Marry or Kill

50

S O L

Castiel finally awakes, his eyes blinking groggily as if fighting against the weight of slumber. His tousled white hair, usually so immaculately kept, now appears misshapen and messy, strands falling haphazardly across his forehead.

I approach him cautiously, noting the weary expression on his face.

The medical room is sterile, bathed in the harsh glow of overhead lights. The walls are a clinical white, devoid of any personal touch, save for the faint hum of machinery in the background.

The air carries the faint scent of antiseptic, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

As I sit beside him, Castiel's gaze slowly drifts to meet mine.

There's a vacancy in his eyes. Everything he knew, everything he was, seems to have been stripped away, leaving behind only a shell of the man he once was.

Castiel's fingers reach out tentatively, brushing against my chin in a gesture that feels both familiar and foreign. "How are you?" he asks, his voice rough with disuse.

"How am I?" I respond, a hint of disbelief colouring my tone. "How are you?"

Castiel shrugs his shoulders. I'm... managing," he replies, his words punctuated by a grunt of pain as he struggles to sit up.

The headboard of the bed supports his back.

I watch as expressions of discomfort flit across Castiel's face, glimpses of the pain that he's trying so hard to conceal. Lines of tension crease his brow, and his lips are pressed into a thin line.

In that moment, a sudden wave of deja vu washes over me, memories of a time when Mina lay poisoned, her life hanging in the balance.

"I'm glad," I say softly.

Castiel arches an eyebrow in response. He's always been astute, able to read between the lines with precision. "What's going on?" he asks.

I draw in a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. "A lot," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I feel so emptied. I can't even look at my own skin," I confess, acutely aware of Castiel's watchful eyes on every inch of me, from the clothes that hang loosely on my frame to the scars that lie hidden beneath.

"Atticus was never wrong," he begins, his voice soft but unwavering. "He was a lot in many other ways, but by the fact that you are beautiful, even with those scars."

I can't help but lower my head, unable to meet his gaze. But Castiel refuses to let me retreat into the shadows of my own insecurities, his touch lifting my chin until our eyes meet once more.

"Sol, I mean it," he insists.

A sigh escapes my lips. "I wish I could see myself through your eyes, but I can't and I won't."

As I adjust my seat on the side of him, Castiel mirrors my movement. "Why?" he asks, searching my eyes.

"Because I get reminded of Atticus whenever I see myself, and I don't find that beautiful. I find it brutal," I admit.

"It may be brutal, but it's on you for a long time. You can't keep seeing yourself this way," he says gently, and I know I should accept them on my skin, but it's harder than I anticipated.

"I know," I murmur, a heavy weight settling in the pit of my stomach at his words.

Just as silence begins to stretch between us, a medical doctor enters the room, her gaze briefly flitting over both of us before she retreats, perhaps sensing the intimacy of our conversation.