That's When We Uncover [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Five

Cold lead sinks down to my chest, settling in my gut, and my eyes fly open on a sharp intake of breath.

I feel like the bottom has fallen out of my world.

But it's just a nightmare...

Heart stammering, I grope for the blanket and drag it up under my chin.

"You okay?" Dani cracks an eye open and studies me blearily, snuggled against my side.

My throats rasps like sandpaper and I swallow with difficulty.

"I'm fine," I lie reflexively. Except there's a gnawing ache in my heart so palpable I half expect to see the russet stain of blood when I peer down at my chest.

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, Dani hums contently, and her breath deepens into the rhythm of sleep once more.

I lie awake, staring blindly at the ethereal folds of the thin white muslin curtains wafting gently in the circulating air. Through the open windows, the palest duck-egg blue tints the sky like a wash, and I know it can't be later than four in the morning.

My muscles are jittery, skin clammy and trembling with the aftershocks of my nightmare, refusing to grant me respite.

So I sit on the edge of the luxury king-sized mattress, drenched in a numb, hollow sensation and the stillness of the pre-dawn hour.

Slipping out of bed, I step over the script pages sprawled haphazardly across the floor as I make my way to the bathroom. I'll have to study them after dropping JJ off at preschool.

Giving up on sleep altogether, I drag my sorry, self-pitying ass into the shower and stand limply under the hot jets, gasping as the water gushes scalding hot.

After towelling myself roughly, my gaze falls on my reflection in the large, lighted mirror. I smear a hand through the condensation fogging the glass, peering into it almost searchingly.

Deep, viridian green eyes stare back at me. But they don't tell me anything, just staring at me like I'm the ugliest little shitter that ever existed.

I feel nauseous.

But I know I don't really need to hurl. If I'm being perfectly honest, I'm not sure what my problem is, except that it isn't physical.

And yet, my body seems to know, because my legs carry me out of the bedroom and down the dark hallway to Misha's door almost of their own accord. My hand reaches out of its own volition, hovering over his doorknob.

Friggin' child, I berate myself snidely. I'm no better than JJ.

But my need for Misha manifests itself in physical symptoms, my ears craving the texture and timbre of his voice, every cell in my body screaming for him to fold me up in his arms and hold me.

So I slip furtively into the dim interior, my eyes immediately zeroing in on Misha's sleeping form.

The pale sunlight pooling on the bed brings out the rosy glow in his skin, enhancing the curve of his cheekbones and the strawberry pinkness of his plump lips, slightly parted in sleep.

Heart clawing with a palpable ache to be near him, I lope towards the bed and climb under the covers. The sheets rustle loudly as I shift until we're nose-to-nose, Misha's every exhalation a blessing on my collarbone. Nestled against his firm chest, swaddled in his blankets, I finally feel at ease.