Chapter Text
“You look constipated.”
“Shut up.”
“Mish, I’m fine.”
“I know that. I said shut up. I still don’t have to like it!”
“We’ve done these kinds of scenes before,” Jensen prodded gently.
He hated not being able to move. The corn syrup and prosthetics on his face were uncomfortable and sticky, and his back was beginning to hurt from lying on the ground, but he couldn’t move until they finished re-rigging the blown lighting.
He couldn’t imagine how sore Misha’s knees must feel, having to kneel on the ground for the past half hour. Misha didn’t seem to be worried about his knees, but still Jensen was concerned about him.
“I hate playing Rowen’s lap dog,” Misha lamented. “I hate it when Cas has to beat Dean up. They’re supposed to care about each other. Why do they keep doing this?” he asked, his chin lowering down to his chest.
The look was disconcerting. Jensen was having a difficult time reconciling the scary, violent-looking, bloodshot contacts in Misha’s blue eyes with the sad droop in his shoulders and the sigh in his voice. It wasn’t fair that this was the same old trope the writers kept falling back on; it showed a definite lack of creativity and they were both tired of it.
More than anything, right now, Jensen so wanted to be able to tip Misha’s head back up and look into his own beautiful blue eyes; to run a comforting hand over his body, wrap him up in his arms and let him know they were ok. But they couldn’t do that yet. They couldn’t move.
“Hey!”
“Yeah?”
Jensen stretched his fingers out until they just curled around Misha’s, still holding the prop angel blade loosely. The skin of his fingers was warm and sticky, covered in corn syrup blood from where Cas is supposed to be beating Dean in the face. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a touch between them and better than nothing.
“We deserve a big beer after today’s shoot, ya know.” Jensen stroked his fingers up and down Misha’s knuckles gently, leaving his prints behind in the fake blood. He liked the idea of that -- leaving his fingerprints on Misha. He hoped Misha realized what he was doing and thought of it as a comfort.
Misha huffed and hooked his pinky around Jensen’s. Their hands were sticky and chances were make up would have to touch them up before they could actually start shooting again. But it was a small price to pay.
Misha gave a small grin. “Yeah, the biggest. We should plan on that.”