It's not nearly as hard as Misha's pride would like to make his voice go tight and high in fear—in fact it's more like "letting" than "making". He squeaks, "What? No! I'm, I'm Misha Collins, I'm, oh God don't hurt me!" He doesn't actually cry, but he's not ruling it out as a future possibility.
There's a very brief pause as his captor—he's going out on a limb and deciding it's Virgil—thinks this over, and then Dean bursts around the corner. "Jen, no!" Misha exclaims, just enough presence of mind to wink fractionally. He's not sure it'll be useful for Virgil to think he has no idea about Sam and Dean, but confusion to the enemy. "Call secur—"
He cuts off, or rather Virgil cuts him off by digging the knife in ever-so-slightly. "Give me the key or this man dies," Virgil says, and Misha lets himself whine.
"Not happening," Dean says, commendably offhand, though Misha can see the tension in the way his eyes flick back and forth, looking for an opening. "Anyway, don't have it on me, so you're outta luck."
Clueless-actor-Misha doesn't understand, so he says, "Jen, what are you oh God," as Virgil shakes him and snarls "Don't speak." Dean takes a step forward and Virgil says evenly "Stay back." Dean subsides, holding up his hands.
"OK, fine, just let the guy go. Guess you've noticed by now you don't have your mojo, so let's talk about getting all our asses out of Bizarro-world, huh? Let him go and we can talk." Misha can feel a trickle of wet on his neck. It's nauseatingly terrifying. For some reason he's worried about staining his costume shirt.
"This isn't Castiel," Virgil says. "Why should you care?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I can tell," he says. "Cas'd be kicking your ass by now. I care because saving people is my job. Let him go, come on. We'll talk." Misha feels the muscles of Virgil's arms tense, and he's opening his mouth to warn Dean when there's a sharp click from behind him—a click that sounds an awful lot like the hammer of a gun being pulled back.
"I don't want to kill the poor jerk you took over," says Sam, cold and flat. "So let Misha go." There's a long moment when no one moves, and then the knife eases away from Misha's throat and he can't stop a sigh of relief that's almost a sob.
"Misha, get over here," Dean says tightly. Misha's taken one step in Dean's direction when suddenly Virgil shoves him hard in the back and he goes stumbling into Dean's unprepared arms. They're too busy getting untangled to pay attention to what's going on for a few seconds; by the time Misha looks next, Sam is down, half-stunned against the wall of the soundstage, and Virgil is most of the way to the end of the building, running flat-out. He turns the corner as they all watch, and vanishes.
"Sam, damn it, why didn't you shoot him?" Dean snaps. Sam shakes his head hard, sits up and retrieves the fallen gun (the Colt, Misha notes absently). "Would've if I could," Sam says; he puts the gun to his own temple and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. "It's a prop, Dean," Sam says patiently. "The barrel's solid." Dean shuts his mouth with an audible click.
"Oh boy," Misha says weakly, and reaches out one hand to steady himself against the stack of crates. His vision is going weird and swimmy and kind of gray around the edges, and his legs feel funny. The world rushes up around him and from a long way away he hears Dean say, "Whoa!" Misha hits his knees before Dean's dive gets to him, and then he's leaning onto a solid, warm chest. He lets his forehead fall onto Dean's shoulder.
He loses track of time for a while, but when he musters the energy to pick his head up again there's no impatience in Dean's face. "You good now?" Dean asks. His hands are hovering as if ready to make another grab if necessary.
"Yeah," Misha says, and sits back on his heels. He rubs his hands over his face and says, "Sorry. Must've been the blood loss."
"It's OK," Dean says. "So now what?"
"Virgil lifted the key," Sam says from where he's leaning against the soundstage wall. "We know it's not catastrophic, but it does mean he's going to go try to find someone to..." He glances at Misha and seems to reconsider his wording. "He's going to be looking to make his call. We can't guarantee he's not going to come after Misha again, and even if he doesn't, the guy he's wearing shouldn't get pinned with a murder rap for this."
"Let's call the cops," Misha says. "They can look for him better than we can." He pushes himself to his feet carefully, but the shock seems to have passed. He manages a smile and asks, "How heroic do you guys want to be?"
They spend the next several hours talking to police officers. It's boring, and Misha finds it distressingly easy to act pitiful. Dean sits next to him the entire time, though Misha manages to resist the impulse to hold his hand. Everyone makes a gratifying fuss over the cut in his neck. (It's short, and not deep, but expertly placed; if Virgil had felt like slicing Misha would have bled out in seconds. He tries not to shudder about that.) Sam, as the one who got the best look at Virgil, spends some time with a sketch artist.
Their version of events is heavily edited but essentially correct; Misha says the guy grabbed him, demanded to know if he was Castiel ("That's the name of the character I play, Constable."), and held him at knife-point. Then Jensen found them and started trying to talk the guy down. Jared sneaked up behind them and startled the knife-man into letting Misha go, but he managed to run away before they could catch him. Then they were delayed in calling the cops because Misha spent a few minutes freaking out. ("It's cool. You waited till it was over," Dean mutters when they have a second alone and Misha tries to apologize about that.)
Everyone gets Saturday off. They finally climb into the car. Misha has just enough coherence to tell Clif to head for his place before he drifts off. He really, really needs his own space right now, and he's pretty sure there's no way for Virgil to get his home address. The next thing he knows, Dean is poking him awake. "Come on, Misha, you're home," he says, and Misha sits up and tries to blink his eyes open. It's barely even dark and he feels like he could sleep for a week.
He's most of the way out of the car before he realizes Dean isn't following. He turns and looks to discover Dean and Sam are having another of those conversations that's almost all in the eyebrows. Finally Sam shrugs and flicks his eyes at the open door, and Dean says, "OK, if you're sure." Sam just looks at his brother sideways. "Call me in the morning, we'll make plans," he says. "Yeah," Dean says, and climbs out.
Misha fumbles with his keys but gets the door open eventually, managing the steps to the main floor on momentum alone. He drops his keys on the table at the top of the stairs and practically falls onto his favorite chair, which is large enough that Jensen jokes its mother must have been a loveseat. He's sprawled out, eyes closed, when he feels Dean's weight settle next to him. "C'mon, dude," Dean says. "You don't wanna fall asleep here, not this early. You'll totally screw your sleep schedule."
"I feel like someone beat me all over," Misha says, eyes still closed.
"Adrenaline letdown sucks," Dean agrees. "Sam gets sick. I get the shakes, usually."
Misha cracks one eye at that, because it sounded like Dean Winchester just admitted to weakness. Dean smiles wryly and says, "What?" Misha shakes his head and lets his eye fall closed again.
Dean grabs his knee and shakes it. "Don't sleep, you'll regret it."
"Screw off," Misha says, petulant.
"Who knows more about what to do after a fight?" Dean asks, which is a fair point even if Misha doesn't want to admit it. "Come on. Sit up."
Slowly, reluctantly, Misha does. "I'm such a wimp," he complains. "All I did was stand there and be a damsel in distress." He toes off his shoes so he can draw his feet up onto the chair.
"You did great," Dean says. "You convinced him you weren't Cas and you kept him paying attention to you so Sam could get the drop on him."
"With a prop gun," Misha says, which strikes him as funny. "When I saw it was the Colt...it just seemed perfectly reasonable that he'd have it, you know? I didn't even question how it got here."
Dean produces a pained smile. "About gave me a freakin' heart attack, pointing it at himself," he says. "First rule of guns, you never point them at anything you don't mean to kill. Especially not the Colt." Misha nods and wraps his arms around his knees. After a few seconds, Dean says, "We should eat."
They order out again, pizza this time. Misha pulls out a few beers; Dean makes faces at the microbrew labels, but drinks willingly enough.
When they're done eating Misha excuses himself to the bathroom, and when he gets back Dean is standing next to the TV cabinet, holding a DVD box set open in his hands and studying it. "What season's that?" Misha asks carefully.
"Fourth," Dean says. "I thought...Sam did a lot of things that year." He taps a disc with his finger. "This one has Lucifer Rising. That mean what I think it means?"
"Yes," Misha says, and then quotes softly, "I'll hold him off. I'll hold them all off."
"The first time Cas did something incredibly stupid for me," Dean says. He doesn't sound pissed so much as sad.
"Second," Misha says. Dean gives him a sharp look. "First thing was trying to tell you about the plan beforehand. The time you met Jimmy."
"Jimmy. That poor bastard." Dean studies the discs for a moment longer and then closes the box up and slides it back into its cover. It fits neatly into its spot on the shelf. "Probably better I don't," Dean says, and Misha nods in agreement. Dean stands there for a while, staring at the boxes of DVDs like they hold the answer to a puzzle he has to unravel.
Misha is just about to offer to make popcorn or something when Dean turns to him and says, "Sam thinks we're gonna have sex." He looks a little amused, a little sheepish. After a second, Misha asks, "Does he know we already did?"
Dean shrugs expansively. "I don't think he'd be blown away if I told him."
"So, Sam knows you sleep with guys," Misha says. He's going to have to tell Jared about this.
"Yeah," Dean says. "He walked in on me with a guy once, couple of months before he went to Stanford. Once he got over the screaming I swear he was all set to go get himself a rainbow tattoo or something, it was sad. Tried to get me to pick a number on the what's-it-called, the Kinsey scale." He shrugs again. "I like guys. I like chicks more. It's not like it's a big deal."
"You always get weird when someone talks about you and Sam," Misha says, and Dean makes a face. "Sam's my brother, dude. Be just as bad if he was a girl."
"So...are we gonna have sex?" Misha asks, smiling a little. Dean blinks and then smiles back. "Kind of up to you," he says. "You're the one with a boyfriend."
"You know those lists, with people you're allowed to sleep with if you ever get a chance?" Misha says, and Dean nods. "Number one name on mine is Dean Winchester. Jensen thought I was being silly, filling a slot with a fictional character." He waves up and down Dean's body. "Guess I win." Dean grins at that, but he sobers quickly when Misha continues, "Plus, I could've died. I was supposed to die. If this worked like Chuck's books? I'd be dead by now." He starts out strong, but by the end he's gone up half an octave and he's leaning on the back of the couch. "Oh shit," he gasps. "Oh, fuck, Dean, he was going to kill me." It hits him as sharp as if the knowledge is new, that he could easily be cold and still on a slab right now, and he can't breathe right.
Dean's hands are on his upper arms suddenly, holding him steady. "He didn't," Dean says, perfectly calm. "And he won't. We won't let him, Misha. I won't let him. I promise." His eyes catch Misha's and don't let go. The steady gaze gives Misha an anchor and he pulls himself back together over the space of a few breaths. Finally he nods, expecting Dean to step back.
He doesn't. Instead he leans in, giving Misha plenty of time to dodge, and fits their mouths together carefully, running his tongue over the seam of Misha's lips. Misha lets his eyes close and opens to the kiss, which quickly goes from calm and comforting to hungry and deep. By the time Dean backs off enough to speak, they're both beginning to breathe hard.
"Bedroom," Dean says, the word ghosting over Misha's lips. "I'm not having glad-you're-not-dead sex on the couch."