Title: A Sort of Fairy Tale
Chapter: One: A Story I Haven’t Heard Yet
Fandom: SPN RPS
Warning/spoilers: Some behind-the-scenes filming.
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Misha loves Jensen. Jensen is … getting there.
Chapter one summary: “Oh, there are bad chords. Chords that will drive you mad or bite your fingers. But you don’t play those chords. You’re better than that.”
Notes: Every year for I resolve to post something every day, and every year I fall short. This year I’m approaching it differently: I’m going to post one story in 14 parts, one part every day. I have 14 songs like signposts to guide me on the way, which will be gathered into a mix at the end. Thank you to for beta.
day one: body image
Jensen is like a straight road to all Misha’s speed bumps and curves. He is a solid bass line to Misha’s trills and descants. He is the Broadway Boogie-Woogie to Misha’s Blue Poles.
He is fascinating. He is simple. He is amazing.
This must be why he figures so prominently in Misha’s daydreams, why Misha concocts these elaborate stories about them that he tells no one. Sometimes they are political prisoners comforting each other with stories of home. Sometimes they are bohemian artists living in a garret in Paris—Paris must be made entirely of garrets, given all the bohemian artists who live in them—living on love and cheap red wine. Sometimes they are truckers, partners, driving from one side of the country to the other and making love in the sleeping compartment. Sometimes they are just two leaves on a tree, waiting for autumn to make them fall.
Sometimes, Misha has to admit, they are Dean and Cas. Not the Dean and Cas on TV, not the stoic angel, the snarky hunter. Instead they are the Dean and Cas between scenes, after the credits roll; the Dean and Cas who turn to each other for comfort and sex, the Cas whom Dean feeds cherry pie, the Dean to whom Castiel says, “I fell for you. I’m still falling for you. I’ll fall for you until you catch me.”
(Misha admits to himself that this line would be edited out of any script, and rightly so.)
They rehearse a scene where Castiel is supposed to lean on Dean. Instead, Jensen leans on Misha, swaying on his feet a little. Sleeping on his feet like a horse, Misha thinks. He holds Jensen and tells him a story, whispered in his ear, about a peanut that wanted to see the world and stowed away in an elephant’s trunk, but all it saw were more circuses.
Jensen doesn’t move from beneath Misha’s arm. He listens through to the end.
Misha writes, Your mouth is a national treasure that should be kept under lock and key. Or I’ll guard it. I’ll keep it safe with my mouth.
Between takes, Jensen plays his guitar. Misha listens with his eyes closed. He doesn’t recognize the songs but the notes, he knows those. He moves his fingers in the air to their cadence, and tells Jensen when the song is done, “I like those chords. Those are good chords.”
“I’ve never heard a bad one,” says Jensen.
“Oh, there are bad chords. Chords that will drive you mad or bite your fingers. But you don’t play those chords. You’re better than that.”
Jensen looks at him the way Castiel looks at Dean when Dean makes a reference he doesn’t understand. Misha just smiles and closes his eyes again, and dances his fingers through the air to the song Jensen has finished playing.
He leaves Jensen a note: Make a break with me. Jensen understands, so they take off through the woods off the set, someone shouting behind them, “Be back in fifteen minutes!” and Misha tells Jensen, “We never have to go back. We’re running away.”
“They’ll freak out,” says Jensen.
“They’ll find replacements. My part could easily be played by a well-trained Labrador.”
Jensen stops running to laugh, and Misha stops running to watch him. He catches the lapel of Dean’s leather jacket, so at home on Jensen’s shoulders, and says, “It’d be easier if we could fly. No trail to follow.”
“I forgot my winged shoes,” says Jensen, and now Misha laughs, delighted.
He kisses Jensen there in the sunshine, where the air smells like leaves and moss and cool water. It’s a much better place, he reflects, than a road or a hotel room, someplace that smells of other people. He wants to remember this as something as natural as the trees around them, something as open as the sky.
He can taste Jensen’s surprise, but it doesn’t stop either of them. He holds Jensen’s wrist and goose bumps rise under his thumb. Misha’s thumb rests on the vein where he can feel Jensen’s heart beating. It speaks to him of uncertainty and want, and Misha soothes it slowly. Nothing to be afraid of, he tells Jensen’s heartbeat. I want you, but only as you want me to want you. I’ll never push you too hard.
Kissing someone for the first time is always such an adventure. He wishes he could kiss Jensen for the first time every day.
Jensen is the first to pull away, and Misha lets him, releasing his wrist. It would be a tragedy to keep it captive. Jensen looks confused again, like he almost understands but doesn’t want to admit it, and says, “We should get back.” Misha can see him blushing through the makeup that never quite hides his freckles. Misha wants to join them one by one and see what secret message they reveal. “They’ll be looking for us.”
“We have forever,” Misha says, but they walk back to the set anyway. Misha’s steps are in three-quarter time.
His cell phone rings that night. (Jensen’s ring tone is a waltz, because Misha couldn’t find an appropriate song about airports for him.) “It’s me,” says Jensen. His voice slinks along Misha’s ear like a cat in search of nip.
“It’s you,” says Misha.”You’re not sleeping.”
“Can’t. I have too much to think about. I need a little help.”
“What do you want me to do?” Misha gets comfortable in bed, ready to do anything Jensen might ask. He wants Jensen to ask for something impossible. For Jensen, he’d do it.
“Tell me a story,” says Jensen. “Tell me one of your stories.”
It’s so easy Misha almost asks to be sent on a quest instead—surely there’s something Jensen wants that will involve slaying dragons? Misha has always wanted to slay a dragon—but instead he says, “All right. One story.”
It’s a fair price for a kiss.
You are a radio, you are an open door
I am a faulty string of blue Christmas lights
You swim through frequencies, you let that stranger in,
As I’m blinking off and on and off again
♪ “My Favorite Chords”—The Weakerthans
2 thoughts on “A Story I Haven’t Heard Yet (A Sort of Fairy Tale 1/14)”
THIS: “I fell for you. I’m still falling for you. I’ll fall for you until you catch me.”
Aww. is this a Brokeback Mountain ref? Sleeping on his feet like a horse,
I love this. It’s saying so little but telling so much. Love your way wth words!
Yes, it is :). There are a couple in the story.