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

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After spilling my story to an awed and mostly speechless Jared, I hang up with the promise of calling him again in the morning. This will be easier for both of us when we're both fully awake, functioning and cognizant. I get the impression Jared still thinks he's being pranked, and given how far the cast has gone in the past, I don't blame him.

Back inside the house, I kick my shoes off before stumbling up the stairs to my bedroom. Still empty.

I yank my shirt over my head and stumble into the shower. I flatten my hands on the shower wall, head tucked to my chest, watching as the water cascades over me and swirls down the drain. Looking up, I survey my appearance in the fogged glass of the shower wall.

The man that I see isn't at all who I thought he'd be. There's a hardness to the eyes peering back at me, a tightness to my brow that speaks to the deep, crippling longing inside me, so bad it causes a fierce, physical ache. It isn't stopping. It's spreading, consuming me and slowly snuffing out my life.

The defeated set of my jaw, the vacant look in my eyes, have me wondering, how long is this gonna last? I've been trying to find my way without him but I haven't got a clue.

I brace my forearms on either side of my reflection and implore my own eyes: tell me, when will this end? When will I finally come to accept that Misha isn't here to kiss away the pain anymore? Why can't I give up on him? Show me what to do, I beg nobody in particular.

After showering the backyard dirt from my body, I towel off and snag Misha's sweats from the closet, taking them to bed with me.

Clambering underneath the duvet, I let my eyes fall shut and bury my forehead in the soft material, breathing him in, drinking him up, needing him something fierce.

I cling to the clothing for dear life, like his lingering scent is the only thing keeping me alive. And just for a moment I let myself believe that he's here in my arms. I imagine I'm sliding my hand over the slim curve of his hip, fingers slowly nudging the waistband down and, why? Why can't I have him for just one more fucking night?

I reach over to pluck my alarm clock off the nightstand and swaddle it in the Misha-scented fabric. Its steady ticking will be the heartbeat that lulls me to sleep tonight.

I position the lumpy mass under my head like a makeshift pillow and my eyes drag shut, Misha's name a tired slur falling from my lips before the reassuring combination of the steady, artificial pulse and his familiar scent pull me under.

As sleep claims me, I hope that Vicki's treating him right, that Jen and Sen are doing okay. And wherever he is right now, in a different bed, a different country, I hope he knows it isn't where he's supposed to be.

***

Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling bedroom window in my boxers, I watch the sun rise over the bustling city, coffee mug in hand.

Dawn creeps in slowly, stealthily suffusing the sky with ethereal light. The sounds of Christmas Eve traffic are a dull, grating sound in my ears as I sip from the bitter dark roast, eyes locked blankly on some distant focal point outside the window.

The doorknob turns some time later, and I sense Dani steal quietly into the room. Glancing askance at my wife, I lift the coffee mug to my lips.