[ Now would be an appropriate time for curse words, if Castiel were given to cursing. Instead he remains tensely silent as Dean reminds him of what he already knows: that this is insanity, and he is wildly, dangerously close to failing his mission. He isn't afraid of dying, Castiel tells himself. He'll be one with the Almighty in Heaven. He's earned that. He's served well. But still his hands shake as he struggles to open the first-aid kit without the ability to work the fingers of his right hand. There's fresh blood dripping down his right wrist as he tries and fails to rip open the last package of gauze. "You're going to die." He's going to die. It isn't supposed to scare him.
Castiel finally presses the whole unopened package of gauze to the wrong spot of his shoulder; there's too much blood soaked through his dress shirt to tell exactly were the hole is anymore, and he can't feel a difference between sharp pain and dull, now. He looks between the seats at Dean, and his thoughts chase each other wildly. Dean wants to help because he's trying to escape. If Dean escapes, Castiel will be killed, and his help will be meaningless. Castiel is afraid. His conviction falters. He doesn't want to die. ]
Alright.
[ With heavy, clumsy movements, he drags the passenger's seat forward and falls more than climbs into the back seat beside Dean. The knife flicks forward from the spring holster on his right forearm, but he catches it in his left, and with one sharp slice, cuts through both ties on Dean's wrists, freeing him from the door handle and freeing his hands completely in one action. The knife still loosely held in his left hand, Castiel falls back against the opposite window, exhausted. He watches Dean through lidded eyes, fully expecting him to grab the knife and drive or make a run for it and leave Castiel here to finish dying, but he's resigned to his fate. ]
no subject
Castiel finally presses the whole unopened package of gauze to the wrong spot of his shoulder; there's too much blood soaked through his dress shirt to tell exactly were the hole is anymore, and he can't feel a difference between sharp pain and dull, now. He looks between the seats at Dean, and his thoughts chase each other wildly. Dean wants to help because he's trying to escape. If Dean escapes, Castiel will be killed, and his help will be meaningless. Castiel is afraid. His conviction falters. He doesn't want to die. ]
Alright.
[ With heavy, clumsy movements, he drags the passenger's seat forward and falls more than climbs into the back seat beside Dean. The knife flicks forward from the spring holster on his right forearm, but he catches it in his left, and with one sharp slice, cuts through both ties on Dean's wrists, freeing him from the door handle and freeing his hands completely in one action. The knife still loosely held in his left hand, Castiel falls back against the opposite window, exhausted. He watches Dean through lidded eyes, fully expecting him to grab the knife and drive or make a run for it and leave Castiel here to finish dying, but he's resigned to his fate. ]