[ All Dean hears is 'blah blah blah, cult stuff, cult stuff, cult stuff'. He settles the tray in his lap with shaking hands, carefully chewing and swallowing, reaching to take a sip of water to wash it down. He's a little worried his stomach is going to rebel, but it stays calm, for now.
It's trust that has him eating what's brought to him by Castiel, he realizes, which makes him frown down at his food, though he's still listening.
He takes another bite, and another. ]
You were on death's door. Of course you called an ambulance. Why wouldn't you?
[ In the last few days (has it been days? he's losing track of time, he should've started marking them like people do in prison movies), Dean has found himself wishing more and more that he had the family Cas talks about - not this one, cause they're a fucking cult, but his own. His dad who's in prison. His brother in California that he hasn't spoken to in years.
He's found himself wishing that one person would notice he was gone, that one person would call a missing persons report, would freak out when the Impala was discovered laden with bullet holes.
But there isn't anyway. No one will come, no one will call, no one will look for him.
It's a cold bucket of icy water in his veins, and he finds he can't eat anymore, his stomach rolling with nausea. Dean sets the tray aside after only a few bites, and pulls his knees up to his chest. ]
no subject
It's trust that has him eating what's brought to him by Castiel, he realizes, which makes him frown down at his food, though he's still listening.
He takes another bite, and another. ]
You were on death's door. Of course you called an ambulance. Why wouldn't you?
[ In the last few days (has it been days? he's losing track of time, he should've started marking them like people do in prison movies), Dean has found himself wishing more and more that he had the family Cas talks about - not this one, cause they're a fucking cult, but his own. His dad who's in prison. His brother in California that he hasn't spoken to in years.
He's found himself wishing that one person would notice he was gone, that one person would call a missing persons report, would freak out when the Impala was discovered laden with bullet holes.
But there isn't anyway. No one will come, no one will call, no one will look for him.
It's a cold bucket of icy water in his veins, and he finds he can't eat anymore, his stomach rolling with nausea. Dean sets the tray aside after only a few bites, and pulls his knees up to his chest. ]
I'm glad you're okay.