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

Chapter Thirty-One

I throw back my tequila and slide the shot glass down the bar until it clanks with my empties. One last shot, one last hit of blessed liquid oblivion.

"Trouble in paradise?" 

I don't have to look up to know that Jensen is smirking at me. Grinning when the glass rolls precariously on its base, like a basketball circling the net, before righting itself. "Hi."

"Shut up," I snap reflexively.

I've been dragging my ass through the week, strung out on that battery acid the crew call coffee and missing my family, but Jensen - the little shit - seems completely unaffected and maybe even a little too chipper.

He rolls his eyes. "Pleasantries are over, I see."

Anger flushes in my cheeks, unspoken frustration bubbling forth in my chest. Jensen's been running irritatingly hot and cold all week, one minute his startlingly-green eyes heating my skin as they rake over my face and body, and the next acting like nothing more than a pitifully platonic friend. One minute his lip is curling in a positively devious, your-ass-belongs-to-me-now smirk, and the next I think I'm crazy for having these lewd imaginings when he clearly sees me as a brother.

"I think you've had enough," he says after a pause, voice dropping intimately.

I snort. Of course he's all righteous and sober and shit while I'm down in the dumps.

He must think he's hot stuff, getting to drive around at work all day in a pristine vintage muscle car, with that chiseled jaw and those big, girlish eyes... Stupid, beautiful, infuriating actor with his gorgeously tight ass.

I'll just drink until my liver accepts that life sucks.

That's my plan. I pick up the newly filled glass and study the gold liquid before setting it aside. But maybe he's right.

I slide off the stool, chair legs screeching across the worn linoleum, and catch the edge of the bar with a shaky hand when the floor seems to slant away. I squeeze my eyes shut, disoriented.

"What the fu-" My eyes snap open and the question freezes on my tongue. Somehow I manage to make English emerge from my lips. "Hi," I swallow, the sides of my throat scraping with sudden dryness.

My knees quake, and I know I can't attribute all of that unsteadiness to the variety of liquor I've consumed tonight.

The last time I saw Jensen today was in character. As Dean, lying in bed on set, looking beat all to hell, sweaty and dirty and mussed up and fuck, ten kinds of sexy.

I'd thought that was something.

Now, Jensen is wearing a charcoal three-piece with a fine grey pinstripe and narrow lapel, the jacket fitting him like a second skin. Five-button waistcoat that nips his waist in tight, stopping just shy of the buckle of his belt... I swallow and train my eyes on the Windsor knot of the dark green tie, avoiding his gaze. Must've had a photoshoot or something.

"Hey, careful," Jensen grunts. He reaches out to steady me, but I swat his hand away.

Jensen stands back, swirling the amber liquid around the square cubes of ice in his seemingly untouched glass, looking like a true, patronizing asshole. Especially in that suit.