When Castiel woke up, pain was the only thing that he was truly aware of. The actual surgery had been bad enough, and his hope was that the aftermath wouldn't be as grueling, but he couldn't say that was the case.
Feverish and covered in sweat despite the fact that he'd been sleeping, for a while after waking all Castiel could do was stare at the ceiling. But even though the slightest movement sent another shock of pain through his middle, he had to focus on the fact that he was still here, breathing. Not that he'd thought himself capable of dying from blood loss or any other physical complication (weak as he was, that still seemed impossible), but there was still a small amount of shock at realizing that it was morning and he was still here.
The only true movement he could make was to lift up his arm, the one with the rash, and it was clear just from a glance that the redness was starting to fade. He let his arm fall back to his side and let out a pained, but relieved breath. It had worked. Reckless though it had been, he hadn't wasted the time of those three people whose help he'd enlisted.
Remaining in the room to recover would have been the logical thing to do, but Castiel didn't like the idea of bedrest, and apparently neither did his nurse, seeing how she showed up soon after with a wheelchair. And he thought his dignity couldn't be dragged down any further. Still, he knew it was necessary, as the thought of standing on his own sounded like suicide at the moment.
Speaking of suicide, that was exactly what his nurse cited as the reason for his wound. Or rather, an attempt at suicide. In a way, that's exactly what it was, as he'd asked for Kratos to cut him open -- but dying had never been part of the plan.
With the help of orderlies, he was pulled up out of bed and moved into the wheelchair, and even that small amount of movement made the pain worse. The nurse noticed from the way he was tensing and the sweat that continued to dot at his forehead, and offered him a cup of water and some pain pills.
In this instance, there was no way he could refuse, and so Castiel swallowed them down as ordered.
But as the wheelchair was pushed down the halls toward the cafeteria, he realized that he was feeling worse as time went on. Now he could tell that he was nauseous, a sensation that was relatively new to him and yet familiar. It felt worse than it had in past days, and when he told the nurse, she offered him a basin in case he had to vomit.
While it was encouraged for him to eat at least a small amount of food, the idea seemed impossible to him, and so eventually the nurse gave up and situated his wheelchair at an empty table. Castiel was exhausted just from that small trip, and the idea of speaking with anyone was an effort all its own.
He needed to let the rest of the institute know that it was possible to undo the sickness through surgical means under the right conditions, but right now he could barely see straight, so it was clearly going to have to wait. Maybe he could get someone to put the note up for him, but even that would require a conversation.
But as horrible as he felt, he knew that eventually he would heal, and the pain and symptoms would pass. And then he could be properly cured, and he would maintain his sense of self. That was what mattered most, and that was what he tried to focus on, sick as he felt.
no subject
Feverish and covered in sweat despite the fact that he'd been sleeping, for a while after waking all Castiel could do was stare at the ceiling. But even though the slightest movement sent another shock of pain through his middle, he had to focus on the fact that he was still here, breathing. Not that he'd thought himself capable of dying from blood loss or any other physical complication (weak as he was, that still seemed impossible), but there was still a small amount of shock at realizing that it was morning and he was still here.
The only true movement he could make was to lift up his arm, the one with the rash, and it was clear just from a glance that the redness was starting to fade. He let his arm fall back to his side and let out a pained, but relieved breath. It had worked. Reckless though it had been, he hadn't wasted the time of those three people whose help he'd enlisted.
Remaining in the room to recover would have been the logical thing to do, but Castiel didn't like the idea of bedrest, and apparently neither did his nurse, seeing how she showed up soon after with a wheelchair. And he thought his dignity couldn't be dragged down any further. Still, he knew it was necessary, as the thought of standing on his own sounded like suicide at the moment.
Speaking of suicide, that was exactly what his nurse cited as the reason for his wound. Or rather, an attempt at suicide. In a way, that's exactly what it was, as he'd asked for Kratos to cut him open -- but dying had never been part of the plan.
With the help of orderlies, he was pulled up out of bed and moved into the wheelchair, and even that small amount of movement made the pain worse. The nurse noticed from the way he was tensing and the sweat that continued to dot at his forehead, and offered him a cup of water and some pain pills.
In this instance, there was no way he could refuse, and so Castiel swallowed them down as ordered.
But as the wheelchair was pushed down the halls toward the cafeteria, he realized that he was feeling worse as time went on. Now he could tell that he was nauseous, a sensation that was relatively new to him and yet familiar. It felt worse than it had in past days, and when he told the nurse, she offered him a basin in case he had to vomit.
While it was encouraged for him to eat at least a small amount of food, the idea seemed impossible to him, and so eventually the nurse gave up and situated his wheelchair at an empty table. Castiel was exhausted just from that small trip, and the idea of speaking with anyone was an effort all its own.
He needed to let the rest of the institute know that it was possible to undo the sickness through surgical means under the right conditions, but right now he could barely see straight, so it was clearly going to have to wait. Maybe he could get someone to put the note up for him, but even that would require a conversation.
But as horrible as he felt, he knew that eventually he would heal, and the pain and symptoms would pass. And then he could be properly cured, and he would maintain his sense of self. That was what mattered most, and that was what he tried to focus on, sick as he felt.
[Free!]