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

Chapter Twenty

If my nightmares were bad before, they're a million times worse now that my relationship with Misha has been exposed to my mom.

JJ has been doing better, which means Misha was right. In spite of this progress, I'm anxious.

I know I have to tell Misha. I can hear his saddened voice in my dreams when he finds out from my mom. So this is what it feels like finding out that someone you love has been keeping something big from you...

I have to call him. 

But I don't want to. I can't bear the thought of what he might say. He could very justifiably call me out on my sloppiness, my stupidity and carelessness. He could argue that I don't take us seriously enough to be careful around my family.

I need to take a break from the mental debate and unwind, so I head down to the stables for the third time this week. I've appropriated it as my getaway in Misha's absence.

Everything is designed in an impressive and professional manner, from the smart setup of the stable block to the neatness of the barns and yard. Huge, leafy trees border the gravel path on both sides of the driveway, leading down to the main yard. A trio of enormous, white-painted barns are situated around the circular yard, and beyond that are endless acres of grazing land. Potted flowers hang from either end of the barn doors, and leafy saplings provide shade on the main yard. Everything is set strategically, and not a wisp of straw is out of place.

I stifle a yawn as I toss the saddle deftly over Scarlet's warm back. It's not particularly early, about nine in the morning.

Dani's gone off to see the doctor again despite my reassurance that she needn't fret so much, and JJ's at school - and I don't particularly fancy the idea of being trapped at home with my parents all day.

The filly paws at the straw with her hoof, eying me sleepily. Through the skylights above, pastel shades of pink, orange and yellow flood the barn with morning light. I pull the headpiece over the filly's ears and tighten the throat latch.

Having fixed the bridle in place, I rub Scarlet's velvety muzzle. I've been riding her ever since we moved to Malibu, enough time to forge some kind of connection. She's a valuable animal, racehorse material, but I prefer to keep her for pleasure riding. I think she's acclimated well to this lifestyle, though, better than to the rigorous demands of the track.

The big black horse rustles across the straw and rests her nose gently against my shoulder.

Clicking softly to her, I walk her into the least crowded training ring. She jogs excitedly under the saddle as I mount her and lead her in after a teenaged boy astride a striking chestnut.

The track is oval-shaped, sort of like a squashed doughnut, with an inside rail and white-painted lanes dividing the ring into speed zones. Neon orange cones are set up along the tracks, marking the distance in furlongs.

As I settle into the black's long, fluid strides, I delight in the keen vigor with which the horse's muscles seem to work.

Instructors call out from their position, perched on the top fence rail.

"Warm him up with a canter along the outside rail, moving in a clockwise direction," one calls to a sandy-haired woman riding a grey stallion.