Unmendable || Destiel

burnt out

song: tell me how to feel- maggie eckford

I know I'm celestial, but god, even stars die.

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Castiel hadn't spoken in a very long time, unable to remember the last words or noise that fell from his tightly pressed lips, except a cry out in pain. These were the kind of cries that had been ripped from his tongue, stolen from cracked lips in the form of a blade or poison.

He couldn't even remember what he looked like.

As a kid, he vauguely could recall eyes that stood out in an icy shade of blue, and jet black hair that could seem brown in the light. Sometimes his hair would stick up in funny places, and his teeth were staight and white. That was all he could piece together. His hands were still soft, and his body was still tired.

Castiel has noticed that he'd grown since then. Or so he could tell, when he wasn't drugged out of his mind. But it's not like they give out mirrors as a reward for being experimented on, so his knowlege only extended as far as what he could see when he felt brave enough to look down.

Usually he saw tubes that protruded from his veins,  discolored skin due to neglect, some bruising, and dried blood.

Castiel glanced around, blankly staring at the white walls. The only other thing in the room was then three-legged chair that stooped in the corner.

He needn't try to guess at what he would see if he'd looked around, it's the same crap he'd been glaring at for god knows how long. He would still be able to see it if he closed his eyes, it had been memorized and etched into his mind the way a blade or needle would piece the skin. Unmoving.

Mostly Castiel didn't even bother to open his eyes as long as he was being left alone, even if he was awake. It was just depressing, anyhow. Adler and Jones left him by himself more often than not. Castiel didn't know if they were giving him time to recover, or if they simply had other things to do. He couldn't imagine that they were doing this to someone else - like an old woman or a a young girl. Maybe someone was really out there, a few rooms down, who's worse off than he is.

He couldn't bring himself to think of it.

Sometimes the loneliness hurt more than the pain. The silence is louder than the screaming, deafeningly noiseless. Empty. He could go mad from the white walls and the putrid smell alone.

He felt weak, but there'd been worse days.

Castiel didn't cry anymore, it was too much of an effort. It didn't help anything - no one cared, no one pitied him. All he could manage to do was lay in his own silence and sadness. Drowning in sorrow, with no means to escape from it.

Maybe someone else in his position would wait for a big, extravagant rescue. Something like a pumpkin carriage or a fairy godmother. But Castiel wasn't a little girl who wished on stars. Castiel was a boy, a boy who had lost all hope so very long ago. He didn't expect a happy ending, he just wanted an ending. The end of it all.

In the beginning, there weren't any needles. It was worse. He was was locked away in a dark room and kept a secret. For years.

Knowing tears instead of bedtime kisses.

Knowing loneliness instead of bacon and eggs.

Knowing emptiness.

Knowing nights when sobs would wrack his body and his was chest heaving until he couldn't peel himself up off of the floor long enough to eat the slop that was shoved under the door. He would cry until he vomited, then deal with the smell for weeks until someone shoved him aside to clear the mess away.