Fangasmic

The blue-eyed, tousle-haired "angel" smiled bitterly. There was only one empty seat on the air plane. Now he would have to sit next to Jim. Jim Beaver. Who had no idea of all the things that Misha had thought about him, all of the nights he could not sleep and stared at his ceiling: yearning. "Hello," Jim said, sitting down. He smelled like trucker hats and true love. "Hi," Misha said, and hated himself for being lame. Why couldn't he be cool? He knew he did not have a chance with Jim Beaver -- he was so handsome; his beard so scratchy and badass-ly kept -- but he could at least be friends. It was shameful. Jim pulled out his cell phone and started thumbing away at it, and Misha tried not to spy, forces himself to look out the window of the airplane instead. In just a few hours, they will be in Vancouver again, and Misha thinks that the gray overcast skies will match the feeling stuffing up his throat. The worst part is that nobody, when he gets to the Supernatural set, will really understand him; he and Jared had been best friends, but then Jared had gotten married, and now spent all his time in his trailer talking to his new wife. And Misha knew he should be over Jensen calling him a whore at that convention, but it still hurt. Misha closes his eyes and curls into himself. He is cold. Like Canada.