They're both still mostly clothed when they hit the bedroom door, though Misha's sweater is somewhere on the living room floor and he's not sure what happened to Dean's flannel shirt.
He doesn't care, either, because less fabric means more chances for his skin to touch Dean's. He untucks the hem of Dean's t-shirt and rucks it up so he can run his fingers over Dean's stomach and along his ribs. Dean has one hand in Misha's hair and the other on his arm, and they're kissing like their lives depend on it. It makes it hard to walk, but they manage until the backs of Misha's legs hit the mattress and he loses his balance, tipping over backwards; he grabs for Dean's shirt and gets just enough of a grip to pull Dean down with him.
By great good fortune none of Dean's weight lands on Misha's bandaged arm, so instead it's funny. Misha pulls Dean back into a kiss, laughing softly even as their lips meet, and he can feel Dean smiling. They lie there for long minutes, kissing, and Misha can feel the knot of fear in his chest loosening slowly. Dean has one arm pillowed under his head and his free hand running up and down Misha's arm, carefully skirting the bandage. The kiss gets gradually deeper and Misha's breath is starting to come out more like moans when Dean slides his fingers down between them to the button of Misha's pants and pops it deftly. There are a few seconds of awkward squirming which end with his pants and briefs both pushed down his thighs and Dean's hand wrapped firmly around his dick, and Misha whines into Dean's mouth unabashed. "Dean," he murmurs, as coherent as he can manage with Dean stroking smoothly up and down, maddeningly slow.
He's flat on his back now with one hand twisted in Dean's t-shirt, Dean leaning over him. He buries his face in the side of Dean's neck, panting; maybe a handjob shouldn't be this good but he damn well doesn't care. He tries to focus on the sound of Dean's voice, low and soothing, but the words don't help ground him, if he even wants to be grounded; "Let me do this for you," Dean is saying, "Just feel it, you don't need to think about anything else." Dean runs the nail of his thumb lightly up the underside of Misha's dick; he shudders, whimpers, mouthing please, please into Dean's skin.
"There you go," Dean says, as if he can feel the coil of heat that's settled at the base of Misha's spine. "There it is." Misha's free hand is groping for purchase and Dean pins it to the mattress, firm, something solid amid the swirling of his pleasure. "Dean," he says helplessly. "Dean, please." But Dean has no mercy, and his hand never changes its pace.
It can't be hours, but that's what it feels like. Misha is aware that he's begging and somehow that makes it better, makes the friction burn a little sweeter. Finally Dean leans in to kiss him and it's like the touch of their lips completes a circuit; the tension in his body goes an impossible notch tighter. "Oh," Misha says, and Dean laughs softly.
"I want to see you come," Dean says, almost gentle. The coil snaps, and fire rushes through Misha's body, burning out everything as it goes. He knows he's speaking, even shouting, but the words aren't important; what matters is that he's here to feel this.
After a while his breathing settles down and he pries his eyes open. "Now aren't you glad you didn't go to sleep?" Dean says, smirking.
"You are such a smartass," Misha says without heat.
"All my life," Dean agrees.
Misha narrows his eyes and props himself up on his elbows. "Right," he says. "I am gonna make you forget your own name."
They don't end up getting much sleep.
The sky is thinking about dawn when Misha realizes that he can't tell Dean about it with Sam there. Much as he'd like the younger Winchester's calming influence, he's pretty sure Dean will deal better if he doesn't have to feel the urge to protect Castiel from Sam's judgement—the fact that Castiel won't even be present will certainly not help.
They've been having a rambling conversation about movies; at first, Dean keeps talking, but eventually he asks a question, and, when Misha doesn't answer, says, "OK, what?"
Misha thinks that he's very glad they're currently dressed (sort of, if sweatpants and thermal undershirts count as dressed) and says, "There's something I think you need to know, but I also think it's going to make you mad."
Dean's comfortable sprawl over the pillows at the head of the bed goes tense and wary. "That's always a good start," he says slowly, and pushes himself up to a sitting position.
Misha, already cross-legged, turns to face Dean a little better. "I can't claim I know how this works," he begins. "I've always been one of those actors who gets really annoyingly into their characters. I did a movie about a serial killer—well, it's not important. So the first time I remembered something that Castiel did that hadn't been in the show, I just figured it was my imagination going overboard again." He'd woken panting, exhilarated because they'd saved the seal and mourning for the brother who'd fallen ensuring it. "It kept happening. I'd dream about conversations that were in the script, only they'd go on for a couple of lines after the cut. But whatever, it was no big deal. Then one day I was in my trailer, and I started remembering a warehouse, or a factory or something. I was drawing sigils all over the walls, trying to make the place secure before the rest of them could track me. But of course they'd noticed I was acting odd—I was always a good soldier; it was easy to see something was wrong. They sent Muriel to observe me, because she was talented at hiding herself. As soon as she saw what I was doing she went back to Zachariah. He didn't lead the squad himself, but there were four of them and I didn't fight as hard as I could have—I didn't want to hurt them. We still nearly destroyed the building. I was so worried about Jimmy."
Dean looks spooked and Misha takes a moment to force his voice out of Castiel's register. "Sorry. Anyway. A week later, I got the script for 'The Rapture'. Which was the one where Castiel got taken back to Bible Camp." He remembers that vividly, flipping through the script with a sense of whirling vertigo, reading lines he somehow already knew. "After that...well, it should've scared me, but I didn't—I didn't really think about it much. It was too strange, and it seemed, I don't know, harmless. Though the dreams I had when we were shooting 'The End', those were pretty nuts. The Croats, Dean, they tore me, him apart. I called Jensen at three in the morning, freaking the hell out. We were just friends then, and he was running himself ragged filming two parts at once, and he still came over and got me plastered."
"OK," Dean says. "I don't get why you're telling me this." He sounds worried, and more than a little confused.
"This is just background," Misha says. He clasps his hands and leans forward on his knees. "So this is how it is with Castiel. I don't know how or why or anything, I just know it happens." He pauses, and Dean nods. Misha fidgets for a second before he works out how to go on.
"After Castiel left you, after Stull, he went to Heaven. It was all right for a little while, but then Raphael sent him a summons out of nowhere. He thought Raphael was just going to...I don't know, I guess it's disrespectful to think of an archangel sulking, but that's what it seemed like to me." He flashes a smile at Dean, who doesn't return it but at least his posture eases a bit. "Raphael told him he had to swear obedience again or be destroyed, and made it clear that item number one on the agenda was finding a way to let Michael and Lucifer out of the cage so that the world could end properly. He gave him a day to think it over. So he went to talk to you."
"Cas never came to see me," Dean protests. "Not that whole year I was at Lisa's." He probably doesn't realize how hurt he sounds when he says it.
"You were raking leaves," Misha says. He remembers standing there, watching Dean. "He stood there for fifteen or twenty minutes. He didn't want to let you see him until he was sure—"
"Wait a second, you're saying Cas can be invisible?" Dean demands.
"Yeah," Misha says simply. Dean looks creeped out, for which Misha can't blame him. "He was trying to decide if he could ask you to help—if anything you could do would be worth what breaking your promise to Sam would do to you. He didn't know how you could help. I mean, no offense here, but an archangel's kind of out of your weight class, you know?"
"Hey, we fought the Devil and won," Dean says, sharp and annoyed.
"Under very special circumstances, with help from another archangel and Death himself," Misha says dryly. Dean opens his mouth, closes it again, and nods reluctantly. "So Castiel was standing there being conflicted," Misha goes on, "when Crowley showed up."
Dean looks extremely skeptical. "Pretty sure I would've noticed a smiting right there in Lisa's backyard."
"There wasn't any smiting," Misha says, and draws a deep breath. "Crowley wanted to offer Castiel a deal."
As soon as the word is out of his mouth he regrets it, because Dean's expression twists into sick fury. "Cas sold his soul?" Dean asks, quiet and flat. Misha can see the wheels starting to turn in his head, the ones that will get Cas out of this if it's the last thing I do.
"Not that kind of deal," Misha says, and Dean's shoulders slump fractionally in relief. It doesn't last. "Crowley lent him enough power to spit in Raphael's eye, and that's what started the civil war. And...he's been working with Crowley ever since."
Dean says nothing for a dangerously long time. Finally Misha continues, "I know you don't want to believe me, Dean."
"You're right, I don't," Dean says. "It doesn't matter now, though."
Misha winces, and of course Dean catches it. "Son of a bitch," he says bitterly. "You're gonna tell me that douchebag's alive, aren't you?" Misha nods, and Dean leans back enough to rap his head sharply against the wall. "How? Cas burned him right in front of us."
"They weren't Crowley's bones," Misha says.
"Come on. Crowley's good but he's not good enough—"
Forcing the words out, Misha says, "Dean, Castiel knew they weren't Crowley's bones." Again the silence stretches. "Mark and I—Mark plays Crowley—right before the scene, they took us aside and swore us to secrecy. We had to know so we could play it right. I don't know about Mark, but they didn't have to tell me." Dean is staring at him, his face a perfect blank. Misha has a feeling that isn't a good sign. "He needed to keep Crowley away from you, and...he wanted to...I don't know how to explain it."
"Try," Dean says, toneless.
Misha thinks it over for a second, Dean's eyes heavy on him. "He wanted to be a hero for you, Dean. He wanted to give you the satisfaction of seeing Crowley go up in smoke. It wasn't a setup—Castiel didn't know what you were planning until Sam called him and you were never meant to find that lab. But he knew he could count on Crowley to catch on, play along. He—"
The next time the world is still, Misha's staring at the ceiling with Dean's face hovering over him like a shadow eclipsing the sun. "You son of a bitch," Dean says, low. "You think I'm gonna let you lie about Cas like this, you've got another fucking think coming." He's got Misha pinned by the biceps, and intentionally or not he's putting enough weight on the bad arm that it hurts.
"Dean," Misha starts, and Dean shakes him hard.
"Shut the hell up," Dean snarls.
"I'm so sorry about this," Misha says.
"Then why are you telling me?" Dean yells. His grip is tightening, enough to hurt the uninjured arm too; Misha doesn't try to hide the pain, but he doesn't struggle either. "You need to know," he says. "It's important. You need to know so you can try to stop it. You and Sam and Bobby, between you you might be able to think of something. You might be able to save him."
"Save him," Dean repeats.
Misha stares into Dean's eyes, willing him to understand. "Something bad's going to happen to Castiel at the end of this season," he says. "Call it another two months, maybe three. I don't know what it's going to be, but it almost has to have something to do with Purgatory." Dean suddenly lets go and sits back, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Crowley was looking for Purgatory," he says.
"I can't…I don't understand it myself, but there's something about the souls in Purgatory. Castiel can use them, somehow. But it's dangerous." Misha sits back up cautiously. Dean's whole posture is angry and bewildered, but Misha doesn't think he's going to snap again; this looks a lot more like Dean giving up. "Don't be…try not to be angry with him," Misha says softly. "He was trying to shield you."
"Yeah," Dean says. "Throwing himself on the grenade. Stupid son of a bitch." He shifts to the edge of the bed, moving like an old man.
"Dean," Misha says.
"Just—don't. I'll be back, OK?" Dean says, and stands up. Misha watches him leave the bedroom, and a few seconds later the bathroom door closes.
Misha closes his eyes and sighs. "That went well," he says to no one in particular.