thursdays_angel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thursdays_angel) wrote2010-03-06 02:15 pm
thursdays_angel) wrote2010-03-06 02:15 pm
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2013: Camp Chitaqua. In one possible future.
There are a lot of things Castiel misses about being an angel.
As a rule he doesn’t dwell on them. Because, really, what’s the point? But there are things he misses. The certainty of his mission. The ability to smite down Evil. Being able to step through time and space with a thought.
The company of his own kind. That’s the worst. And the one that Castiel has developed a myriad of ways to distract himself from. Mostly by finding new and exciting ways to combine chemicals.
But right now, the thing he misses the most is the ability to heal himself.
Castiel curses as he misjudges a turn (again) and bumps his bad foot against the table leg. The cast that Jordan, the camp’s resident medic, had jury-rigged for him out of an old ski boot works well enough for keeping the bones immobile, but it’s also heavy and clumsy and seems to have a fondness for hard stationary objects.
Next time, Chuck Shirley can find someone else to help him move that tool chest. Someone who possesses a pair of steel-toed boots.
Castiel fumbles his crutchs under his arms and stumps his way over to the broken-down sofa under the cabin’s largest window. Alyssa had thoughtfully duct-taped a small child’s backpack to the right crutch so that he has a means of carrying things. Dean had quirked an eyebrow at it, no doubt because it is pink with a stylized white cat on the front. Castiel doesn’t care. It’s servicable, and it’s not like he has much dignity left to lose these days anyway.
He eases himself down on the sofa, props his foot up on the trunk that serves as a table, and digs through the backpack for his pain meds. He has to pull out several bottles and bags before he finds the right one. Castiel tosses back two pills. Thinks. Opens up a different bottle and tosses back two more pills. Grins at the thought of Jordan’s face turning purple from an impending apopleptic fit. Closes his eyes, and lets his head loll back on the back of the sofa.
The pain in his foot begins to dull and his head begins to lighten. A warm breeze blows through the open window, carring sounds of the camp going about its evening routine. It all feels almost pleasant.
Castiel’s mind begins to drift.
Cast and crutches….cast and crutches. Why should that thought occupy him? A ripple crosses through his memory. Meg. Of course. The first time he had met Meg Ford, she had been on crutches.
He wonders how Meg is.
Castiel hasn’t been to Milliways in…..how long has it been? Drugs and math don’t mix well, but it seems as if it has been a very long time. Was it before Detroit? Or after? Somewhere along the way, he had become cut off from that, too; the door disappearing just like the Garrison had.
The breeze blows a little stronger for a moment, fluttering the threadbare curtains, and there is a noise from the small porch outfront. A branch, or maybe a small animal, by the sound of it.
It’s still out there somewhere. Milliways. Of that he is certain. Just like the Garrison. Just like Heaven. Just like God. There, but unreachable. Castiel doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than the thought that they are gone entirely, or never existed to begin with.
The noise comes again, louder this time, and Castiel cracks his eyes open. A visitor, perhaps. Not Dean. The noise is too faint, and Dean has a tendency to march these days, unless a mission calls for stealth. Chuck, maybe. Come to check on him out of guilt. Or Alyssa. She had offered to bring him dinner so that he wouldn’t have to limp his way over to the mess hall.
Castiel grips his crutches, levers himself upright, makes his way over to the door, and opens it.
What he finds on the other side is enough to make him wonder if some things aren’t still within reach after all.
As a rule he doesn’t dwell on them. Because, really, what’s the point? But there are things he misses. The certainty of his mission. The ability to smite down Evil. Being able to step through time and space with a thought.
The company of his own kind. That’s the worst. And the one that Castiel has developed a myriad of ways to distract himself from. Mostly by finding new and exciting ways to combine chemicals.
But right now, the thing he misses the most is the ability to heal himself.
Castiel curses as he misjudges a turn (again) and bumps his bad foot against the table leg. The cast that Jordan, the camp’s resident medic, had jury-rigged for him out of an old ski boot works well enough for keeping the bones immobile, but it’s also heavy and clumsy and seems to have a fondness for hard stationary objects.
Next time, Chuck Shirley can find someone else to help him move that tool chest. Someone who possesses a pair of steel-toed boots.
Castiel fumbles his crutchs under his arms and stumps his way over to the broken-down sofa under the cabin’s largest window. Alyssa had thoughtfully duct-taped a small child’s backpack to the right crutch so that he has a means of carrying things. Dean had quirked an eyebrow at it, no doubt because it is pink with a stylized white cat on the front. Castiel doesn’t care. It’s servicable, and it’s not like he has much dignity left to lose these days anyway.
He eases himself down on the sofa, props his foot up on the trunk that serves as a table, and digs through the backpack for his pain meds. He has to pull out several bottles and bags before he finds the right one. Castiel tosses back two pills. Thinks. Opens up a different bottle and tosses back two more pills. Grins at the thought of Jordan’s face turning purple from an impending apopleptic fit. Closes his eyes, and lets his head loll back on the back of the sofa.
The pain in his foot begins to dull and his head begins to lighten. A warm breeze blows through the open window, carring sounds of the camp going about its evening routine. It all feels almost pleasant.
Castiel’s mind begins to drift.
Cast and crutches….cast and crutches. Why should that thought occupy him? A ripple crosses through his memory. Meg. Of course. The first time he had met Meg Ford, she had been on crutches.
He wonders how Meg is.
Castiel hasn’t been to Milliways in…..how long has it been? Drugs and math don’t mix well, but it seems as if it has been a very long time. Was it before Detroit? Or after? Somewhere along the way, he had become cut off from that, too; the door disappearing just like the Garrison had.
The breeze blows a little stronger for a moment, fluttering the threadbare curtains, and there is a noise from the small porch outfront. A branch, or maybe a small animal, by the sound of it.
It’s still out there somewhere. Milliways. Of that he is certain. Just like the Garrison. Just like Heaven. Just like God. There, but unreachable. Castiel doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than the thought that they are gone entirely, or never existed to begin with.
The noise comes again, louder this time, and Castiel cracks his eyes open. A visitor, perhaps. Not Dean. The noise is too faint, and Dean has a tendency to march these days, unless a mission calls for stealth. Chuck, maybe. Come to check on him out of guilt. Or Alyssa. She had offered to bring him dinner so that he wouldn’t have to limp his way over to the mess hall.
Castiel grips his crutches, levers himself upright, makes his way over to the door, and opens it.
What he finds on the other side is enough to make him wonder if some things aren’t still within reach after all.