so yeah I only have like one point in the grande scheme of things planned at all for this and idk how to get there...
but thanks for all of your reviews you guys! w
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He wakes to a flickering light, the bulb blinking along with unsteady energy. The ceiling has a fat water stain in the far corner, and Castiel finds that he's disappointed yet again.
Despair washes over him, and he wants to scream; he wants to rage and cry and throw himself from the highest structure; he wants to unfurl his wings and fly away, why whywhywhyhashisFatherforsakenhimso—
His body seizes, and he arches up off the bed at the sudden pain. He chokes, and stomach acid burns at the back of his throat. Castiel leans over the edge of the bed and vomits up a chunky clear liquid onto the floor. He wants to die. How hard can that be. Humans die at the drop of a hat, from disease, a tumble down a flight of steps, a fist to the temple. Why must it elude him, something as fucking simple. Fuck you, Lucifer.
Springs in the cot squeak as he flops back onto them. Inhaling deeply, he screws his eyes shut tightly, and grips onto the scratchy sheets underneath him. He digs his nails as hard as he can into the cloth, his lips curling apart as he grits his teeth. A pulsating red bleeds in behind his eyes, and he constricts his lungs, holding his breath.
The burn for oxygen what seems an eternity later has him exhaling loudly.
"You... Wow, that was interesting."
Castiel stiffens in the bed. Opening his eyes to thin slits and looking sideways, he spots a man laying on his side in a cot of his own a few feet away. Rimless glasses are perched on his dark-skinned face, and his pale blue eyes look thoughtful. However, his skin seems sickly dull and his eyes lackluster in the fluorescent lights, and Castiel briefly entertains the idea that a sickness is rearing its ugly head in the frozen community.
Forcing himself to relax, he sags into the bed. "I am the epitome of interesting," he snarks back without much heat.
The man snorts. "Right. So, you must be the single new guy they picked up yesterday?"
Yesterday. He'd been asleep so long? Stretching an arm up, he winces at the ache accompanying the movement. Sore. He definitely had been laying down for a while. With a grumbled, "What of it?" Castiel rolls over in the cot, turning his back to the man, and biting his lip to stave of the resulting full body ripple of pain.
"Nothing, just wanted to see what you were like is all, y'know," the man continues, regardless of Castiel's attempt at ending the conversation," Dude gets bored in a medbay with no other sickies."
He hunches in on himself at the last word, squeezing his eyes shut. He's not sick. He's fine. Perfectly sane. No talking to bees or anything. Castiel groans deeps in his chest, and tightens his hold on the thin pillow. He just won't die. That's all.
"... Anyway, the name's Tucker, you?"
Shut up. Just shut up, why won't he shut up.
A finger digs into his shoulder, and Castiel stiffens. "Hey, you oka—"
"Shut the fuck up," he snarls, cutting the man off, and all but scrambling up from his bed. He swallows, and the room seems to shoot d=up in temperature, the air dry. Sucking down a ragged breath, Castiel tries to steady his shaking hands, shaking body. Reality is too much. So crystal clear and clean cut, he needs something. Need. Need. Fuck.
He shouldn't have come. Should have just laid down in the snow and let it eat him whole, should have bitten his tongue in half and bled out out out.
A hand reaches forward, and Castiel feels the steam boil over. The anger rises in a maw of glistening red teeth, and sinks down in a wave of translucent white and.
Bewildered blue eyes are staring down at him in concern when he comes to. The dark skinned man is framed against the same ceiling from before, and the powerless angel figures himself on the floor with his own sick creeping into the back of his clothes. Which is fucking great. Fucking nasty and gross. A shiver ripples over him, and Castiel groans, brushing his throbbing hands over his face.
The young man above him cracks a small grin that doesn't exactly reach his eyes, and highlights a split lip that Castiel's sure hadn't been there before. "You've got a mean right, dude," he says, and it's just a statement but what.
The skin of his knuckles tightens with pain as he curls his right hand hands, and slowly turns it over. The joints are a gross splotch of split skin and bruising, and Castiel blinks as his hand trembles.
What is wrong with me, he thinks harshly, dark threads of self loathing welling up. He remembers the anger. The man wouldn't shut up up but he'd been so angry and why, anger is so over the top but he'd just been so angry.
"I'm sorry," he croaks, and means it. I'm sorry for everything.
The man blinks, rubbing sheepishly at his neck. "Oh, well, it's my fault really, I should've just left you alone."
Yes, Castiel thinks numbly, you should have.