Nobody Sees, Nobody Knows [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

Jensen's grin is tight as he struggles in vain to catch his breath and I groan miserably, adjusting my sopping jeans, a hard ache clawing through my groin to settle in my midsection with a tormenting burn of hunger.

Outwardly cool, the rush of blood in my ears is deafening, every pulse beat an obscenity. I roll my neck, close my eyes, and start counting to nine billion.

But the shattering crash of a wave slapping against the side of the canoe crushes the air from my lungs all over again and I have to stop, steady myself in the chilling water, fighting for each breath.

The frogs and crickets are a cacophony in the cool night air as Jensen peers at me.

I wonder if he can see the pulse jump in my throat, if he feels the same whip of blood through his veins.

We take a moment to regain our composure, and I draw a hand shakily over my face. Goddammit, Jared... This is not an end I could've prepared for.

I vow to figure my shit out before I lose my fucking mind.

When my brain finally comes back online, I start groping blindly for our shirts. It's too dark to see properly, but Jensen manages to right the canoe and after a minute or so I snatch up the discarded clothing, heavy and dripping wet in my hands. Well, this should be fun to explain to everyone.

We climb back in, shivering and soaked through, and I'm ready to write all of this off as Shit That Happens When Jensen's Drunk, when he clears his throat unexpectedly.

"I, uh, meant what I said, you know," Jensen mutters, scratching the back of his neck before passing me an oar. "You...you are...a really beautiful man."

And what, pray tell, is this supposed to mean?

Trying to ignore the prickly feeling at the base of my skull, I wonder what the hell to do with this new punch of awareness blooming from my chest to my fingertips. Jensen has never exactly focused a campaign of flirtatious commentary and attention in my direction before. And I would appreciate it mightily if he didn't start now.

"Um," I reply - very eloquent - because, really, what can I say without coming across as an arrogant douchebag? But then, that must be how he expects me to respond: the way I always do. Right. I blink once before letting out a startled huff of laughter. "That is the general consensus, yes."

I'm fully prepared for his eyes to crinkle into a nonchalant smile, for a quick-witted, self-conscious quip about how he's getting so soft he can practically feel the makings of a uterus, or maybe some sex-infused innuendo we can laugh over. He'd normally nudge me in the ribs and give me a bawdy wink right about now. After all, it's Jensen: gruff, standoffish, noncommittal Jensen Ackles. He doesn't take shit seriously; Dani always jokes that he doesn't have a romantic bone in his body.

So why the hell have two spots of colour sprung into his cheeks, mouth turned grimly downward?

"Forget I said anything," he replies coolly. "Must be the booze talking."

Now I'm convinced the universe has decided to fuck with me. My life is quickly becoming a live action soap opera.

Jensen's shoulders roll back as he rows and I notice a slight tremor in his arms. The silence stretches until I scratch self-consciously at my chin.