Unmendable || Destiel

hold me down

It's kind of funny how I always forget how excited I am for this story until I think about it or start writing again. Now that it's summer, these updates might roll out on the daily. Don't hold me to anything though.

Song: fluerie- there's a ghost

"life is tough,  my  d a r l i n g  , but so are you."

+ + + + +

Time Skip

Castiel has been both physically and mentally in the dark for as long as he can remember. There are no windows, just empty white walls and the reeking smell of bleach. No way to determine the year or the time of day. Not even the seasons. He didn't know his age - he could be forty-two or still five years old for all he knew. Sometimes he felt lucky to even remember the reason he was here, othertimes he didn't. Castiel knew he was damn lucky to be alive, or maybe they just don't know how to kill him yet.

It all sounded sort of sad when he thought of it like that, but  he didn't know how else to think of it. The only thing he could hold onto were fuzzy little kid memories. And even those were rough and blurry around the edges, like he couldn't really see them or get out more than tiny pieces of a life other than the hell he'd gotten sucked into.

 There weren't very memories about happiness, except that everything seemed to him to be a lot nicer in dreams - when he was allowed to sleep, that is.

The only feelings that existed now are those of pure anger. Pain. Everything hurt him. All the time.

He knew he was lucky to be alive, but sometimes he just wished he wasn't. Who would want to wake up strapped to a bed that is hardly a bed, only to be shot up with toxins and cut open repetedly just to be sewn up again and watch helplessly as the process is repeated? Over and over the same thing. Wouldn't it be easier if they left a knife just in his reach and he could end it all?

No. No, he supposed it wouldn't make things much easier.

For one, his hands were always strapped down so he would never be able to get to a fatal area even if he wanted to, much let get a grip on something that could kill him. It just wasn't worth the effort anymore.

And god forbid he screw up and not finish the job. 

Castiel was smart enough to know that this wasn't the way his life was supposed to go, that not everyone could possibly live like this.

Other people, maybe they wake up every morning with a smile on their face - just like he did at the age of five, happy, with their parents. Maybe they wake up every morning beside someone they love, the way his mom and dad never did.

That morning, he don't wake up happy. It's not that he'd ever expected to, this had been his life for almost as long as he can possibly remember. All he can remember, anyway.

He starts to gain conciousness to a burning, aching feeling in his wrist - like jolts of soreness, making it very hard for him to move. He forces open his swollen eyes, glancing down at the point of pain.

His wrist is hooked up to the usual IV, but it's filled with a sort-of yellowish liquid. Castiel gasps as the sharp pain and throbbing makes its way down his forearm, and begins to spread throughout his entire body.

Feeling as though his eyes might roll into the back of my head - he could barely breathe, let alone move.

He had ideas of why they did this to him, but never really could pin it down exactly. To show his weaknesses and strengths? Prove what he could or couldn't fight off? Make others like him? Or just because they enjoyed to see him squirm? 

Castiel was driven to insanity because of these people.

But to call them people is a compliment that's far too kind. Even calling them monsters would be an understatement. The head of the serpant was Doctor Adler, and his assistant, Amelia Jones.

Adler is cruel and heartless, pain makes him smile and fear gives him power. Jones is just as bad as the doctor, with her fiery red hair cascading down her shoulders almost like a mane. Beautiful. However, it's that beauty that's so fatal. Amelia Jones has the tongue and bite like a spider.

Adler only smirked as Castiel began to feel foam bubbling from his mouth, his eyes widened as he gagged on it, choking for air. 

His mouth had also forgotten what the taste of food is like, and clean water. He only knew this. This disgusting routine. The white walls are empty, just like his mind, and his screaming bounces of the perfectly soundproof concrete structures.

"What did you expect?" Watson cackles, a sneer on his face. Castiel's eyes began to water his nose felt as if it was on fire, along with the rest of him. 

Burning and sizzling, it was like they had poured gasoline into his veins.

But all at once, everything stopped.

As if nothing had ever been, all the pain was gone. Adler gave him the same glare and look of disgust. Every time this would happen, all the suffering would disappear as if his body had expelled it. The two doctors looked at Castiel like it was his fault, as if he could possibly control it. If he could will himself to die, he would. But his body wouldn't let him.

 Adler holds up another vial.

"Oh ho, we're not finished!" He thrusts the dropper onto Castiel's lips. But he doesn't give in that easily to whatever they want to poison him with this time, he never does.

Adler just shrugs, "Alright then, Castiel. If you don't want to do it the easy way."

He turns his back, not allowing Castiel to see what he's doing. 

The doctor whips around, and jabs a needle straight into his arm. He screams in pain, utterly helpless and in agony. Before he can kick and stir up a fight, his limbs become limp. The room begins to blur, and Castiel feels his head slump to the side before everything dims to black.