The shoot

Even though my body’s still buzzing from last night’s adrenaline and intimacy, I’m out cold just after midnight. The bourbon helped. So did the evening with "Claire". I wake to the sound of Kansas blaring through my phone, “Carry On My Wayward Son.” On brand, I smirk as I roll out of bed and tug on a simple black T-shirt, worn jeans, and my beat-up black Converse.

It's not even a minute past 7 when there’s a knock at the door.

I swing it open and meet Marcellus. The man is huge. Towering. Makes my 6’7” frame feel like I’m a child. Impeccable suit. Skin like obsidian. Voice smooth as warm caramel.

“Mr. Delgado,” he says, offering a hand big enough to palm a steering wheel. “I’m Marcellus, your driver.”

I shake it—barely. My whole damn shoulder almost detaches from the sheer power of it.

“Pleasure, Marcellus. But please—call me Joe.” I say, my voice shaking from the ****.

He gestures to my portfolio case. “May I take your bag?”

I nod, slinging the strap off my shoulder. “Sure thing.”

The limo’s idling right outside my studio apartment building. Two-tenant building, old bones, good heat. I wonder if the upstairs neighbors clocked the ride—or heard my new entertainment system roaring through Borderlands 3 after binging a few more Supernatural episodes.

Inside the limo: steaming cup of Café Bustelo, an old-fashioned donut, and a bacon egg McMuffin. Iris knows me. Spoils me.

The ride’s smooth. Manhattan’s quiet for once. We pull up to the studio just past 8, and I’m ushered onto set.

They’re all here. And so is "Baby", parked like royalty in the corner. The real deal—or at least one of the screen-used beauties. Probably not Jensen’s or Jared’s, but I'm not arguing.

Kim Rhodes is in a chair getting a prosthetic wound applied to her ribcage, the special effects technician hiding blood tubes. Brianna’s in a blood-soaked tank, fake gore dripping from her forearms. Clark, Katherine, and Yadira huddle over a small script written up based on my storyboards.

And there - off to the side - Eric Kripke and Kathryn Newton, standing in front of blown-up the storyboards I drew. My sketches, raw and black-inked, now larger than life.

Kathryn spots me first. “There he is!”

I barely have time to wave before I’m wrapped in greetings—handshakes, hugs, back claps. There’s a row of director’s chairs lined up with names stitched in white. Eric Kripke. Kim Rhodes. Brianna Buckmaster. Kathryn Newton... Then I see one more.

Joe Delgado.

I blink. “Is that my name?”

They laugh—kind, proud.

“Of course,” Eric says. “You’re our creative consultant.”

My jaw ticks. “Wait, what?”

A hand taps my shoulder—Iris. Clipboard in hand, calm as always.

“I renegotiated,” she says, flipping through pages. “You’re not just doing the ad campaign. You're on the creative team now.” She rubs her fingers together—the international symbol for more cash. “Better for you means better for me.”

I grin, floored. Look around at this "decaying set" that looks like it was dragged out of a forgotten stretch of backwoods Mississippi.

“This is incredible,” I say. “It actually looks like it smells decrepit.”

“You gave us a hell of a blueprint, Joe,” Eric says, gesturing to the boards. “You drew these freehand?”

I nod, suddenly embarrassed.

“They’re damn good,” he adds, tapping the anti-possession symbol on Claire’s collarbone shot. “You do that from memory?”

I shrug. “What can I say… I’m a fan.”

Eric gets pulled away. Kathryn sidles up beside me, sipping coffee. “This can’t be your first time on a set.”

I shake my head. “It’s my first time one was built off my designs. Usually I just say something vague like rooftop or beach, and someone else does the dirty work.”

She nods toward the team in motion. “It won’t take long. Most of the shots are locked. Then—”Well, look who decided to join us.” She continues, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she looks past me.

I turn, eyes locking on a figure in tan.

Misha Collins.

In full Castiel attire. Trench coat, white shirt, loose tie, but with the warm smile he shares in his social media presence.

I freeze, fanboy instincts overriding my professionalism.

“Mr. Collins,” I blurt.

He waves it off. “It’s Misha. Please.”

I laugh, shaking his hand. “Of course. Honored to meet you.”

“I’ve heard all about you,” he says. “Kathryn said your pitch was too good to pass up. Wish I’d been there for it.”

“You should’ve seen him,” Kathryn chimes in. “He had the whole concept minutes after getting hired. We were just gonna shoot a promo—now it’s a full teaser for Supernatural-Con.”

“I only have one line,” Misha jokes, heading to craft services. “Shouldn't be able to screw that up.” He says and makes a bee-line for the craft service table, his presence already lifting the energy on set.

Then Eric returns—looking grim.

“We’ve got a problem,” he says.

“What kind?” Kathryn asks.

“The guy cast as the tattoo artist? He’s in holding. Bar fight. Judge won’t see him till Monday.”

I wince. There’s nothing worse than talent going missing on shoot day, I think.

A pause. Then Kathryn: “Why not let Joe play him?”

Eric and I both blink.

She grins. “We’re already set up. He knows the scene. And he can draw the symbol.”

Eric looks at me. “You game?”

I glance at the props table. The fake tattoo gun. The makeup already placed under Kathryn’s collarbone.

“How do I use that?” I ask, picking up the tattoo gun, examining it.

“It’s a prop,” Eric reassures. “Inkless. Just for show. You’d be tracing, not tattooing.”

I look at Iris. She raises an eyebrow, I know she heard the situation, that's part of her job, and she rubs her fingers together again—ka-ching.

I turn back to Kathryn and Eric. The cast is still laughing, prepping, stretching, unaware of the mini-crisis.

I take a deep breath, a smirk playing on my lips as I imagine the scene. “Count me in."

Kathryn claps her hands, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Perfect." She says. Eric cuts in, "Let’s get you into wardrobe and makeup. We shoot in thirty.”

As I follow make my way to wardrobe, I can’t help but feel a rush of excitement. This is what I live for—the adrenaline, the creativity, the chance to bring my visions to life.

The wardrobe assistant hands me a worn leather jacket, to go over my black t-shirt. I'm given some beat-up jeans and they ask my shoe size when they hand me some Timberlands. I change quickly, and am ushered into make-up, where the makeup artist then gets to work, adding some fake blood and grime to my face, making me look like I’ve been through a fight.

As I stand in front of the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I look like a badass—rugged, dangerous... like a fellow "hunter".

Kathryn enters the room, her eyes widening as she takes in my transformation. “Damn, Joe. Nice shiner,” she says, referring to the "black eye" placed on my cheek, a playful smirk on her lips.

"Thanks, Kathryn.” .

She laughs, her eyes sparkling with excitement “We're needed on set. You ready?” she asks.

I nod, . “Let’s do it,” I say, my voice filled with anticipation and promise.

As we make our way back to the set, I can feel the energy shifting. The cast and crew are buzzing with excitement, eager to see what I’ve got. I can feel their eyes on me, their curiosity and anticipation palpable.

I take my position on set, the fake tattoo gun in my hand, my heart pounding with excitement. This is it—the moment I’ve been waiting for. The chance to prove myself, to show them what I’m made of.

Kathryn takes her place on the chair, facing me, her collarbone exposed. I can see the fake blood and gore already applied, the wound looking realistic and gruesome. Eric watches the monitor as the camera man sets up near us.

I lean in, and then she surprises me when she lowers the shirt off her shoulder and exposes her left breast, which she covers with her right hand. Eric takes his eyes off the monitor for a moment and takes in the newer, more erotic improvisation, then just shrugs.

She nods “Ready.”

Eric calls out to me and Kathryn. "Action."

I turn on the fake tattoo gun, the buzzing sound filling the room as I begin to trace the anti-possession symbol under her collarbone. My palm and wrist rest against the upper side of her breast, covered in her hand as I trace the outline, the ink applying looking almost real. I catch a quick glimpse of Kathryn, who looks away just as I do and wonder if I see what I saw. Did Kathryn just bite her lower lip?

I feel her take a deep breath, her and her heart beating against my wrist, keeping a steady hand despite the sudden nudity.

The set is silent, the only sound the buzzing of the tattoo gun and the occasional direction from Eric. I can feel the cast and crew watching us, their eyes intense and focused.

As I finish the tattoo, I lean back, admiring my work. The symbol is perfect, the lines clean and precise, the fake blood and gore adding to the realism.

Kathryn turns to face me, her eyes shining with excitement and something more—gratitude, maybe. “Thank you,” she says, in character.

I smile, my voice dipping to match the universe.

As the crew begins to set up for the next shot, I can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. I did it—I stepped up, took the challenge, and delivered.

The day continues, a blur of takes and retakes, laughter and camaraderie. I take over the camera, getting the other shots, Kim "stitches" her own "wound". Brianna washes her hands in a sink, the girls perform a ritual with a crystal on a string over a map. The lighting up runes will be added digitally later I'm told. And then I get to hear the iconic line, now said by Misha. "Sam's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

As the shoot winds down, cast and crew gather around the set like kids at a surprise party they’re struggling not to spoil. Joe wipes his hands on a towel, fake ink and makeup smudged on his forearms. He’s still riding the high of improvising on set—Claire’s tattoo scene went off without a hitch, and Misha even ad-libbed a line that made Brianna snort coffee out her nose, it would easily make the gag reel.

Then Iris clears her throat.

There’s a hush—just enough to notice. Even Misha stops mid-chew.

“I’ve got one last surprise,” she says, stepping forward in her sharp blazer, phone in one hand, folder in the other. “I negotiated. I worked hard. And maybe I used one or two Jedi mind tricks. But…”

She nods to a production assistant, who pushes open the side lot doors. In rolls the unmistakable glint of black metal.

An Impala.

Not a replica. Not a model.

An actual Impala.

My legs almost give out. But I'm caught—literally—by Misha on one side and Eric on the other as laughter erupts around us.

“Easy there, tiger,” Eric chuckles.

Iris steps forward, dangling a set of keys from her finger, her smile smug but proud. “It took some work. But Eric really made it happen.”

My eyes are getting glassy and I can barely speak.

“She’s not perfect,” Iris adds. “Engine needs a tune-up. Interior needs love. But… she’s yours.”

The keys land in my hand, cold, hard, but altogether wonderful.

I can hear my voice crack. “This… this is insane.”

Eric slaps him on the back. “No. This is earned.”

Misha just smiles, one eyebrow raised. “Try not to cry, man. You’re gonna ruin your ink.”