cloudy_fic: (fly away by counterglow)
[personal profile] cloudy_fic
Title: Paused on the Way Home 2/2
Author: CloudyJenn
Fandom: SPN/RPS
Pairings: Jensen/Misha
Rating: R
Word Count: 12,900+
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. I am making no profit from this fanfiction.
Warnings: RPS
Summary: When Jensen finds a homeless man passed out in a pile of snow, he decides to bring him home out of the cold. But it doesn't take long before Jensen realizes that the man is more than just odd. He might be crazy and Jensen's not sure what to do with him.
Author's Notes: Written for [ profile] hils on the [ profile] deancas_xmas exchange. She asked for "AU wherein Dean finds a guy wearing a trenchcoat half-frozen in the snow and decides to take him home with him. Christmas is the time for goodwill toward men after all" and I turned that into a Jensen/Misha "Winter, but not Christmas" story. Many thanks to [ profile] antiquitydreams for her encouragement, help and general birgo-ness.

Misha's first days in Jensen's home slid into his first weeks.

Every morning, Jensen rose from bed and avoided stepping on a clear-headed and teasing Misha while trying to get a peek at his wing tattoos before going to get washed up. Half the time, he had to shoo Misha out of the bathroom before he could get out of the shower. Then he made whatever Misha pronounced he needed for breakfast before leaving Misha and Dean to the wilds of daytime soaps. It was at the beginning of the second week that Misha asked Jensen if he could take Dean next door to Anna's. A plan that worked well for Anna, whose job was at night. Worked out so well in fact that Jensen sometimes found himself losing concentration on his writing in favor of dark ponderings on what Misha and Anna could possibly be doing while the dogs played together.

By the time lunch rolled around, Jensen had forgotten about his daily mental promise to find an institution for Misha.

It was hard to remember when it really seemed like Misha was getting better. He was able to keep his senses about him nearly every morning. A relapse usually stole a few hours in the afternoon, but Misha hadn't gotten truly upset again or remembered anything else. Jared stopped by every night after dinner. Presumably to check on Jensen, but he knew the truth. Jared had no better defenses against Misha's bright smile and expansive tales than Jensen did. Stories of fighting demons and flying over giant mountains and seeing the face of God. Well-told lies. Jared might not see it, but Jensen could tell by the slight dimming of the light in Misha's eyes that the stories were made up. Pretty fictions built on what Misha wished he could remember.

"You don't believe I'm an Angel, do you?" Misha said one night after Jared had left.

Jensen saw no reason to lie.

"I'm sorry, but no. I don't."

"Hmm." Misha touched the old Bible on Jensen's bookshelf and flicked his eyes over his shoulder. "But you do believe in Angels."

Jensen smiled. That much was true. He'd been raised in church and though he struggled with faith, especially after understanding his own sexuality, Jensen still believed.

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"I'm not proof enough," Misha said, nodding to himself. He was in a vague phase. "I don't blame you."

That night, Jensen asked Misha to come into his bedroom before he fell asleep.

"Seems a waste to make up the couch since you're going to end up in here anyway," Jensen said as he opened the quilt onto the floor and threw a couple of pillows down for him. He knew better than to ask Misha to share his bed. Less for propriety's sake and more because Misha had made it clear that he liked sleeping on the floor.

"I'm becoming a fixture," Misha said.

Jensen had to agree.


It seemed that Jensen saw the man every time he left the house.

On the way to the grocery or the library or the bank. Jared even commented on it once, asking Jensen about "the John Steed wannabe out in the street." A confrontation was inevitable. Especially since Jensen felt certain he was there because of Misha. But if the man did nothing more than watch the house, then Jensen wasn't eager to engage him. He told himself it was because the man could mean trouble for Misha. But deep down, Jensen knew he feared the man would take Misha away from him.

Misha never noticed the man.

In fact, Misha never seemed to notice anything outside of Jensen's house. He never asked to go anywhere other than over to Anna’s. They went to Jared's house one night to have dinner, but other than that, Misha appeared content to stay in Jensen's house, perched on his desk or sprawled out on his floor.

Honestly, Misha really was the perfect man for Jensen.

Except the bouts of insanity. Decreasing in frequency, yes, but still present.

Case in point. One morning, Jensen noticed his watch was missing. He took it off every night and set it on his bedside table. After showering and dressing, Jensen never forgot to wrap the watch back around his left wrist. He would have remembered moving it.

"Misha, have you seen my watch?" Jensen asked absentmindedly, thinking to himself that Dean might have jostled it off the table.

"I haven't. I don't know where it lives. It gleams bright and I haven't seen it. I don't know. I'm sorry," Misha babbled as he backed up to the wall, stumbling to the side to get out the door.
Jensen pretended he didn't understand exactly what Misha's freakout meant.

Although, he did wish the watch would show up again. Gen had given him that watch. Even had it inscribed on the inside. To Jensen. For getting him to me in one piece. Love you always, Gen

But Jensen didn't say anything and by lunch, Misha had relaxed again, although not into his usual chatty self. He sat quietly, nibbling on the hotdog Jensen had made him and casting contemplative glances in Jensen's direction. Jensen let it go until Misha nearly pushed the hotdog into his own cheek in his distraction.

"Are you okay?"

"I could take you to him," he said. "You could speak with him."

Jensen frowned.

"Him who?"

"Mr. Lincoln in his hat," Misha said, licking mustard from the corner of his mouth. "We go everywhere and everywhen."

"Oh." A heavy gloomy feeling settled in Jensen's chest. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

He started to get up, but Misha caught his hand and pulled him back down.

"I can," he insisted. "I can make it up to you. I can make you so happy, Jensen. I could do it."

Jensen stared at their joined hands and the strange thing was, Misha did make him happy. Scared, anxious and sad, yes. But then he thought about sending Misha away and the tightness in his chest by far outstripped any of those other feelings. He wouldn't know what to do with himself if Misha suddenly disappeared. If he weren't underfoot in the mornings or camped out on Jensen's couch in the afternoon or demanding whatever particular food appealed to him that day. Misha made his life exciting. Strange, but interesting in a way stories about men long dead never could.

"You don't have to," he began, but Misha shook his head and gripped his hand even tighter.

"We go. Mr. Lincoln. I read in your book of light. 1861," he said fervently. His enthusiasm and hope drained Jensen's will to refuse him. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing for Misha to understand he couldn't travel through time. Or fly or fight demons or perform miracles.

"Alright," Jensen agreed quietly. "Let's go."

Misha's eyes fluttered shut, giving Jensen the perfect opportunity to watch him without reservation.

Despite having found him passed out in an alley, Misha had never seemed ill. His skin always carried a healthy pinkish glow and he was slender without being too thin. Wherever he came from, he must have left it right before Jensen found him. Eventually, Jensen would have to talk to the man in the bowler hat. But that was later. All Jensen wanted to concentrate on now was a sharp nose and a clever mouth and gorgeous thick dark hair falling into Misha's closed eyes.

"Misha," he murmured after a silent moment and was not terribly surprised when frustration and anger bloomed across Misha's face. He threw Jensen's hand away and pushed off from the table, stomping out of the kitchen. Jensen waited for five tense minutes before walking to the living room door. Misha had shoved himself into one corner of the couch, arms wrapped around his knees. Dean sat beside him, leaning over to lick the back of Misha's hand in an apparent attempt to comfort.

"I can," Misha said and through his anger, Jensen could hear a world of profound hurt. "I'm not who I am."

"I'm sorry," Jensen said. He hated feeling so helpless. If he could, Jensen would trade just about anything to make Misha's stories the truth. If only to erase that lost look in his eyes.

"I thought it was getting better," Misha said, so quietly that Jensen nearly didn't hear him. His tone and word choice were the most normal Jensen had ever heard and it made his heart leap. "I am getting better," he continued. "But it's not good enough."

"But you are," Jensen protested without thought, tugging Dean out of the way to take his place. "You are good enough." He prised Misha's clenched fingers open and twined them with his own. "More than good enough."

Misha didn't smile or even look Jensen in the eye. But he let Jensen hold his hand for a long time and it was a turning point. A physical element added to their relationship that took the form of hands held on long walks or thorough shoulder massages exchanged or falling asleep against each other during movies.

It was also the last day that Misha had a confused phase for longer than two hours together.

Unfortunately, Jensen's things kept going missing around the house. A silver lighter an old boyfriend had given him. A framed picture of Jensen and his siblings. A shotglass he bought in Illinois when he was doing research for the book. Odd trinkets with little value outside the sentiment Jensen attributed to them. Which is why he didn't say anything. With the exception of his watch, none of the items were worth more than ten bucks at the most.

Misha couldn't remember his past and if collecting pieces from Jensen's helped him feel better, then Jensen would keep quiet.

His silence was Jensen's first clue.

Crazy or not, he was falling for Misha.


"Tell me about your home," Jensen said one night after they were in bed.

Well, Jensen was in bed. Misha was curled around Dean on the floor.

"I've told you," Misha said, his voice full of sleep. Jensen smiled into his pillow. He liked hearing Misha so relaxed and comfortable. "It's a beauty of crystal and light-"

"Not that," Jensen interrupted, but gently. "Can you remember your real home? Your parents?"

Misha didn't say anything for a very long time. The sound of his breathing lulled Jensen into a light doze that broke when Misha finally began talking, his voice soft with memory.

"There's a tree and my brother puts me on a swing. I want to be like him so badly, I can feel it prickling along my skin. Mother lets him watch me after school while she makes dinner," he intoned. It almost sounded like one of his vague phases, but he hadn't had one in days. Jensen rolled to the edge of the bed and peered down at Misha. The smile curving his mouth brought a similar one to Jensen's lips. As did the story. It reminded Jensen of his own childhood and hero worship of his older brother. He almost asked the brother's name, but held his tongue. If this was just another fabrication, Jensen didn't want to ruin the moment.

"Her stomach is getting big," Misha said and the affection crowding his tone ached low in Jensen's chest. "My little sister will be along soon. I don't want a sister. I don't want to share my brother."

Jensen laughed, but he also felt a jolt of apprehension he didn't understand.

"He pushes me and I am flying through the air. It's so hot, but when I swing, the breeze catches my hair and a shiver raises bumps on my arms. I want to go higher, but he doesn't want me to get hurt. I think he's afraid Mom will yell at him."

"Misha," Jensen whispered, fear now clutching at his throat. "Stop it."

"But I want to soar," Misha continued as if Jensen hadn't spoken. "I want Josh to stop being such a pain and push harder. I turn in my seat to slow down, so I can yell at him, but when I come back down, I hit my leg too hard on the tree and I hear it break. It hurts so bad and Josh is yelling and I'm crying-"

"Stop it!" He grabbed Misha's shirt and shook him out his daze. "Where'd you hear that? Did Jared tell you that story?"

Except it didn't matter if Jared had. Jensen had never told Jared exactly what he'd been thinking when he broke his leg. Not about not wanting a sister until he saw her huge blue eyes staring up at him or how much he'd wanted to emulate his big brother. He'd never talked about how it felt to cut through the humid Texas summer air as Josh sent him sailing or how he heard his leg break before he felt it.

Misha's eyes popped wide open and in a panic, he struggled to sit up.

"I'm sorry," he said urgently. Jensen could see him retreating into a distant phase. "It was there and you wanted a memory so much. I didn't mean to take it. I'm sorry."

"But how?" Jensen asked, trying hard to take the fear-fueled anger out of his voice. The last thing he wanted was frighten Misha, but he needed answers. "How did you do it?"

"I told you," Misha said, his flat blue eyes awash with sadness. "I'm an Angel."


The next day, Jensen's research notebook went missing.

There were dozens of them, but Jensen hadn't finished incorporating information from that particular notebook into the biography yet. Trinkets were one thing. Stealing his research stepped over a line Jensen couldn't ignore. As soon as he noticed the absence, Jensen stormed into the living room, interrupting Misha and Dean's daily episode of One Life to Live.

"Where is it?" he snapped.

"There are many "it"s. Which one do you mean?" Misha asked calmly, apparently unaffected by Jensen's ire.

"My research notebook. I know you took it," Jensen said. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I know you've been taking things from me."

To his surprise, instead of denying it or apologizing, Misha set his jaw and pointedly turned away to put his eyes back on the television screen.

"You don't understand," he said.

"Understand what?"

"I need them," Misha explained flatly. "If I'm ever going to get back, I need them."

"Get back where? Heaven?" Jensen asked incredulously. "You think a little pile of my stuff is going to get you back into Heaven? That doesn't make any sense!"

"What do you know?" Misha challenged, snatching his gaze from the TV back to Jensen's face.

In the next moment, he was up off the couch and into Jensen's space, close enough to warm Jensen's chest with his body heat. There was nothing confused or detached about Misha's expression. In that moment, he was fully with Jensen and more angry than Jensen had ever seen him.

"You know nothing about me. You know I see things that can't be seen, but you lie to yourself. You think I'm crazy, but I think you're just using that as an excuse not to believe."

The words hit harder than Jensen liked. They weren't anything he hadn't heard before. Hiding away rather than face a world that didn't work the way Jensen wished it would. A world where his family's love was conditional and his relationships ended the moment his boyfriends realized Jensen really was just a boring homebody.

A world where he couldn’t be in love with Misha.

"I want my book back," he said. A deflection, but also a truth.

"You don't understand," Misha said again, but the anger was draining away in favor of a raw desperation that tore Jensen apart. "They aren't enough yet. Not stable enough. I need them."

"You're right," Jensen said quietly. All the fight had gone out of him. "I don't understand."

But as he took Misha's hand and led him back to the couch, Jensen thought to himself that there might be someone who did. He gathered Misha against his chest and laid his cheek on Misha's head, letting the rest of the afternoon fade away in a blur of soap operas and silent companionship.

Tomorrow, he'd go and talk to the man in the pinstriped suit.


"I was wondering if you'd eventually come talk to me."

Jensen sunk down beside the man on the bus stop bench.

"I'm in pretty deep," Jensen admitted. He wouldn't go into the details with this man, but Jensen needed him to understand Misha's importance to him.

"Yes," the man agreed. "Misha always so easily drew others into his realm of influence."

"You make him sound manipulative," Jensen accused lightly.

"He can be," the man said, but with a fond smile on his thin lips. "He has a way of making you like him with very little effort."

That much was absolutely true.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Mark," he said and he held his hand out to Jensen. "This is the greeting, yes?"

Jensen eyed his hand. Something in his phrasing reminded Jensen of Misha. Which was probably to be expected. They clearly shared a history.

"Yeah," he agreed, shaking Mark's cool hand. "How do you know Misha?"

"He's my brother."

"You're British," Jensen pointed out, though even as he said it, he knew it didn't matter. Nothing about Misha ever made much sense.

"Am I?" Mark asked, nodding as if working out some great puzzle in his head. "Curious."

"Right. Could you maybe skip the weirdo act and tell me what's wrong with Misha?" Jensen asked.

His anxiety had reached a fever pitch. He couldn't handle the dichotomy between his fear and affection for Misha anymore. And Misha was right. Jensen hid too much. It was time to face the truth.

"He lost his love," Mark said.

His voice held pity rather than sadness. Jensen didn't understand how. Surprising grief flooded his chest, pulling him down physically. He leaned forward on his elbows and tried to catch a breath. It made sense. The death of a lover twisting an already eccentric man into the lost soul Jensen found in that alley. Misha shouldn't feel such pain. It wasn't right.

"What happened?" Jensen rasped.

Mark's hand closed over his shoulder and he squeezed.

"That isn't what I meant, Jensen," he said.

Jensen jerked up from his slumped position and shrugged off Mark's touch. The strange fear he felt when Misha had told him the memory froze his insides.

"How do you know my name? You been snooping into my life?"

"You know what he is," Mark said pointedly. "Your denial in face of the evidence is....well, stupid."

"Gee, thanks," Jensen grunted, even as he acknowledged the sense of Mark's statement. Misha clearly wasn't normal. But people could tell things from careful observation. Misha and Jensen spent so much time together. More than enough time for Misha to thoroughly memorize Jensen and use his obvious intellect to construct that memory. That must be it.

Because otherwise, Jensen had been playing host to an Angel.

"You have been," Mark said as he turned his bowler hat over and over in his hands. "Hosting Angels unawares. But don't worry about that. We've been impressed with your actions towards our brother. You haven't acted on your baser instincts. However much Misha might wish you would."

"Okay, whoa, personal much?" Jensen snapped before the implications even sunk in. And when they did, he jumped off the bench and whirled to face him. "That's it," he said in a near shout. "How do you people know this shit?"

"Sit down. You're making a scene," Mark said with such calm command that Jensen obeyed him without thought. "How do you think Misha knew about that memory? Or for that matter, how do you think I know about him knowing the memory? Your thoughts are easily read. Even for an Angel like Misha."

"What does that mean?" Jensen asked despite himself.

"He's not himself-"

"That's what he said," Jensen interrupted, feeling oddly surprised. As if he’d assumed their stories would never match up.

"Then he really is improving," Mark said, pleasure evident in his tone. "I thought we might never find him again, but then several weeks ago, his light began to shine once more. I was the first to sense it." A soft kind of melancholy flickered briefly in his eyes. "Misha and I had been close at one point. They sent me to watch him."

It was just as crazy as Misha's stories. Probably even more so because Mark seemed so collected. But his sorrow over Misha's fate and his obvious affection for him, both such genuine emotions, drew Jensen into his tale. It couldn't be real, but as Jensen leaned in closer and felt his curiosity growing, he couldn't help thinking it made so much sense.

Jensen knew he'd fallen for Misha. He just hadn't known how far.

"I don't understand any of this," Jensen confessed quietly. "If...and this is a hell of a fucking big if, but if I was to believe you...what did you mean when you said he lost his love?"

"Angels are made of love," Mark explained. He held up one hand, fingers splayed open and slowly closed it into a fist. "Our flesh, our minds, our very purpose is love. Love of God."

"It doesn't sound..." Jensen trailed off. He loved God. He'd had several exceptionally profound experiences with God, but they weren't forced on him. His parents might have taken him to church, but Jensen took those few steps towards God himself. But this? It sounded sad and lonely. Born to love someone without the chance to say no.

"That's your humanity speaking," Mark chided. "You can't put human standards on non-human beings. Even if it might make some sense with Misha."

"Why Misha?"

"Because he stopped loving God. I don't know why. Maybe he stopped believing in Him. All I know for certain is that his love slipped out of his grasp and with nothing to replace it, he went insane." The melancholy grew into palpable grief and Jensen felt abruptly awkward. He turned his eyes away as Mark continued speaking. "He had nothing to keep him grounded."

"Stable," Jensen remembered. "He kept saying he didn't have any stability."

"Yes. I suspect that's why he's been pilfering your beloved knick knacks. He thinks if he can steal enough of your love, he can remake himself."

The pieces starting falling into place, like a great line of dominoes falling over in rapid succession. His ability to sense love on various objects. Getting upset about Jensen robbing Dean of love. How he never phased out while Jared visited. His first lengthy clear period following a night spent wrapped up in a quilt made by Jensen's much-loved grandmother.

"He's wrong, of course," Mark continued over Jensen's revelation. "Misha won't ever return to normal unless he finds a love of his own."

At first, Jensen only nodded along because it sounded logical to him. An Angel needed love, so Misha needed to find something to love. Cut and dry. But then the full significance of Mark's meaning exploded into his tired brain.

"A love of his own? What, like a person?"

"I was thinking a human, yes. Perhaps a writer," Mark said lightly.

Jensen leapt off the bench again.

"No way, man. I can't fucking replace God. Are you insane?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "You humans are so melodramatic. Of course, you can't replace God. But that's not what I'm asking you to do."

That caught Jensen off guard enough to halt the rant growing in his mind. "Oh, you're actually asking me for something?"

"Interesting," Mark mused, eyes flicking from Jensen's head down to his feet and back again. "I never pictured Misha with someone so dim. Well, to be fair, I never pictured him with a human at all, but even my brothers back home can feel his attraction to you, so I suppose you'll do."

"Okay, you know what, it's not exactly normal to find out you're living with an Angel," Jensen said irritably, shoving his hands into his pockets and glaring down at Mark's vaguely interested expression.

"Right, well, just do me this favor and I promise you won't regret it," Mark said, standing to look Jensen in the eye. "You can't replace God, but you can be Misha's stability. In fact, you already are; he just doesn't know it yet. So go and be his first beloved thing. And maybe someday, Misha will reconcile with our Father and we'll see him again." He placed the bowler hat neatly on his head and gave Jensen a little half-smile. "Until then, treat him well or I'll send the ten plagues of Egypt down on you and yours." The smile widened. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Jensen Ackles."

Jensen started to say something. Whether a thank you or a fuck you, he never knew because a honking horn caught his attention and when he looked back towards Mark, the Angel had gone.


If someone had told Jensen two months ago that he'd be walking into his own home to tell the Angel living there that Jensen loved him so that said Angel could stop being insane, his two assumed reactions would be total disbelief or blind panic. Since disbelief seemed like a waste of time anymore, that left Jensen with blind panic. He'd never gotten to the love stage in any relationship. Angel aside, the idea of admitting that kind of emotion, tying yourself to one person in that manner, scared the shit out of Jensen.

Or had before he met Misha.

Because there was no panic. No disbelief or fear or regret. There was only an eagerness to reach Misha as soon as possible. A frustration that the distance between them seemed to increase the faster Jensen walked. By the time he reached his porch, Jensen was nearly running. He flung open the door, his breath burning in his lungs and turned his wild-eyed gaze around the living room. No Misha. Down the hall to check an empty kitchen and then Jensen was storming up the stairs.

"Misha!" he bellowed. "Where are you?"

"In here," Misha called out from Jensen's office. He burst through the door to find Misha sitting cross-legged on his desk, his nose buried in a copy of Jensen's first book, a thick volume about John D. Rockefeller.

"I'm reading your story. This is a fascinating character," Misha said, waving the book at him.

"I love you," Jensen blurted.

Confusion rippled across Misha's expression. "What?"

"I love you," Jensen said again, breathless with amazement at both his own boldness and the stunning strength of the emotion. "You're completely cracked and you scare the shit out of me, but one time my daddy told me that Mom scared the piss out of him and I think that's just what happens maybe, I don't know. But I love you so much I let you stay here and steal my stuff and...and I want you to be okay."

Misha slowly uncrossed his legs and let his bare feet fall to the ground. The confusion Jensen saw in his eyes deepened into profound bemusement. As if Jensen's confession was the strangest thing Misha had heard in his very long life.

"Does that mean you are mine now?" he asked, each word carefully spoken.

Jensen's heart turned over in his chest. He very much liked the sound of that.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Oh," Misha whispered.

And then he started to tear off his shirt, the same green one Jensen had given him on their first day together.

"Um, Misha? What-"

But the ‘what’ soon became very apparent. The gorgeous tattoos that still mesmerized Jensen stood out against the pale skin of Misha's back and for a split second, nothing happened. Jensen only stared at all that lovely bare flesh and wondered briefly if he were now allowed to touch. But then the breath of that second passed and the tattoos exploded off Misha's body into two massive brown wings that stretched high over both of Misha's shoulders. He rolled his back and gave a relieved sigh, looking not unlike a passenger stretching their legs after a very long car ride.

"Holy shit," Jensen whispered and this time, he did reach out, eager to run his hands over the feathers, each one a slightly different shade of brown. But just as the tip of one finger grazed the incredibly warm wing, they disappeared.

"What? What happened?"

"Told you I was an angle," Misha teased, clear and happy like on early mornings.

And then he too disappeared.

"Hey!" The panic very nearly did set in then, but before Jensen could indulge it, a puff of air and the sound of rustling feathers at his back had him spinning around to face a grinning Misha. "You asshole!" he shouted, smacking Misha hard in the chest.

"Just seeing if they still worked," he said proudly and then he was tugging Jensen into his arms.
"Don't whine. We can kiss now."

"But where'd they go? Where'd you go? What the hell-"

Misha kissed him into silence.

The questions ground to a halt. It was impossible to think when Misha kissed him with such purpose. Such concentration and passion. A physical demonstration of his new mental health and a declaration of feelings Jensen still hadn't heard yet. He pushed closer, pulled harder. Wanted more and more for as long as he could have it.

Misha abruptly broke off the kiss.

"For the rest of your life, if you want," he said and that would take awhile to get used to. He slid a palm up over Jensen's heart and pressing his nose against Jensen's neck, drew in a deep satisfied breath.

"You're smelling me, aren't you?"

"It's all mine," Misha murmured. "All for me."

And it was.

"Oh hey," Jensen said as the thought occurred to him. "Does this mean you can time travel now?"

Misha lifted his face and gave him a very stern frown. But he couldn't fool Jensen. There was a familiar spark of amusement in his vivid blue eyes. Jensen couldn't decide what color they'd turned. A light crystalline blue he'd never seen before. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that they changed. They had life and intelligence. Humor and cleverness and Jensen didn't have to fear Misha would revert back to that awful confusion.

"Don't think you can abuse my supreme power over the laws of physics," Misha said haughtily.

Jensen just laughed. Laughed so hard he fell forward into Misha's arms again so he could hide his face when he began to realize his laughter was nothing more than a frightening measure of relief and fear releasing into the smooth bare skin of Misha's shoulder.

"It's okay," Misha crooned, gathering Jensen up and holding him tight. "I'm not going anywhere. Not anywhere you can't follow anyway."

"But Heaven?" Jensen managed to calm himself long enough to say, his voice muffled against Misha's skin. "You can't go back."

"Well, maybe not right away." He kissed the top of Jensen's head. "But I wouldn't want to go back right now if they sent me an engraved invitation."


"Yes. Right now, I want to stay right here and have sex," Misha proclaimed.

Jensen tugged away to take note of his perfectly serious expression.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed.

The End


Their life wasn't perfect. Sometimes they misunderstood each other and sometimes they fought. And even when things were great, Misha still missed home. He went quiet sometimes for long periods of time and Jensen thought maybe he was trying to talk to God. But he never asked about these baby steps and Misha never volunteered information. Some things needed to stay between an Angel and God.

But for the most part, things were deliriously good. Jared fell in love with Misha so hard, Jensen sometimes wondered if he'd be serious competition. The first time Misha showed him the flying trick, Jared nearly wet his pants and then demanded Misha take him all over the countryside.
They didn't return for hours and quite frankly, Jensen enjoyed the time alone to work on his book.

Four months after Misha regained his senses, Anna decided to move to Los Angeles to try and make it as an actress. It'd taken the full force of both Misha, Jared and Dean's puppy dog eyes, but between the three of them, they convinced her to let Cas stay in Seattle. He transitioned so well into their home that Jensen was forced to lie to Anna over the phone about how much Cas missed her. Misha assured Jensen that Cas did miss his previous owner, but that an owner was nothing compared to a lover. Then he smacked Jensen's ass and told him he understood the feeling.

They'd had quite a lot of sex that night.

A year later, Jensen handed Misha a copy of his new book simply titled Abraham Lincoln and instructed him to open it. Upon reading the words, Misha grinned and threw the book away in favor of the man. It landed face up, open to the inscription, which read:

To Misha, my acute angle. You didn't know Lincoln, but you introduced us anyway. I love you, JRA

And yes, they lived happily ever after.
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