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

Chapter Forty-Five

"You're crazy," Misha repeats, awkwardly shifting his weight on the shore.

"Come on, Mish. Live dangerously. It's fun."

"I'm all for dangerous living," Misha returns testily, "but this is just stupid. You really need photos of you skinny dipping in a lake surfacing all over the Internet?"

"Nobody's gonna see us," I assure him with waning patience. "What are you, chicken?"

"What are you, twelve?"

"On a scale of one to ten?" A coy grin splits my face. "Yeah."

Misha humbles me with a waspish glare.

"Look," I promise, wading back towards him. "There's no one around here. Nobody can see us, just trust me. If you're embarrassed, you can keep your underwear on."

"I'm not embarrassed," Misha scowls, tossing a furtive glance over his shoulder.

"So strip to prove you're not lying," I grin slyly.

Misha's stance remains reticent, with a clear pang of self-consciousness. Or maybe just plain decency.

"Okay," he relents at length.

I knew the daredevil inside him wouldn't be able to resist for long. He's too reckless at heart, a glimmer of his old, mischievous self having fortunately survived this transformation into the sensible family man he's been trying to become.

Misha's hands flutter, hesitant, over the hem of his shirt. "Turn around."

I cock my head in an incredulous really gesture.

"There ain't nothing there I ain't already seen before," I drawl, unable to dispel the huskiness in my voice. "Now, are you coming in sometime this millennium or what?"

Misha looks around one last time, checking to make sure the coast is really clear, before pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

Releasing a long, drawn-out sigh, I shift in the water, prepared to turn around and give him some privacy, when Misha clears his throat.

"It's, uh, fine. If you want to watch, I mean."

I hike a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug, but inwardly I'm throwing fucking confetti.

Misha swallows self-consciously, and I follow the tan sweep of skin down to the hollow of his throat, bared by the open collar of his shirt, to marvel at the bobbing of his Adam's apple. His fingers find the hem of his shirt and pull upwards, slowly revealing inch after inch of glorious, golden flesh. Slim hips and toned midsection, broadening into strong shoulders that ripple as he shrugs out of the material. It slips to the ground, brushing like silk against his sun-kissed skin, and Misha shivers slightly in the cool air.

My salacious grin falters as I watch the moonlight dance and play across the smooth planes of his torso, shimmering with the reflection of the ripping water. It's beautiful how it accentuates every curve, every shadow: a game of light across sinewy tendons that flex as he works off his jeans. The belt buckle is undone with a soft clink and the brisk rasp of leather on denim, and then his jeans are sliding down firm, muscular thighs to his knees, and my mouth dries. He could kill me with just those thighs. Although, if I'm honest with myself, dying by them wouldn't be such a bad thing. Toned quads flex slightly beneath his skin as he shifts his weight, shaking the jeans loose and kicking them aside. His shoes and socks are next, and then his fingers are tugging at the waistband of his briefs - a godawful burnt orange, of course - pulling them down.