Promises of a Sacrificial Lamb |Destiel x The Hunger Games|

-33-

The gentle sound of rain rapping against a windowpane pulls me into consciousness.  I try to force my eyes open but find it's an arduous challenge.  My eyelids are so heavy, almost like something is holding them shut.  And it takes but a moment to realize that not only do my eyelids feel as solid as bricks, but so does my entire body.  It's like my muscles are made of hardening cement and there's molasses slogging through my veins.  I can barely move.

I manage to open my eyes enough to allow me to see a tiny sliver of my surroundings.  I'm lying on a comfortable mattress, tucked beneath silken sheets, wearing nothing but undergarments.  The room I'm in is dark and silent, aside from the rain drumming against the glass.  I strain to turn my head.  There's a large window to my right that's coated with raindrops.  It looks like the middle of the night outside.  Except, through the speckles of rain, I see glimmering lights in the distance that light up the night sky.  Even through the dense fog clouding my mind, I know it must be the skyscrapers of the Capitol, twinkling like fireflies on a dark evening.

There's a mask over my nose and mouth.  It's pumping cool air down my throat every time I take a breath.  I must not have been breathing, or at least not very well, while I was out.  I struggle to lift my arm and see that a series of tubes are embedded in my skin.  Although it's nauseating to think about all those needles, I can't help but focus primarily on how little my right arm hurts.  It feels as good as new.

An idea strikes me then.  I wiggle my left fingers, try to bring my hand into my sliver of vision.  A dull wave of excitement courses through me when I realize there's no pain with my movements.  There's not even a scar anymore to remind me of what happened to it.  It's like I have an entirely new hand.

Thunder rumbles outside and rattles the windowpane.  I'm already exhausted, completely worn out by merely turning my head and lifting my arms.  I don't know what they injected into my system, but it's still streaming through my blood.  I can't move.  I can barely think a coherent thought; it should probably come as no surprise to me when I pass out again.

The next time I wake, I feel even worse than before.  My throat is dry and scratchy.  There's still a mask over my face.  My stomach churns, muscles feel like the cement in them has finally hardened.  Judging by the soft orange hue painting the ceiling above me, though, dusk must be approaching.  So it looks like another whole day has passed.  I thought the Capitol's elaborate medicine would make me feel better by now, or at least not like a walking corpse, but apparently not.

Faintly, I hear a conversation.  I don't think I'm completely conscious because it sounds like I'm underwater.  The voices are garbled and muffled.  I force my eyes open, but only just a crack, and see the indistinct outlines of two people standing at the foot of my bed.  I fight to clear the fog in my brain, struggle to wake myself up.  As my fuzzy vision slowly comes into focus, my spirits begin to lift when I realize one of them looks like none other than Bobby Singer.  I start to feel a smile pull on my lips until I notice the person he's talking to is wearing a white coat.

A white coat.

Cas.

How could I forget?  How did I not make the connection when I looked at my clean hands, my perfectly polished and filed nails?  They were no longer stained with his blood, and yet all I could register was the fact that my own pain, my own insignificant injuries, had been fixed.  Guilt claws at my heart.  How could I forget about something so horrible?  While I've been lying in bed, dazed and marveling at my recoveries, he's probably been put through so many distressing tests and surgeries and who knows what else while the Capitol doctors desperately try to save his life. If he's even still alive, that is.