He's really, really tempted, but in the end he leaves his souvenir fourth season trenchcoat in the closet. He could play it off as payback for the joke earlier (even though he's pretty sure that it wasn't a joke), but not-Jensen's probably wound tight enough that poking him pointlessly is a bad idea. Misha settles for a white button-down shirt and dark slacks, no jacket or tie either; he's going for evocative rather than blatant. He digs a bottle of scotch out of the back of the liquor cabinet and pours two doubles when he finally hears Jensen's keys rattling in the lock. He meanders into the front hall, glasses in hand, as not-Jensen is shutting the door.
"Hey, babe," Misha says easily, handing over one glass. Not-Jensen takes it and downs half immediately. Misha's smile widens a bit—Jensen hates scotch.
"Hey," not-Jensen says, sounding like he's within moments of freaking out. Misha thinks it over, quick, and decides to bet on what he knows and a conman's ability to adapt to his character. He curls his free hand around not-Jensen's neck and pulls him in for a kiss.
Not-Jensen goes predictably stiff for a long second, and then relaxes into the kiss right before Misha would be forced to show he noticed. They stand there kissing for a while; Misha fumbles his glass onto the hall table because really, he needs both hands to do this properly. This guy doesn't kiss like Jensen, who knows what he likes but is sometimes a little tentative about getting it; this guy goes straight for, as it were, the throat, and every second that passes solidifies Misha's certainty about who exactly he has here, kissing him with the taste of scotch on his tongue. It doesn't make any sense; it's completely impossible. But he's sure anyway.
After a while Misha pulls back and smiles into not-Jensen's wide green eyes, one hand playing with the short hair at the back of not-Jensen's neck. "I was gonna ask if you needed something to eat," he says, teasing. Not-Jensen produces a grin that would probably convince anyone who wasn't Misha—this may not be his boyfriend, but he shows and conceals strain in many of the same ways—and says, "Nah, I'm good."
Jensen would've made a joke about how he could maybe put something in his mouth. It doesn't even seem to occur to not-Jensen, and Misha decides he's got to have this. He purrs, "Well, then. Let's go to bed." For a second not-Jensen freezes again, and Misha has a flash of worry that he's pushed too hard. And then not-Jensen makes a what-the-hell face that makes Misha want to laugh out loud. Not-Jensen, Dean, has obviously just realized that there aren't any consequences for him here.
When he speaks again, Misha pushes his voice down a little—not Castiel-rough, but hinting at it. "Come on," he says, and wraps a hand around Dean's wrist. He tugs Dean down the hall, rubbing his thumb in slow circles over the pulse point as they go.
When they get past the bedroom door, Misha gives Dean a few seconds to take in how the bed's only used on one side, the way that happens when someone's used to sleeping with another person, and then wraps them up together again to kiss. Dean goes along with it at first, but then he seems to realize what he's doing and pulls back enough to look at Misha's face. "Are you sure you wanna do this?" he asks, and Misha quirks an eyebrow at him, thinking fast. "Why wouldn't I?" he replies. In fact he wants to do this like he wants to keep breathing, pretty much, but he doesn't know how much urging Dean's going to need.
"I just, I dunno," Dean says, the least convincing protest Misha's ever heard. He brings his hand up and rubs his thumb over Dean's lower lip, a gesture Jensen loves and it looks like Dean does too, because his eyes flutter half-closed and he's breathless when he says, "Jesus, Cas." And then goes stock-still, staring at Misha like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Misha crows internally in triumph, but on the outside he gives Dean a wicked, knowing smile and says, "Oh, is that how we're playing it tonight?" He schools his features into impassivity, squares his shoulders, and lets his voice fall all the way into Castiel's range. "I know what I want, Dean," he says, and Dean twitches, but Misha doesn't think it's in the bad way.
Misha and Jensen have played this game before—of course they have, given their day jobs; they're both actors, for God's sake, and playing roles is just as natural in the bedroom as on set. (Plus, it became clear pretty early in Misha's run that Cas and Dean having eye-sex was good for ratings. Misha adores fangirls, especially when they give him an iron-clad excuse to mack on the pretty.) So Misha has had occasion to think about how Castiel would do this kind of thing, and it's liberating: zero to sixty in no time flat, demanding but eager to give as well, not necessarily graceful, but always controlled until he's not anymore.
Misha grabs Dean by the collars of his shirts and hauls him in to kiss him. He falls into the motion with a startled squeak that Misha knows he'll deny unto death if it's ever mentioned. Misha lets their teeth clash a little, lets it be awkward, and is terribly satisfied when Dean puts one hand on the back of his neck and starts directing the kiss. They settle into a rhythm soon enough.
After a few minutes, Misha pulls away to speak against Dean's lips (God, those lips, just like Jen's). "This isn't enough," he says, still Castiel's voice but allowing the breathlessness he's feeling to color it. "Dean. Dean, I need..." He trails off, shakes his head as if frustrated, ready to come up with something else if Dean doesn't fill the gap.
But Dean comes through. "You need to get this off," he says, plucking at Misha's shirt. Misha nods and reaches for the buttons, maintaining eye contact the whole time only partly because it's in character; he loves Jen's eyes, and Dean's have the same sweet beauty. Dean shrugs out of his flannel shirt, sets his hands on the hem of his t-shirt, and yanks it off. Misha's hands fumble on his last button as his gaze flickers over Dean's chest—because if he needed any more proof that this isn't his Jen, it's right there, on Dean's left shoulder.
There's no tattoo, nor any of the other scars Misha and Jensen have theorized Dean might have, but the handprint is clearly visible.
Misha realizes Dean is staring at him staring at the scar, and does the only thing that springs to mind: he puts his hand out and touches it, but not quite lined up correctly, like he's playing his part but can't actually see it. And in Dean's world weirder things happen every day, so he buys it. They stand like that for a few seconds, with Misha's shirt hanging open and his right hand on Dean's shoulder, the eye-sex in full swing—it's like that day filming in the beautiful room, but better because they don't have to hold anything back.
This time, though Misha's pretty sure he starts moving first Dean meets him halfway, and this kiss is frantic. Their hands scrabble at belts and buttons and zippers. Misha's pants are easy, because he's only wearing socks; Dean's jeans get hung up on his boots and Misha makes Castiel's you-humans-are-so-limited noise as he pushes Dean back to sit on the bed. He comes close to tearing a fingernail getting the damn boots unlaced, not that he cares a bit, and yanks them off Dean's feet with impatience that's only half Castiel's. Or rather, it's all Castiel's, and so it's all Misha's too. And Castiel has wanted this for so long, has since his light first fell on Dean, standing before the rack with a razor in his hand; Castiel has wanted it since before he knew what it meant to want.
Misha is going to get Castiel what he wants. For once, the poor bastard is going to have what he wants.
Dean's breath is coming short and rapid as Misha surges up to kiss him again. They're both down to underwear, and Misha has a fleeting thought that he's glad he picked practical, boring briefs this morning; Castiel is not the kind of guy who wears silly underpants, and you never know what's going to push someone out of their role. "Lie down, Dean," Misha says, imperious and as far from seductive as it's possible to get, but Dean swallows. "Cas, do you, I mean—"
"Lie. Down," Misha repeats, and shoves Dean in the chest. Leverage substitutes nicely for inhuman strength, and anyway Dean isn't exactly fighting it. "Cas," he says to the ceiling, even as he's working his way up the bed. Misha slides onto the mattress between Dean's knees and leans down to kiss him again, Misha's hands planted beside Dean's head, their bodies pressed together from the thighs up. Misha feels the hard line of Dean's erection against his own, and he can't help grinding into the pressure. It makes them both gasp, and Dean moans "Cas," the tone of his voice going straight to Misha's dick.
Misha grits out, "I want this." Dean manages half a smile and he says, "Yeah, I'm getting that." He arches his back and slides them together again; his hands settle on Misha's waist, fingers flexing and relaxing as they rut into each other. Misha licks down Dean's jaw, bites at the tendon of his neck. His hands are shaking, a fine tremor, and he doesn't try to stop them.
When he sits back on his heels, Dean whines in protest; Misha doesn't give him long to worry, grabbing the waistband of his briefs and tugging at them until Dean gets the hint and picks his hips up enough for Misha to slide them down. His cock is just as gorgeous as Jen's—honestly, Misha isn't sure it isn't Jen's, technically, though then he doesn't know why the handprint's there, but he's not going to spend a lot of effort on worrying it all out just now.
Misha puts his hands on Dean's hips, and Dean is drawing breath to say something when Misha wraps his lips around the head of Dean's cock. Dean lets out all of his air in a sound that's mostly vowels and contains not one meaningful syllable. Misha settles down to work, avoiding going straight for things he knows Jensen likes because Castiel doesn't know what Dean likes. Once the initial shock is past, Dean recovers the power of speech enough to curse and chant, "Oh, oh Cas, fuck, oh fuck yes, Cas, yes..." Dean has his head thrown back and his eyes squeezed shut. His hips try to jerk up against Misha's hands; he's got fistfuls of the bedspread.
It's flattering as hell, though Misha's aware it's not all about his amazing skills; if their scripts are accurate Dean hasn't been laid in a while, and now he's getting the angel he's been lusting after for going on four years—or at least the next best thing. It doesn't take long before he loses all rhythm and he frees one hand to pat frantically at Misha's arm. "Cas I'm gonna," he manages, and Misha swirls his tongue neatly around the head of his cock and he shouts wordlessly as he comes, arching off the bed.
Misha stays right where he is until the friction of his mouth starts making Dean try to flinch away, and then sits up a little, enough to see Dean's face as he opens his eyes. "Damn," Dean says weakly, and chuckles. "Did you get that from the pizza man too?"
Misha has had three years now of Jared trying to crack him up on camera, the gigantic bastard, so he just thinks Don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh and says calmly, "No. That was from the girl with him."
At that Dean laughs for real, if briefly. When he sobers he presses his thigh up to rub against Misha meaningfully. "You didn't yet," Dean says. "We gotta fix that." Misha leans over him, most of his weight on his hands, and stares into Dean's eyes. "Tell me what you want, Cas," Dean says, soft. "Because right now, you can seriously ask me for anything."
Which practically takes Misha's breath away, because he can tell Dean means it. It's the kind of thing guys say when they've just gotten off, yes, but for Dean it's more than that. Misha is pretty sure Dean would agree if he asked to tie him up and beat him bloody. It's...kind of a responsibility. Fortunately, Castiel isn't kinky, so neither is Misha just now. (Not that there's anything wrong with kinky, but Jensen's always been clear on Dean being a pretty vanilla guy and it wouldn't do to freak him out.)
"Will you let me in, Dean?" he asks solemnly. Dean smiles, the first wholly unclouded smile Misha's seen from him.
"I'm a little out of practice," he says.
"Does that mean yes?"
Dean flashes a grin and says, "Lemme get this straight—you want me to say yes?" Misha growls at him to conceal the twitch of his lips, because calling him a smartass would definitely not be in character. "Yes," Dean says, still smiling but serious beneath it. Misha nods and bends to kiss him again, but not for very long; Castiel's impatience runs through him like sparks in his blood and he's just not interested in waiting.
Except that his conscience is twinging him, damn it. Misha will admit to some dubious character traits—he is, after all, the guy who has plans to take over the world that are only half joking and once paid a two-thousand-dollar debt in loose change—but he feels obliged to make sure Dean hasn't lost track of exactly what's going on here before they get any further. So he pulls out of the kiss and lets his own voice take over for a second. "Just to be clear, whose name should I be screaming in a few minutes?" he asks, and emphasizes the point with as un-Castiel-like a leer as he can manage. Dean blinks, but rallies. "Mine?" he says. Misha rolls his eyes fondly. "Come on. Are we really doing this as Cas and Dean? I'm OK with that, I just want to know."
Dean looks abruptly, totally serious. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that's how we're doing it." So Misha drops his smile, gives Dean a patented angelic headtilt, variety 'What intriguing human behavior,' and nods decisively. "Don't move," he says, back to Castiel's voice (as tough as it is on his throat sometimes, at the moment he's kind of glad to have such an easy tell), and moves away from Dean enough to pull open the top drawer of the bedside table. By the time he gets back, tube of lubricant triumphantly in hand, he's starting to submerge himself in Castiel entirely. It's not that Misha is gone—not like Misha is a vessel—just that it would be more effort to think like Misha than it is to think like Castiel.
It hardly ever happens on set; the realities of filming, the repetition and artificiality of it, are too much for such a fragile state. Misha loves it when it does happen, and he's completely unsurprised that it's happening now. After all, this is Dean, spread out naked and glorious on the bed, and he's hard pressed to think of anything more likely to bring Castiel to the surface.
Dean hasn't moved. At all. Misha grins, which comes out as the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "You fight me in everything else," he says into Dean's ear. "Why not this too?"
"I'm tired of fighting with you, Cas," Dean says, and there's a thread of real fatigue in it that makes Misha want to kill whatever it is that caused Dean to be so unhappy. So he kisses him again, nipping at his lips until the bit of tension Dean built up smooths away. This time it's Dean who pulls away to speak. "Be dumb of me to not give you what you want, anyway, right?" he says, a hint of teasing in his tone. "When I'm getting something out of it too."
"Your logic is impeccable," Misha says, dry as dust. He pops the cap off his tube and slicks two fingers, and then reaches down between Dean's legs. Dean's muscles are still relaxed from his orgasm, which makes the first finger gratifyingly easy, and he murmurs in approval, his cock twitching with renewed interest. "Thought I might have to talk you through this," he says, not too clearly.
"I'm aware of the mechanics," Misha says. "No matter how naïve you think I am."
"You're not naïve," Dean protests unconvincingly.
Misha just makes an exasperated noise and closes his mouth over Dean's nipple, using his teeth just enough to make Dean squirm. Dean's breathing is starting to speed up again, and he's back to half-hard. Misha would be kind of impressed, were it not for his inner angel telling him that this needs to go faster, and he has to focus hard on the idea that moving faster might hurt Dean. As it is, he can at least add the second slick finger.
Dean shudders and jumps when Misha's fingers brush over his prostate, and he runs a hand through Misha's hair; the touch makes Misha shiver and he whines a little. Dean chuckles and Misha picks up his head to stare accusingly. Dean's eyes get a little wide. "No offense," he says. "Just nice I'm not the only one going nuts here, OK?"
"I thought that was obvious," Misha says. He's been hard enough it almost hurts for quite some time, and Dean's got to be able to feel it. To emphasize the point he grinds into Dean's hip.
"Yeah," Dean says, casual, but his breath is labored. "Doesn't seem to be hurrying you up much, though. I won't break."
"Don't," Misha says sternly, "rush me." He stretches over to suck on the other nipple and whatever protest Dean was planning trails off into panting.
By the time Misha's got him worked open, Dean is hard again and his eyes have drifted shut. He's making noise, though not much of it has actual words, and his hips jerk up every time Misha gets near his prostate. Misha works his briefs off one-handed and is starting to shift when Dean says raggedly, "Easier if I lie on my front."
Misha pauses, but that one's easy. "I don't care," he says. He snags a pillow and coaxes Dean's hips up till he can slide it under them. He slicks his dick and positions it, and then he says, "Dean, look at me." The pause before Dean's eyes open is almost too long, but then they do, green rings of iris around wide black pupils, and Misha feels Castiel's smile move his lips.
He slides in slowly, carefully, watching for signs of discomfort. The heat of it is almost his undoing, and he has to brace himself as he bottoms out, one hand on Dean's hip. But he doesn't close his eyes, probably couldn't if he tried, because Castiel wants nothing more than to watch Dean's face. Dean looks mildly stunned and he says "Cas" with half his voice.
Misha doesn't trust himself to speak when he starts to move. It's so familiar and so strange; he knows where the sensitive spots are, but he doesn't always get the reactions he's expecting. Dean's talking again, and the voice is Jensen's but the words are Cas and come on and let it go. Misha fists Dean's cock rough and quick with one hand, and stops even trying to control his face. He puts his free hand down over Dean's scar, letting it fall correctly this time, and as his fingers settle over the handprint (his hand fits perfectly, as though Castiel's Grace knew the shape of Jimmy Novak's flesh even in Hell)...well, that's when Misha loses himself entirely; that's when Castiel takes over. It's almost a physical sensation. It's like being chained to a comet.
"Dean," Castiel says, gasping it. He'd swear he can see Dean's soul, sparks of it dancing in his eyes, the same green-gold but brighter. And Dean nods at him, quick jerks of his head, and says, "Yes. Just like that, Cas. Come on, you can let go, I've got you. Come on, Cas."
Castiel's orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut and his limbs abruptly fail to obey him; he ends up draped over the other man, panting "oh Dean, oh Dean," over and over into the hollow of his throat. Dean's hand combs through his hair and he murmurs reassuring nonsense as Castiel shakes against him.
This is the story about the loose change: watch?v=hKMgMg3vpGs
Even though my Misha is not in fact the real Misha, he shares some character traits.