As he walks in a familiar march, the past year and a half slide off his mind like a sheaf of dead skin, leaving him disoriented, vulnerable, and— worst or best of all, not entirely himself. In that liminal space between identity and possibility, he lurks, falling back into old ways of being. Being "broken" was, perhaps, easiest of all, and maybe that's why the thing leeching off his body seduces his soft and malleable mind in that direction.
Castiel almost doesn't notice the man. It's not until he's taken by the back of the collar and clotheslined that he jerks to a stop, half-turning on his heel to face the one who caught him. His eyes are wide and his lips are parted. Without thought or warning, he reaches out, meaning to take this man by the wrist. Except, instead of an assault, Castiel smiles. Laughs a little, good-naturedly. Maybe nervous.
"Yes, but it's all right."
His limb? Oh. He lifts it as if seeing it for the first time, flexing and loosening his fingers. Then, he offers a look of apology.
"I think it might be too late for that."
He lifts his other hand, to reveal his black fingers— Where the stuff beneath his fingernails has begun to grow and spread.
ohhh, choices choices
Castiel almost doesn't notice the man. It's not until he's taken by the back of the collar and clotheslined that he jerks to a stop, half-turning on his heel to face the one who caught him. His eyes are wide and his lips are parted. Without thought or warning, he reaches out, meaning to take this man by the wrist. Except, instead of an assault, Castiel smiles. Laughs a little, good-naturedly. Maybe nervous.
"Yes, but it's all right."
His limb? Oh. He lifts it as if seeing it for the first time, flexing and loosening his fingers. Then, he offers a look of apology.
"I think it might be too late for that."
He lifts his other hand, to reveal his black fingers— Where the stuff beneath his fingernails has begun to grow and spread.