#feeling your balls unload and drain really is a sensation

[sluppytime2]

.

[spnsmile]

[Hello! I understand this can be upsetting to some so tags are on: RPF, ENGINE FAILURE, ANGST, EMOTIONALLY HURT/ COMFORT/ FLUFF] work of fiction BUT FLUFF/ KISSES

Response to @cocklesdestielfiction​ prompt BOTTLE (Cockles, a 5K story)

“The right engine exploded… like… BOOM!”

— Richard Speight Jr. (VegasCon 2020)

********

“Where’s Misha?”  says Jensen above the steady hum of the plane’s engine blending with sounds of shuffling bags, pitter-patters, and clinking glasses but Misha can always hear him perfect pitch or not.

“Here.” he heaved himself from the end of the aisle after unloading his personal bag with the other smaller luggage. He can hear Cliff talking to the attendant by the coach but he’s just too tired to say hello. 

“Hey, Cliff.” 

Misha’s eyebrows rake up and unfortunately for him that’s all he can muster with his limp. There’s a blunt grunt from the security papa bear.

“Nappy time for you, Misha. You look shit.”

“Thanks.” he grimaces. After ten hours on set (and that’s without Jared), he’s just too exhausted. Stalking to the cabin seats, Misha joined the others with bleary eyes.

He catches glinting green whose cherry lips begin to form into a wild smile. There has to be some rule about instant rejuvenation just from receiving that dose from such a nice face.

Richard beats them both in whatever shit they were about to say.

“Service is slowing, Misha. Your customer’s been addressing his complaints to the not-so-proper authorities.”Misha sniggers.

 “Who’s proper here, do tell.”

“Jensen’s not being proper at adulting.” Alex supplies staring out at the green primo uomo Misha’s been ignoring. The whine comes. It’s like a sweet tickle on his ears. Petulant and cheeky growly voice—signs Misha learned—since his first day—never to encourage.

“Misha! Mish! One more call you’re gonna deliver a bar.” 

He turns.

“Been callin you out.” 

“You do that to spite me, fucker.” Misha drawls, walking to Jensen and holding out another bottled water that has to be his 8th. “Here. Don’t believe the media when they tell you the world will never run out of water. Maison says the water sprites will invoke the right to strike just on principle.”

“Sweet faerie. But I believe you. You just hoarded eight hundred Aquafina.” 

“And who’s fault is that?”

If Jensen wasn’t giggling so dorkily at him, he would have snatched the bottle and cursed him for the reminder. But Misha couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of lips. Even Rich and Alex hark laughter at the meaning.

Cause Misha Collins just had a truck of bottled water delivered on set that’s still causing stomach hurts from the cast. Recently, Jensen had taken up the habit of ‘mentioning Misha ’on set as a result of that one interview involving some intense heart eyes and delivery of drinks caught on camera. Nothing to deny there, relationships over ten years tend to turn if not bitter-sweet memories, then the opposite tooth-rotting.

This takes the cake. Everyone began doing the same.

Of course, Misha— pleased by the attention and a new game to distract himself from the already distracting Jensen, returned all summons. Misha who was never one to do things halfway and pledged on delivering all sorts of drinks every Jensen pings his name—except apple juice, jesus. 

But it’s one of those feats that usually get out of control in Supernatural so by the end of the first week, everyone’s just going ‘Misha.’ He liked that a lot. Also, like the truckload of bottled water delivered on set much to their amusement.

When Vicky saw the number on their credit card receipt, she didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Oh, but he wanted to tell her anyway.

All fun aside, Misha’s particularly grumpy now for another reason. Sleep-deprived and emotionally drained after pouring everything on that last take, he’s now headed to Vegascon with this little group. It was nice Jared arranged his private plane to take them. The pretty convenient thing when a pandemic is out there.

Jensen looks tired too, dark lines under the eyes, lips dry— thus the water bottle Misha’s been carrying around— but how the fuck he managed to radiate with teenage energy even when it’s already late will forever evade Misha who wants to snuggle beside him but instead just looks him straight in the eyes.

“Fuck you,” he mouths, backing to his empty chair.

“Do it.” Jensen teases him and Misha will not appreciate that radiance of beauty pulling him in.

“Can’t, there’s our kid here. Don’t wanna make it awkward.”

Alex shakes his head. “Nope. I think I’ve seen the worst of it.”

“That’s what you think.” Misha chuckles.

“Buckle up, Mishano, signals on.” Richard turns his back from the window facing Jensen with red-light flashing above their heads. “Let’s save the Cockles once we’re in Vegas, kay guys? Innocent guy trying to avoid diabetes so save the Cockles.”

“Save the Cockles.” Alex fumbles inside his jacket to fix his earphones. 

Misha and Jensen roll eyes at each other and Misha returns to his spot. Jensen is directly on his line of sight so it’s quite easy to check out on him, maybe snap adorable photos and stack it on his 100 terabyte collection he can post someday when he’s 90.

Taking his phone out after securing his belt, he hears the pilot give instructions as the plane begins to move. Soon, he’s immersing himself with replies on tweets and messages on his number using his extra handphone. Zoning out wasn’t difficult, especially when trying to block out the funny feeling of the engine preparing to take off. They’re all used to it by now.

A few minutes later, they all feel the usual sensation of slowing down bodily before the plane thrusts forward— Misha closes his eyes,  hands clasping his chair until they feel the plane level after the accent.  When he opens his eyes, he hears everyone including him take a deep breath. There are exchanges of words but he is already glued to his phone answering messages sleepily. He’s so tired he can sleep forever. His eyes begin to droop and he sighs in content, finally able to rest even for just minutes.

Till there’s a gentle nudge on his leg. 

He ignores it.

Another kick. 

No.

“Mish.” Kick again.

Misha grimaces. Such long reach for bowlegs…

“Misha, I swear—”

“Social distance, Jen?” he opens his eyes, obviously grumpy.

“A truckload of beer from Poland sounds nice, I’d prefer that.” Jensen wags the water bottle with mischievous dimples showing off on the corner of his cheek. Misha frowns and shuts his eyes again. Good god for distractions. Good god for soft manly middlemen with so much energy…

“Mish…”

Ignore him.

“Mish!”

Imagine if Jared’s around��

“Hey, Misha, Poland beer really—”

Misha’s eyes flutter open.

“No, honey, I will not argue with you about Polish ‘Alkohole,’ it’s not even articulated the same.” Misha throws a grumpy look over notorious green-eyed lynx whose chuckling over his misery, “You’re gonna fuck with me again and I’ll have another story in my head I am unable to tell a soul as its rightfully not for children, sorry, Alex.” 

Ball on Alex’ court, he blinks from Jensen to Misha quietly then shakes his head.

“I am legally an adult.” He obviously could hear them from his pods. Misha raises a finger.

“Correction, the show says you’re 3. All fanfiction does.”

“I’m married.” Alex injects in amusement.

“Fanfiction says Misha and I are married.” comes from Rich’s corner. 

At this Misha sits up, preparing his list of things why Misha-will-never-be-married-to-Richard-Speight-Who-Got-a-Rob impromptu—

“I’m married.” Alex retorts but Richard and Misha are bickering over the type of marriage to hear him.

“You both can say whatever the hell you want, Cockles will top.” 

Sometimes Jensen just can’t bridle it. Sending Misha his heart eyes flirtatiously, he stops the argument with a wink. Misha giggles with all tiredness gone, replying to Alex about marriage while Rich says something about Jibcon to Jensen when things begin to go wrong.

Misha did not see it happen. He was busy looking over Jensen, admiring the bravado and confidence about the newly found comfort over their relationship (and their characters) when a loud bang from his right splits the air, followed by crashing sounds of that thing that Misha dreads, one of the worst sounds he never wants to hear in his life.

 But that’s only just the beginning.

The first explosion rocked the plane violently forward, then topples without warning to their right. It throws them off with seatbelts tightening—making them grab around the seats, stomach in their throat as they keep their steady hold. 

Misha looks outside to the cloud of smoke and crashing debris, his mind tuning only to the present and hears himself as well as Jensen and Richard cursing with jesuschrists. Misha doesn’t know. He was never a steadfast believer but for this one, he’s already calling out god. 

The show’s influence is deeper than he thought. He thinks of all the near-death experiences he’s had but it’s nothing compared to this one. For one, he can only look at Jensen and the feeling sinks in the hollowness of his guts.

This is worse, much worse than the drop tower ride or any gyro drop his children always admired him for riding. No. Here the safety belts that kicked in didn't secure anything from the loud crashing sounds that pierced their ears, the shrill sound of the engine roaring like as it beat fragments unto the air leaving maybe nothing of its parts. How many engines are exploding?

Misha doesn’t close his eyes. He tries to deny the possibility that this is where him, Jensen—  Alex, god Alex just got married! He’s so much more ahead of his life— and Rich just might finally find their end. An irony of life where the show that’s keeping their lives together now also on the way to its end. A kind of twist in reality that’s been shown by many, if not more famous names ahead of himself but Misha tries not to think about them. He tries not to think about the same profession that killed them. He can’t afford it, oh god his children…

He realized he didn’t even kiss West goodbye the morning he left. How he left the unkempt dish on the sink in a hurry. How he didn’t check Maison’s daily log of mischief she does while he’s away.

Now he may not return.

He closes his eyes as the plane shudders violently again. Please...

He calls Castiel’s name too, the back of his mind telling him they're dying. A more humorous, sadistic side of himself adding Dean is here, and that angel of Thursday isn’t going to let his husband die.  They shouldn’t. He and Castiel shouldn’t.

But he’s no Castiel. He’s only Misha.

If anyone asked him how he felt when the plane steadies itself as the pilots pull for control, Misha is not sure anyone would believe him. For the briefest second, he feels this tug at the back of his mind telling him it will be alright and the remarkable part is, Misha believed it. Fucking believe the whisper.

That’s when everything settles down.

Misha quickly looks around at Jense, Rich, and Alex. All of them are pale and he knows he doesn’t look any better. He wants to throw up but the uncertainty of the flight kept him guarded, his grip on the armchair not loosening.

“You guys alright?” Jensen’s voice much deeper than Misha remembers barely managed a nod.

Alex is looking at the floor with concentration where laptops, neck pillows, cups, and stuff are all scattered on the ground. Richard looks as if he’s going to throw up the way he’s holding his stomach. Jensen is staring outside the right window while Misha tells himself to breathe.

“Are you alright?” comes Cliff’s low voice from behind Misha sounding obviously shaken too but still steady. Misha didn’t have time to collect himself. Not that he’s stupid, his body just doesn’t get it, but he quickly pulls his phone and begins texting Vicky and the children.

“What the hell happened?” Richard turns his head over the cockpit when the rumbling dies down.

“Right engine exploded.”  Jensen is already unbuckling himself from his chair and casting everyone a look. “You all good? Mish? Cliff?” He doesn’t wait for answers. He shoots off to the cockpit and stops just by the door looking uncertain. 

“Hey, uh… do we have a situation?” Nobody spoke while he was gone so it's easy to hear the response of the pilots ahead.

“We most certainly do. Get in your seat. Put on your seat belt. We’re doing emergency procedures.”

Calm. Collected. Professional. That’s all Misha had to hear. It doesn’t seem like he’s alone. Everyone else breathes in relief as they all watch Jensen amble back to his seat, nodding. 

“Okay, you certainly have my attention, sir.” 

He buckles up and lifts his chin. The look on their faces must’ve triggered Jensen to clap his hands together. “Hey, buckle up! Cliff, sit down. Rich, breathe, kay? It’s gonna be fine. It’s only one engine, guys, c’mon. This thing flies on three! You think Jared had anyone else to listen to about private jet education? We’re gonna be fine.”

Then like heaven-sent, the pilot begins giving them reports of the situation from the paging in a very clear and commanding voice.  He tells them the right engine exploded which requires them to make a trip back to the nearest airport in Vancouver. That’s all he gives and a promise of an update as he wished everybody to stay calm and follow the protocol for emergency procedures.

“Hear that?” Jensen clears his throat, his hands clasping. Misha receives the full impact of the meaningful green eyes. The plane steadies itself with hum in the air. A full minute pass and the airplane did not drop.

“Fuck.”

Misha forces himself to relax as he drops his head back on his chair.  He can’t feel his body. His hands are still trembling when he smacks it on his cold face. “Fuck!” He can’t seem to say anything other than that.

“Fuck, indeed.” Richard agrees, grabbing his phone, “Good thing I got my pods on, that sound coulda destroyed my ears.” he begins typing on his phone immediately. Alex begins a speed typing contest while Misha receives Vicky's reply after his first message.

‘Kids are mine, right?’

‘Because I cannot make them alone. What’s wrong?’- V

Misha goes on about the engine and the exchange of mail becomes rampant. When about twenty minutes pass with a few throws of questions around, Misha looks up when he hears the blubbing sound of whiskey. Jensen is pouring 

“I’m gonna be drinking that scotch when I get back home,” he’s saying as he hands the glasses each to Richard, Alex and finally to Misha who shakes his head, putting the glass on the holder. Jensen takes the armchair beside him to which Misha is glad, especially when Jensen wounds his arm around his shoulder.

“We’re fine, Mish, stop shaking.” Jensen drops the side of his cheeks on Misha’s raven hair.

“I’m not,” Misha says shakily, wrapping his arms around Jensen’s torso and just pulling him into a tight hug. “Fuck!”

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