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

Chapter Twenty-One

The sun still crawls its way up the sky the next morning, just like always. I slide out from under the covers and pad groggily across to the bedroom door, like always.

Nothing has changed, as far as the world is concerned.

And if the sun continues to inch its way across the sweep of blue, bathing the world in the same warm, ethereal glow, then I can do this too. I can move on. At least, I can move my feet one by one and trudge down the winding staircase.

I'm okay. I'll be fine; I just have to think past the pain. I can do that; I've always done that. My various trainers have taught me to think past the pain during a workout; this is no different. I can suppress it, confine it into a little ball and don a mask of indifference and go about my life like normal.

Anyways, this is for the best; Misha said so himself. This way, nobody will ever find out because there's nothing to be discovered. No secret to expose. I'm no longer doing anything wrong. I can go back to being a loving husband and father, free of the burden of guilt. I can be a role model. I hope the fans are happy now.

My body moves on autopilot, shuffling almost mechanically through the morning motions. Dry-eyed and dazed, I open the cupboards and root through them for some coffee. I grind the beans and start the coffee machine. I open the fridge, pull out the eggs. I oil up the frying pan. I grab plates. Open the window. Even wipe down the counters with citrusy wipes as I cook.

The kitchen takes on a savoury fragrance as I crack the eggs and mix in fresh green pepper and Romanian farmers' sausage, the way I've watched Misha make omelettes.

Still numb, I pick up JJ's discarded toys from the living room floor. I fix the couch cushions, sweep the hallway floor. I even open the front door and shake the doormat clean of dirt and dust.

Then I set the table for the family and even manage to down a glass of water and a small portion of omelette myself. Between my insomnia and the show schedule that's thrown my circadian rhythm out of whack, I am once again the only conscious person in the house.

Still moving mechanically, I head out to my workshop. I turn on the lights and flip the switch that powers the room. The machines hum to life simultaneously with an almost defeating roar. I'm sufficiently acclimated as not to require earplugs anymore. I don my safety glasses and grab one of the shorter, wooden planks sitting in the bin I've relegated to my shed project.

I push it against the steel band of the saw, its teeth rotating on two wheels as it slices through the board. I barely even have to look at the guides and readings located above and below the blade, I'm so in tune with the machine. It's a fourteen-inch floor model, similar to the one my dad taught me how to use when I was younger. The space also contains drills, jointers, power saws, sanders, even a wooden table I built myself as one of my earliest woodworking projects.

I don't know how much time I spend working in here, trying to ignore the open, oozing wound of sorrow burning somewhere in my chest.

But it's resisting me, growing in spite of my efforts. I switch off the machine at long last and move over to the table, grabbing a hammer and a handful of nails along the way. I align the two boards I'm melding at just the right angle, lightly marking the wood with a pencil. Gripping them tightly with my left hand, I use the right to tap at the first nail with my hammer, moving my wrist in a practiced, dropping motion as the nail eases into the pliable wood.

The ring on that hand glimmers in the morning twilight.

I apply gradually increasing pressure, making sure the nail goes in straight. The loud thwacking of the metal against the wood fills my ears, and then emotion - real, raw, unprocessed, pure - overwhelms me and I'm hammering relentlessly against the planks. Even after the nail is completely driven in, I continue my vicious assault, beating at the wood with unrepressed fury. Hot tears burn like acid behind my eyes but I refuse to let them spill.