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

Chapter Twenty-Three

It's only when I swing my fist around, landing it in the wooden shelving, that the searing pain finally registers.

It shoots through my palm, drawing my attention to the thin veil of sweat coating my body, the pungent breadth of silence around me, the rivers of red, raised lines on my skin. I stare at them, dumbfounded, each shaky breath escaping between my lips with a shudder.

I've snapped.

I've finally snapped under the weight of this burden. But my stupid, dilapidated heart doesn't get it, atria and ventricles pulsing in union to keep me tethered to a life I don't want.

I slump against the wooden table leg and sink in a heap on the floor, cradling my head in my hands, knees pulled up towards my gnawing, empty chest.

I remain in this disposition of resolute defeat, hollow and raw with betrayal, a terrible curdling in my stomach that threatens to empty itself again, trying to reassemble myself. Time is a meaningless concept now, and I don't know how much of it trickles by, nor do I care.

My dad ventures out to find me around lunch time, urging me to stop working and take a goddamn break, but the chastisement dies on his lips when he gets a good look at me. I don't bother to explain that anger and loss have left a gnawing wound in my stomach that would make eating impossible. He wouldn't understand that Misha's absence is a very physical ailment, an aching in the crevices of my bones like a cancerous sore.

He treats my hands, but doesn't know what else to do. Granted, he's never found his son in the throes of anxiety such as this before. I am not a man who cries. I haven't made time for tears, not like this, in decades. Now my eyes are freaking industrial factories of that shit. It's pathetic, and this thought spurs me to rise to my feet and follow him back to the house.

I clean up so as to look presentable for my family, join Dani in bottle-feeding, changing and bathing the babies, all the while ignoring the upheaval of my heart.

I move through the days on autopilot, jaded and dazed, feeling the winded crush of my soul gradually breaking down.

Face pulled thin, eyes heavy, I answer when spoken to but don't volunteer any information regarding my state, not even to my concerned wife. We sleep in the same bed, have breakfast at the same table, but we're like strangers. If it weren't for the babies consuming almost every waking second of our existence, I would spend all day in the workshop.

I only leave the shop when the night is a cobalt black outside the windows, the glow of the house an inviting beacon in the deep darkness.

Winter's kiss is marked in the snap of chill in the air, permeated by the sounds of traffic and the deep, braying bark of a dog.

I trudge through the front door, kicking off my shoes and pocketing my keys, taking in the dark woods and jewelled tones adoring the walls. This is my home, the flagrant décor accented by mahogany and the scent of Dani's jasmine tea. It's beautiful, lavish, decked out with holiday trimmings and crystal chandeliers. And it feels empty, devoid of the only thing that matters to me.

Even in shallow sleep, my heart continues to ache for what it can't have. It shudders as I toss and turn in the sheets, chills racing down my spine. He's there, rolling up the shore of my memories.

In my dreams we're lying in bed together, sunlight melting through the window and dancing across the delicious planes of his body, sheets slung haphazardly across his hips. It's vivid, detailed. The contours of his hands, so smooth and warm and supple with their long, dainty fingers. The dark hair curled around his ears, the faintest kiss of blush suffusing his sharp cheekbones. The exact curvature of his smile, lips spreading slowly over pearlescent teeth, cheeks tainted with a warm flush and head lightly head bowed with adorable boyishness. It's all there.