Marry or Kill

46

S O L

I glance around the dimly lit corridor, and rush through, Castiel's weight nearly all on me as he staggers forward, breathing harshly. I realise that the corridor in front of us is too long—so is the way to the sewers.

I turn to look at him, breathless.

We need to bandage his wound.

With a sense of urgency gnawing at my senses, I enter a room on the left of us. When I press down the handle, the door swings open with a soft creak, revealing a dimly lit room that beckons like a sanctuary.

Relief washes over me as we step through the doorway.

My eyes sweep across the shelves that line the walls, each one laden with bottles of medicines.

Our feet creak across the weak floor-boarding and the air is heavy with the scent of herbs and antiseptic.

I guide Castiel to a weathered chair nestled against the wall. The wood groans in protest as he eases himself onto it, his breath hitching with each movement, the weight of the knife still embedded in his skin.

As he seats himself, blood seeps from the wound once more, a crimson stain against the weathered wood beneath our feet.

"If we're found—" he begins, his voice choked with emotion.

I pause, the gravity of his words settling heavy in the pit of my stomach.

"If we're found," I reply, my voice raw and stretched, "I will slice open the flesh on their necks."

As I rummage through the cluttered cupboards, the musty scent of the medicine room fills my nostrils, mingling with something ancient and grim. My nose wrinkles.

When each drawer I pull open yields little more than dust and cobwebs, frustration in me grows.

Finally, a cupboard flies open, and I find a bandage roll in the corner.

"Well, I don't have a shred of doubt that's the way it'll go down," Castiel replies, his voice tinged with resignation and weariness etched across his features. "But to slice open a neck, you need a weapon."

As I reach beneath the folds of my blood-soaked dress, my fingers brush against the cool metal of the gun nestled against my skin.

I draw it forth, and place it in front of him.

The dim light of the room dances across the sleek surface of the gun, casting gentle shadows that flicker and fade with each passing moment.

The floral designs engraved upon the handle gleam in the shifting light.

"Western guns, they sure do fancy them up nice," I remark, as I admire the intricate detailing that adorns the silver metal.

"Sol—" Castiel begins, but I kneel in front of him with the bandage in my hand.

He pauses, readying for the pain.

Beads of sweat cling to his forehead as he leans backward, preparing the wound for me as I deftly unwrap the sterile bandage roll.

With careful precision, I lift the torn fabric of Castiel's shirt, exposing the deep gash with the blade still inside his skin.

Though instinct screams to remove it, I remember the first aid training I received, the importance of stabilising impaled objects to prevent further harm.

Slowly, I begin to wrap the bandage around his tanned torso, my fingers touching the contours of his chest and skin.

Castiel's breath hisses through clenched teeth, a steady groan escaping his lips as I gingerly begin to wrap the bandage around his wound.