrassment."
"I'll see you at three thirty."
And with that Castiel was freed to go about his business after one last friendly pat on the bum.
"He's gotta be pulling our legs," Dean muttered between eating his cheeseburger, Sam staring intently at the coffee shop entrance as he had been for the past ten minutes. "Alastair wouldn't cheat on me."
"What?" Sam asked, half listening, half pretending he hadn't heard what he'd been listening to.
"Alastair always said I was the prettiest."
Sam made a 'hm' of appreciation before shoving Dean sharply in the shoulder. "Dude, look."
Sure enough, three thirty on the dot there was Alastair, bouquet of white lilies in one hand, box of cherry liqueurs in the other. "That manwhore!" Dean snapped before wiping at what definitely was not a single manly tear.
"I told you only a demon would make Castiel wear those pyjamas. The puppies were one thing but the little pink rabbits?" Sam replied before getting out of the car and raising his hand. Alastair looked a little peeved to be pinned back against the coffee shop wall but hey, this was the dude who'd tortured Dean for forty years.
On the other hand, he was holding flowers.
"No good, can't do it," Sam sighed. "Castiel's going to have to wait this one out."
"I can't believe Alastair cheated on me," Dean continued to whine. "He said I was his sugarplum snafflebunny. Why would he do this to me?"
"Listen, Dean," Sam said. "Shut up."
"Bitch."
"Cockmongling fuckstick."
"That's not how it -"
"Shut up."
And so it came to pass that as the Winchesters continued to be utterly useless and Castiel was going to have to take care of this mess all on his own, Castiel had to attend to the coffee shop visit himself. And, in all fairness, Alastair had bought him very nice cherry liqueurs.
Still, it was rather upsetting to find Alastair repeatedly sneaking something up Castiel's trouser leg which was disconcerting in and of itself but all the more disconcerting for Alastair's hands and feet being clearly visible and clearly not anywhere near Castiel's trousers. "Look, Alastair," Castiel began. "There's no easy way to say this but I'm not that sort of angel. Also, you are a filth-encrusted maggot-ridden demon from the blackest swells of the murkiest places in the universe. This isn't going to work."
"You should probably go for decaffeinated then," Alastair replied. "Or half-decaf. Takes the edge off."
"I also think we have some communication issues."
"I thought Spandau Ballet were underrated too."
The tides seemed dark to Castiel which in and of itself was deeply unsettling given it being the middle of the day and over fifty miles from the ocean where he was sat.
Thankfully, even if Castiel's attempts at persuasion were going awry and the Winchesters had been about as much use as a chocolate teapot, not everyone on the planet happened to be that lame, and Alastair didn't really have any way of fighting a demon-killing chokehold once someone with strength enough could actually be arsed to do the job.
Uriel might have sparkled in the glory of saving the day but for scaring the sparkles into submission.
"Uriel! But how -"
"I clearly wouldn't have died in this universe," Uriel snapped. "Now get in the kitchen and make me a sandwich, bitch."
And the patrons of the coffee shop cheered.
THE END.
~ ~ ~
As Dean wakes up he notices three things in order.
One; he has a splitting headache.
Two; his mouth feels like a hobo's been sleeping in it.
Three; he is very, very, very warm.
The first two facts lead to the conclusion that drinking is never as good an idea as it sounds in theory. The third fact, and investigation of this fact, leads to the conclusion that his first conclusion was utter bullshit.
He is very, very, very warm because he has fallen asleep under a blanket, still in his clothes from the night before, and currently has his arms wrapped around an angel.
He may just have woken up but he's smart enough to have drunk just beer the previous night so when he politely suggests to his brain it remind him of the events after he started drinking, his brain actually replies.
He remembers the first bar, mission brothel having gone so horribly wrong the other week and mission alcohol starting a little more successfully, remembers figuring Castiel had willingly consumed beer at the brothel so he'd probably appreciate more. Remembers leaving after three or four bottles when a hen party had taken a little too much interest in the two of them; and normally that'd be great, but he was a determined man and this was mission get-Cas-drunk, not get-Cas-laid-part-two. The second bar had led to another two bottles, and Castiel taking far longer in the bathroom than Dean would have liked before he'd headed in himself and found Castiel hunched over a toilet bowl. Which had been Dean's fault, really, to a certain extent; he'd forgotten Castiel didn't have the same muscle mass as him and, moreover, hadn't eaten properly in literally months. And with anyone else, Dean would've left them to it, but he knew his responsibilities and in all fairness Castiel had at least mistakenly chosen the disabled cubicle to vomit in, so Dean could lock the door and rub Castiel's back without anyone looking in on them.
Castiel had muttered something about never drinking again, and Dean had laughed despite himself because yeah, he could sympathise with that, had made the same mistake all too often, before Castiel had apparently decided he'd finished throwing up. And yeah, it was gross of him to look, but Dean had been really weirded out by seeing clear puke; vowed he'd have to make certain Castiel started eating once in a while, if only to get into the habit of it.
It was a little blurry after that but he knew he'd dismissed Castiel's suggestions of taking a mind-whammy trip back; didn't want to risk an angel with drunken aim materialising them both inside a motel wall which, really, wasn't that likely but he'd been drunk enough at the time for that sort of thought to sound logical, and better safe than sorry. So, like the stereotype, one that had proven itself to be true more than once, he'd wound up with Castiel's arm around his shoulders and his own around Castiel's back to help the angel stay upright. At least Castiel hadn't started singing; probably would have blown out the windows if he'd tried.
And they'd stumbled back to the motel, and there had definitely been an argument at some point because he remembered letting go, storming off for a few seconds before storming back and picking Castiel up again, so it probably hadn't been about anything that important. There had also been a lot of laughter after that for a while, because he remembered just a particular glimpse of Castiel's smile, teeth bright and eyes flashing in crappy street lighting, Castiel's hair blue-black against the backdrop of the town's park, and the thought made his agitated stomach settle a little into something warmer and easier.
They'd got back to the hotel, and Dean had asked something retarded - he couldn't remember the exact words but was fairly certain he'd actually asked Castiel's permission to kiss him, which - damn it, yeah, not his smoothest move, but apparently it had worked because Castiel had kissed him in reply, and he'd thought Castiel was going to be clumsy as hell with being a newbie to all this but no, he really, really wasn't. And his mouth had been softer than Dean had thought a dude's would ever be on the rare occasions he'd given it thought, and he didn't taste like puke which Dean really should have been more worried about at the time, and he'd been all soft and warm and wet and his tongue had been something seriously damned sexy, hadn't accidentally choked him once, and he could have kissed Castiel for hours if the angel hadn't interrupted it by pulling back to yawn really, really loudly in his face.
And then the blur became a little too blurry but there had definitely been an embarrassingly un-manly amount of cuddling under the motel blanket in their clothes and half-talking, half-laughing, all telling the other to shut up so they could get to sleep.
And now this; he's woken up with an armful of angel, which he isn't about to complain about... well, ever.
"Good morning, Dean," Castiel says, and doesn't even have the decency to have bad breath.
"Hey," Dean replies, noticing Castiel's little grimace. Can't blame him; Dean knows he has dragon breath come any morning post-alcohol. "So. Last night. We, uh -" Okay, he's done this with girls, may as well try this for the first time with a guy. "You good doing that again?"
Castiel shakes his head and for a second Dean's stomach drops out because oh, God, this is not something he wants to screw up. "I do not wish to drink again," Castiel says, and okay, Dean figures that's fair enough, and in the middle of figuring this, Castiel decides to lean forward and kiss him again and Dean grins so hard it breaks the kiss for a moment.
Because yeah, apparently he couldn't get Castiel into hookers, and he couldn't get Castiel into booze, but apparently somewhere along the line he's got Castiel into himself.
And he is very, very, very cool with that.
~ ~ ~
Jensen winced.
One of these days Jared was going to learn; Misha had a wife, not a girlfriend. That sort of concrete proof of heterosexuality didn't come easy and the fact Misha hadn't preached about her at length to the screaming fangirls was pretty good evidence if ever it existed that he wasn't just using her to cover up different tastes.
Admittedly Misha's wife had written that book about threesomes but that was just further proof Misha was a lucky bastard, if anything.
Anyway, the point was that Jared neeeded to learn Misha had a wife. And was smart. And confident. You did not aim gay jokes at Misha unless they were about Castiel.
And you sure as Hell didn't dare him to 'prove' he was straight.
Misha shed his jacket before walking over to the restaurant's counter, leaning in and talking to the cashier as if he'd known them for years - though, being Misha, it wouldn't be that bizarre if he had - and returned to the table only half-listening to their conversation, his attention clearly elsewhere.
Jensen grinned when Misha's head snapped up at the first few beats of some song Jensen couldn't place but definitely recognised the singer of. Slow, heavy beat? There was only one way this was going.
Twenty seconds and an amused "What the fuck, man -" later, Misha was settled over Jared's lap, grinding against him, and Jensen could not stop laughing. Only laughed harder when Jared started going bright red and not just with embarrassment; Jared's dick had apparently about as much self-control as its owner, and Misha's dance was definitely not helping.
"Told you not to dare him," Jensen said.
"Whatever, he's only gay for you, dude," Jared replied and oh, Jensen was going to kill him later for dropping him in the shit like that.
Misha just quirked an eyebrow before easing up out of Jared's lap and okay, no way, Misha wasn't going to -
But apparently Misha was, taking Jensen's bottle from his hand and even taking a long swig to empty it before tossing it aside, the drama queen, before Jensen found his thighs were suddenly far too warm and it just wasn't fair that his body instinctively jumped to the conclusion 'warm weight in the right areas equals good times'. Didn't matter that this vantage point meant close observation of Misha's maleness, like the dark tinge of stubble on the stretch of surprisingly tanned neck; Jensen's body was quite content to betray him. And Misha was grinning, but not cruelly as Jensen felt his skin flush in response to the slow, sinuous movements of Misha's hips against his own.
For all of half a second Jensen had considered snapping 'cocktease' before realising that it wouldn't help him look any straighter.
And, okay, as if it wasn't mortifying enough to be given an impromptu lapdance by his coworker, apparently all the silence in their immediate vicinity from other diners who didn't necessarily appreciate the free floorshow had attracted attention other onlookers too.
And, of course, being an upstaging whore Misha had to take the opportunity to finish off the song by climbing out of Jensen's lap to wrap an arm around the big boss and plant a firm kiss on Eric's lips.
"Jared's paying for my dinner," Misha announced before picking up his jacket and slinging it over his shoulders. "And if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I'm off home to make it with a woman." And with a flourish, he was off; Jensen had to wonder how Misha was the only person he knew in real life who made dramatic entrances and exits.
"Only 'cause Jensen got you started!" Jared yelled, before glaring at the bill so far and covering Misha's tab. He might be a bad loser, but at least he was an honourable one.
"So," Eric asked, nonplussed. "Which of you two called him gay this time?"
~ ~ ~
... I REGRET NOTHING ON THAT LAST ONE. If I'd done any actual research I might have, but I didn't and therefore feel guilt-free. Also, technically that's not my RPF cherry, as I once wrote Richard Hammond/Oliver (yes, his car). But seriously, try and picture Misha dancing to Trigger Hippy by Morcheeba (THANK YOU FOR THAT ONE fahrenheit_f430) and tell me you do not either a) go UNF or b) go TEEHEE. Or possibly c) both.