Chapter Text
Misha collapsed onto one of the many overstuffed sofas scattered around the room and barely avoided puking his guts up onto the plush, persian carpet. He was starting to seriously regret getting roped into yet another party at the Padalecki mansion.
"You good, Misha?" Speak of the devil. The co-host of the party herself, Genevive Padalecki emerged from the crowd of people filling the room, dancing or talking in their little cliques, all drinking. Padalecki parties had quite the reputation. A sleek, modern bar took up one wall of the "sitting" room with a blue and yellow pop art print of Gen towering above it. The print's mildly concerned expression nearly exactly matched the frown Gen was wearing now.
"M' fine, Gen" Misha shouted back to her over the pounding music, "I just needed a moment to- ugh sit down so I don't defile your carpet thing." He managed a cocky grin, and Gen relaxed at Misha's half-hearted reassurance.
"Alrighty then," She said, her focus already on a friend she had spotted on the other side of the room and she melted back into the crowd, leaving Misha alone again in the midst of the party.
The smile slid off Misha's face as soon as Gen was gone. He considered just leaving the party right then and there. Misha had spent most of the night pity drinking with himself and was pretty much beyond caring about being rude (despite accepting the invite in the first place) but he wasn't sure his legs would cooperate with walking outside to a taxi. He was about to give it his best attempt when a deep, pleasant voice interrupted his concentration on putting both feet on the floor.
"Need some company?" A warm body plopped down on the sofa right next to Misha, squishing Misha against the arm rest, even though the sofa could easily fit another two people with plenty of personal space for all. The voice was familiar, but in his drunken state Misha could not quite place it.
"Uhm- what," Misha asked eloquently. He wiggled around to make the guy move over but it just made the sofa dip and bring them closer together. Yeah Misha was way too drunk for this crap. He took another sip of his drink, and with some effort lifted his head to look at the personal space intruder.
Jensen smoothly removed the glass from Misha's hand, brushing their fingers together and set the glass on the floor with a dull clunk.
Misha groaned, "Oh it's you."
Jensen leaned in, one hand resting heavily on Misha's thigh, until his face was a few inches away from Misha's, "Yup, just me, Mish," The man's breath smelled sharp from alcohol. Jensen's eyes focused a little higher than Misha's eyes and he brushed a stray piece of hair out of Misha's face.
"Don't call me that," Misha swatted the hand away.
"Okay, Mish-," Jensen took a deep breath, "-a. I just miss you, man, okay?" He leaned in further until his cheek was resting on Misha's shoulder. Hot, wet kisses pressed along Misha's neck.
"Great, 'cause I care so much," Misha grumbled, but didn't resist. Maybe he was too drunk to, maybe just didn't have the energy anymnore, and he felt Jensen smile against his skin.
After another minute (because Misha is weak, okay), Jensen withdrew and cupped Misha's jaw in his strong hand and drew his face up from where Misha was staring at his lap, and guided their mouths into a kiss.
"Mmph," Misha protested, but didn't draw back. The warmth felt so good. A few seconds went by in frozen alchoholed stupor. Why was Misha supposed to resist again? Principles probably.
Ah, fuck it.
His mouth moved against Jensen's sloppily and he began to kiss Jensen back in earnest, the taste alchohol mingling on both tongues, as was the usual with them.
"See, I knew you still liked me," Jensen managed to groan between breathless kisses.
No. It wasn't the usual for them anymore. Misha's brain caught up with his mouth and he disconnected the kiss and shoved Jensen off him. The other man was a solid weight usually, but off balance he fell off the sofa and landed on his ass.
Jensen scrambled to his feet, "What the fuck?" He demanded. Like it was his place and shit.
"Yeah, what the fuck?" Misha parroted, incredulous and sounding not just little bit hysterical even to himself, "We're done, asshole."
Jensen flinched, like they hadn't supposedly worked it all out over a month ago.
Misha laughed bitterly, "Next time I'll hire a plane to write it in the sky for you, nice and big and without too many complicated words, just the way you like it, right?"
He got up abruptly, standing still a moment so his head would stop spinning and to savor Jensen's aghast expression, and then he walked haltingly toward the grand staircase that stood along one wall. If he recalled correctly, there was a guest bathroom at the top. Misha ignored Jensen calling after him and took the stairs two at a time.
Misha had no idea how he made it up the stairs without breaking his neck, but he did. He leaned against a marble door frame for a second to catch his breath, not sure if he was going to puke or cry. A cool draft of air brushed across his face and neck, sending up goosebumps, and he realized he had accidentally stumbled all the way to the balcony at the end of the hall, completely missing the bathroom.
Following the breeze, Misha stepped out into the cool night air. The city lights made cool patterns across the city and he walked out onto the balcony surprisingly steadily, all the way to the edge so his hands were resting on the marble scroll railing.
The light pollution made sure Vancouver never saw true darkness, the light grids of houses and office buildings and apartments of its millions of inhabitants competing with the stars themselves and winning. None of humankind so called success made Misha feel any less fucked up. His stomach rolled in protest, but it was true.
It just wasn't fucking fair. Other people got to move on or pine or booty call an ex or do something with their lives... cool and meaningful, and he was just...stuck. Stuck in the middle somewhere, with no way up or down. Definitely no way out.
With the sounds of the party faint from out here, muffled by the sheer expanse of the house, Misha felt worlds away from the horde of people downstairs. He would have thought he was going numb except that the railing felt freezing under his fingers and he tightened his grip on the marble, his knuckles white, and stared at the expanse of faded stars.
Something flashed across the sky, a shooting star barely visible, but definitely there and not a blinking plane or satellite that he could tell. It crossed the sky in a little trail of far away fire.
"Make a wish," Misha advised the empty balcony in a hollow voice. Isn't there a poem or, like a rhyme you have to say first? Yeah probably. Well it wasn't like he believed in wishing on stars anyway. The shooting star kept burning in an arc across the sky, leaving a little scar behind it.
"I wish..." Misha faltered and changed course, "I just wish I didn't feel so lonely."
The shooting star fizzled out and Misha was left alone again. God he's pathetic.
"Great. Thanks, man. I appreciate that," Misha told the sky sarcastically. He stood on the balcony for another indefinite amount of time just staring at the lights. And then when the sun started to poke up on the rosy horizon, he went back inside and passed out on the four poster bed in a random guest bedroom.
__________________________________________
Voices buzzed around the room, and candles flickered around the room's edges, wax dripping off the edge of the tables and chairs. A rusted out porcelain bowl sink that looked like it was going to collapse any minute leaned in the corner.
Crew members were rushing back and forth across the room through pale squares of early morning light coming through the grimy windows, adding dust to the already hideous, grey walls with brushes and generally trying to look as busy as possible whenever the director looked up from his chair where he was tapping his clipboard impatiently.
A clawfoot bathtub was the centerpiece of the room, with hand-painted mold stippled along its edges, and a handsome man in a black polo and glasses stood in front of it. The man was reading off of a script with animated gestures to the dark-haired girl next to him, who looked to be in her late teens.
The young woman sighed, sounding exasperated at whatever the man had just said, and brushed her curly hair over her shoulder to bring attention to the shiny PA badge on her shirt. "I don't know why you're rehearsing, Hutch. You're not a speaking role, you don't have any lines."
The man might have rolled his eyes at her but it was impossible to tell because behind his metal-rimmed reading glasses the whites of his eyes were covered by black contacts. "Lorena, we've known each other for three years, you can call me Keith. And that is not true! I had to memorize a whole page-
"Two lines, Hutch."
"-Of latin." Keith Hutch ignored her and continued a little hysterically "This could be my big break, Lo, it needs to be perfect. Now quiz me," He handed his script to Lorena and adjusted his glasses nervously.
"Whatever you say, I guess... Anyway, do you know when Ms. Huffman will get here?" Lorena asked deflectively while absentmindedly polished her already gleaming badge with the corner of her shirt. Out of the corner she saw Andrew Dabb, at the studio overseeing the directing of his latest episode, glaring at them like practicing lines was a crime now.
"I dunno," Keith brought Lorena's attention back to their conversation, "Alaina's always late. I guess that's a perk of being a special guest..." Keith trailed off whistfully.
"Uhuhh," Lorena sounded incredulous. "You think the guests are bad, you should see some of the reacurrings. Misha Collins was two days late once, and we had to push filming back a whole week."
"No way." Keith gasped and leaned in too.
"Yes way, the producers were furious," Lorena looked around to make sure none of the busy crew members were listening and then licked her lips and lowered her voice. "But I overheard some of them, the producers, talking and they said Mr. Collins was late because he got mugged in an alley."
"No."
"Yes! Some guy threatened him at knife point, absolutely horrible," Lorena savoured the dismay on Keith's face "But lucky for Mr. Collins, he somehow managed to escape alive."
"Probably threw money at the guy until he left him alone," Keith shrugged.
"Maybe," Lorena relented, "But he seemed awfully shaken up for just a simple mugging. He didn't go to the police or anything."
"Oh come on," Keith scoffed. "How could you possibly know that?"
"I have my sources," Lorena leaned back with a smirk.
A shout from the director prevented any further speculation and the crew members stopped what they were doing to make way for him with Alaina Huffman in tow.
The director steered Alaina over to the bathtub and gave her a run down on what he wanted from the scene, accompanied by much clipboard tapping from Dabb.
Alaina Huffman was already in costume if you could call it that when it was just a nude thong and bra tape. The real "costume" was in her make-up and hair, the embodiment of golden age Hollywood with scarlett lipstick and not a curl out of place. You know, how every newly-ressurected demon looks just back from the dead. Another PA dusted some ash from a tupperware container onto Aaina's fingers and red polished nails.
Soon the lights were down, the candles all lit and happily dripping wax everywhere (shoes with traction were critical on set)
"Ready, take one, action."
Alaina crouched in the tub waiting for the queue for her dramatic "risen" moment and tried to avoid sitting in any of the goopy fake blood dropped in there by Keith in the previous shot. The PA's had cleaned the tub out but Alaina didn't trust their thoroughness and her suspicions were confirmed by a streak on the inner rim that she nearly avoided rubbing off with her wrist. The director gave her cue and she stood up slowly trying to channel some sort of inner demon.
"Cut! Retake. Alaina, stand up slower, more seductively. Okay, take two, action!"
Shivering in the air conditioned room, Alaina hunkered back down, biting back a comment about where the director could stick his seductiveness. And then, to make matters worse they had to do a bajillion more takes after that because the "mood wasn't right or something". Well it wasn't like she hadn't signed up for it with her career choice, but Alaina was just about boiling over, annoyed at the Director's mansplaining when she felt a low swirling feeling in her gut.
Still crouched in the tub for the ninth time she felt a shudder go through her body and something filling up her throat choking, suffocating her. She gagged soundlessly as the whatever it was filled her lungs and sinuses until she felt like her head was going to explode if her chest didn't first.
Distantly she could hear the Director was calling for the cameras to roll. No one noticed her sudden fit of panic.
She tried to hang onto the rim of the tub but it moved and she lost her balance.
The bathtub spun underneath her and rushed up to meet her, and then everything went black.
"Season nine, episode one. Scene two, take fifty-nine. Action."
Alaina rose to her feet slowly and smoothly, with all the patience and grace of a serial killer and stepped out of the tub.
Keith did his very best to act like he was cowering in front of a demon queen, which was suddenly easy, looking into the foggy, dead eyes of the actress in front of him. The corners of her mouth turned up in a parody of a smile completely different from her triumphant smile in previous takes, all the warmth gone from it.
Lorena wrinkled her nose at a waft of rotting eggs and she wrote a mental note to make sure none of the interns left their nasty lunch on set, those idiots. She massaged her closed eyelids in annoyance.
The camera operators tried not to blink as the take seems to stretch on for minutes.
The cameras panned into the woman standing in front of the bathtub. Lorena felt a strange sense of dread creep up her spine.
An intern looked up from the game on his phone for the first time that day like he sensed it too.
The director blinked, glancing between the take on the monitor and the real deal.
Lorena blinked.
Keith blinked.
Alaina blinked.
Her eyes went black.
---
"Uh oh," The red-headed woman said in a sing-song voice and flicked her hand at Keith's chest where he stood frozen. The young man shuddered violently and began to sink to his knees, coughing up blood, his helpless gurgling the only sound in the dead silence. Someone in the room screamed. The high-pitched, piercing sound wouldn't stop and after a moment Lorena realized it was her. Her mouth snapped shut, it felt bone dry. There was something dark and heavy permeating the room, a new center of gravity and it had every molecule in her body straining toward the actress in the center of the room.
Alaina clicked her tongue, tsk tsk, and waved her hand at the two interns watching open mouthed and they both slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor. "Not quite the reception I was hoping for."
Lorena ran to where Keith was lying eaglespread on the floor. He looked horribly, horribly still and Lorena kneeled by him and shook his shoulders, not caring that tears were streaming down her cheeks. "Wake up, Keith. Please."
She tried to feel for his pulse but she couldn't find it. She hoped it was because she had failed Health Science in high school and not because he was-
"Dead," A voice said sweetly.
Lorena raised her head to see a pair of ivory sculpted legs standing a few feet in front of her. A sob broke in her throat. Her best friend was dead and now she was going to die.
Fingers grasped her hair and yanked her to her feet easily. She tried not to show how scared she was as the red haired actress put her face inches from her own.
"Look around," The woman whispered.
Lorena shook her head resolutely and Alaina twisted her neck around so hard Lorena thought it might break and she whimpered but stopped trying to hide her face. Lorena gazed around the room. Tears fogged her vision, but not enough to hide the terrible scene before her.
No. Nonono. Every single person in the room was slumped over in bright red puddles and fogged out eyes. This can't be happening.
Alaina jerked her head around to look at her again. Lorena avoided her black eyes and looked to the side with her eyes even if she couldn't move her head from the iron grip it was clutched in. Over Alaina's shoulder she could see a person sitting with their back against the wall.
It was the writer. Andrew Dabb was propped up on the wall, his lifeless hand still clutched around his stupid clipboard, and his shoes black with blood. The whites of his eyes stared back at Lorena.
Another scream was ripped from her throat directly into Alaina's ear. When the actress shuddered, Lorena did not hold it back. She hoped the murderer broke an eardrum.
"Ouch," Alaina pouted, her eyes turned grey again, and she pinched Lorena's chin harshly. "That wasn't very nice."
Lorena's head was tilted to the side firmly and in a snap of pain the world went dark.
---
Abaddon stood over the wreckage of the filthy room that had drawn the demon's resurrection off course. They stepped neatly over the body of that dumb screaming girl and made their way toward the door, weaving around the drying blood puddles that were scattered across the wooden floorboards.
It was a regretable really.
That they hadn't thought to keep one of the humans alive in their rage. Abaddon could have interrogated them and found out what drew them to this universe. The vessel seemed satisfactory, a little weak in the knees perhaps, but it would do, and now... They chuckled out loud, the chilling sound filling the empty space. Now they didn't need little Miss Josie Sands.
A wicked smile split across their face. They gathered their demonic essence together and prepared to travel across this universe's bounds to their own universe, a large jump even by a Knight of Hell's standard.
The rush of power that went through Abaddon had their eyes clouding over black again. They concentrated on the flow of space woven around them and reached out with one hand toward the subtle boundary between worlds, but quickly recoiled with a snarl. Their power had hit a wall.
The boundary was still there, they could feel the scars in the fabric from when the resurrection spell sent them hurtling into this universe, but it was just out of reach. They were not strong enough to cross it, or even touch it. They were trapped.
The demon howled in frustration. They spun around to face the room and let out a piercing scream. The cameras around them exploded outward in a wash of burning plastic and broken glass, and a second later Abaddon folded over heaving and clutching their abdomen. A fire alarm somewhere started to ring. Light powdered glass drifted gently down from the ceiling like rain. It did not sting Abaddon's skin, but opened a thousand tiny cuts across their arms and face. A thin train of blood wound down from where a particularly large piece hit their temple. The demon took a racking breath, vision tinged in red.
Trapped.