Taste The Rainbow
He had come to the conclusion Thursday morning that this was going to be a very bad week.
For one thing, he got sick over the weekend, a nasty cold which came out of nowhere and lodged in his head, making Castiel’s voice deeper than ever, then for kicks and giggles, migrated down to his chest. The result was four nights of near insomnia, a noticeable wheeze, which had both cast and crew wincing in sympathy, and alternating pressure-induced headaches and a chest which felt filled with lead.
The Tuesday morning in question, Misha woke with horrible chills and aching down to his bones. An unwanted meet-and-greet with the thermometer showed his temperature to be an unhealthy 101.3.
Misha groaned, grimacing at the tiny digital display. It would be absolutely unforgivable to call in sick so soon after starting here. And it was a Castiel-heavy episode they were shooting this week; he would just have to suck it up and deal until the weekend.
Shooting the next two days would have surely made an interesting study on the tenacity of the human body. For Misha, it was a lesson in agony. A nearly unhealthy amount of Tylenol and Excedrin barely took the edge off his symptoms. IN the meantime, too, his cough was getting worse at an alarming rate, at best leaving him out of breath, at worst, making him double over from pain and near asphyxiation.
By the time he lay in bed Thursday night, Misha knew he was in serious trouble. He had no idea why his condition had deteriorated so quickly, just that it was no longer in his power to fix. But more important to him was not letting down his coworkers, his friends, the people who worked so hard to make Supernatural a success and with whom he was only just beginning to feel a part of.
He would not be the weak link, the new kid who screws everything and everyone up.
He couldn’t.
So surely just one more day wouldn’t matter? He’d made it this long feeling like a foot, hadn’t he? One more day, he resolved, and first thing Saturday morning, he’d go to the doctor.
His body, however, apparently ignored the memo.
They were filming the climactic fight scene at the end of the episode. Sam, Dean and Castiel, in another ill-fated attempt to protect a Seal, found themselves ambushed by a hoard of demons. Choreography called for Castiel to be hit in the stomach, sending him crashing into a wall.
The segment would be marked, with no real contact to prevent Misha from getting hurt. It was purely accidental that the extra playing the demon misjudged the punch.
Kimm yelled ‘Action!’ and Misha saw the fist come flying at him, so fast that there was no time to dodge.
The fist hit him square in the sternum, and immediately iron bands wrapped themselves around Misha’s chest. His eyes popped wide, meeting the horrified gaze of the extra as his body instinctively tried to curl inward to protect his chest.
The extra spun toward Kim, desperately yelling,
“STOP…”
… just as the invisible wires placed strategically under Misha’s coat, designed to send his body hurtling backward through the air, engaged.
Misha’s already abused lungs contracted painfully as his body slammed into the padded wall; any air he’d managed to retrieve was knocked harshly out of him again.
Through a fog, he felt the wires disengage, his body falling to the mat below, rushed footstep and concerned cries in his ears.
He desperately wanted to assure hem he was alright, that they needn’t worry, that they could go again…
… must not be the weakest link…
… but the moment air hit his lungs, he started coughing fiercely - and couldn’t stop.
He couldn’t breathe. The gunk which had settled in his lungs because of his illness had been loosened by the punch and subsequent impact with the wall; his body, recognizing an obstruction, was automatically trying to clear his airways.
The attack seemed to last forever. Misha was barely aware that he remained on his knees on the mat, that his hands were fisted against his chest desperately, as though this would help him breathe and against the sharp yet aching pain which filled him in place of air.
Can’t breathe … c-can’t … breathe … h-help…
A burning erupted in his throat; one of Misha’s arms lifted, seemingly on its own, and he coughed twice more into Castiel’s coat sleeve. Some of the gunk from his lungs felt his body in a nasty spray against the sleeve, and his chest almost immediately unclenched.
Sights, sounds and touch slowly filtered back with every weak, wheezy, relieved breath he took. Hands clutched desperately at his shoulders, keeping him mostly upright; a small crowd had gathered around him, all worried and anxious sounding, intermingled with shouts that sounded like orders.
Misha’s head spun - the trauma his body had just undergone and his overwhelming surroundings making him feel dizzy and faint.
“Misha! MISHA!”
Somebody nearby was shouting his name, shaking him slightly; it took him a long moment to realize it was Jared.
“Misha! Co’mon man, answer me! Are you alright?”
The babble around him fell silent.
“ ‘K…. ‘m ‘k….” Misha croaked breathlessly, and it was as if this realization took the last bit of strength out of his body. To his alarm, he felt his knees give out, and he started pitching sideways.
The concerned voices once again rose in alarm, subsiding slightly as strong arms arrested his fall, then propped him against a solid chest.
“He’s burning up - Kim has someone called an ambulance?” came a voice directly above him, and Misha slowly realized that it must be Jensen’s chest he was leaning against. “Man, what the hell were you thinking coming to work so sick?!”
“Not … gonna let … ‘vryone down,” Misha mumbled, not having the strength to speak louder. “Th’ show … more ‘mpor’ant….”
The fluid shifted in his lungs again, setting off another coughing attack. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. The coughs emerged as nothing more than wheezing gasps; Misha’s chest squeezed thighter and tighter; he couldn’t make his lungs expand, couldn’t draw breath; he was suffocating -
Misha pushed frantically, panicked, against Jensen’s chest, pure instinct taking over.
Air … air … please ….
The black spots swelled, and he knew nothing.
* * *
A soft beeping accompanied Misha back into the waking world, and he instinctively knew he was in a hospital. This was not surprising; what was, however, were Jared and Jensen sitting beside his bed. They both grinned as he squinted up at him.
“Hey man, welcome back,” Jared beamed, leaning over to push the call button. “Don’t look so surprised to see us, you’re part of the Supernatural family now! You gave everyone a real scare.”
“Yea, no more Living Dead routine again, okay?” Jensen scolded lightly. Real concern shone in both his and Jared’s eyes.
“ ‘M sorry,” Misha rasped, gratefully taking an ice chip from the cub Jared tipped to his lips. “ ‘m really, really s - sorry.”
“Mish, why didn’t you just call in sick? Jared asked, not accusing, simply curious.
“I …” Misha paused. “I didn’t think it’d be fair. We have such a tight schedule … and I could still work … it - wouldn’t have been fair to everyone on set, to the fans, if we got behind just because I got a chest cold.”
”I’m afraid it was quite a bit more than a chest cold, Mr. Collins,” a deeper male voice said from the doorway before either Jared or Jensen could respond.
“Dr. Alberts,” he introduced himself, shaking Misha’s IV-less left hand. “Mr. Ackles, Mr. Padelecki.”
“Doctor,” Jared and Jensen responded in kind, both grinning at the inadvertent ‘Changing Channels’ reference.
“Now Mr. Collins,” Dr. Alberts continued, studiously ignoring them and flipping through Misha’s chart. “I can not release any medical information in the presence of your friends unless you give your consent to their presence.”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well. Mr. Collins, it appears you contracted pneumonia due to mucus build up in your lungs. The fluid build-up re-aggravated your childhood asthma, which is why you deteriorated so rapidly.
“We’re going to monitor your condition over the next 24 hours. If you continue to improve we can then discharge you on amoxicillin to clear up the rest.”
Misha nodded his understanding.
“Good, then if you have no questions at this point, I have other patients to attend to. Please push the call button if you need anything at all; I’m glad to see you feeling better Mr. Collins.”
“Thanks Dr. Alberts,” Misha smiled, shaking the man’s hand before he retreated from the room.
“I’m so, so sorry,” MIsha murmured again once the doctor had left, gazing shame facedly down as his blanket-covered knees.
“Mish, if this is about that damn schedule, don’t worry about it!” Jensen stressed. “The directors know people get sick or hurt or whatever. A few tweaks to the timeline or the writing and we’re good to go! Lookit what happened with Jays arm - and that was a hell of a lot more long-term than this!”
“And if you don’t believe us,” Jared continued, “as Kim. Hell, ask Kripke, they’ll both tell you the same thing.”
“Either that, or we can just threaten you with junk food until you believe us.”
Misha couldn’t help it - he laughed. This, predictably, turned into a coughing fit.
Jared shook his head and fed him more ice chips.
The next day, Misha received a “Get Well” card, signed by the entire cast and crew. Inside, underneath an ‘I Told You So!’ written in Jensen’s hand with pink, glittery gel pen, was a bag of Skittles and a filming schedule. Only three minor edits had been made, gleefully marked with the pink glitter pen.
Misha smirked, relief and gratitude filling him with a warmth, and settled back to enjoy his candy.
For one thing, he got sick over the weekend, a nasty cold which came out of nowhere and lodged in his head, making Castiel’s voice deeper than ever, then for kicks and giggles, migrated down to his chest. The result was four nights of near insomnia, a noticeable wheeze, which had both cast and crew wincing in sympathy, and alternating pressure-induced headaches and a chest which felt filled with lead.
The Tuesday morning in question, Misha woke with horrible chills and aching down to his bones. An unwanted meet-and-greet with the thermometer showed his temperature to be an unhealthy 101.3.
Misha groaned, grimacing at the tiny digital display. It would be absolutely unforgivable to call in sick so soon after starting here. And it was a Castiel-heavy episode they were shooting this week; he would just have to suck it up and deal until the weekend.
Shooting the next two days would have surely made an interesting study on the tenacity of the human body. For Misha, it was a lesson in agony. A nearly unhealthy amount of Tylenol and Excedrin barely took the edge off his symptoms. IN the meantime, too, his cough was getting worse at an alarming rate, at best leaving him out of breath, at worst, making him double over from pain and near asphyxiation.
By the time he lay in bed Thursday night, Misha knew he was in serious trouble. He had no idea why his condition had deteriorated so quickly, just that it was no longer in his power to fix. But more important to him was not letting down his coworkers, his friends, the people who worked so hard to make Supernatural a success and with whom he was only just beginning to feel a part of.
He would not be the weak link, the new kid who screws everything and everyone up.
He couldn’t.
So surely just one more day wouldn’t matter? He’d made it this long feeling like a foot, hadn’t he? One more day, he resolved, and first thing Saturday morning, he’d go to the doctor.
His body, however, apparently ignored the memo.
They were filming the climactic fight scene at the end of the episode. Sam, Dean and Castiel, in another ill-fated attempt to protect a Seal, found themselves ambushed by a hoard of demons. Choreography called for Castiel to be hit in the stomach, sending him crashing into a wall.
The segment would be marked, with no real contact to prevent Misha from getting hurt. It was purely accidental that the extra playing the demon misjudged the punch.
Kimm yelled ‘Action!’ and Misha saw the fist come flying at him, so fast that there was no time to dodge.
The fist hit him square in the sternum, and immediately iron bands wrapped themselves around Misha’s chest. His eyes popped wide, meeting the horrified gaze of the extra as his body instinctively tried to curl inward to protect his chest.
The extra spun toward Kim, desperately yelling,
“STOP…”
… just as the invisible wires placed strategically under Misha’s coat, designed to send his body hurtling backward through the air, engaged.
Misha’s already abused lungs contracted painfully as his body slammed into the padded wall; any air he’d managed to retrieve was knocked harshly out of him again.
Through a fog, he felt the wires disengage, his body falling to the mat below, rushed footstep and concerned cries in his ears.
He desperately wanted to assure hem he was alright, that they needn’t worry, that they could go again…
… must not be the weakest link…
… but the moment air hit his lungs, he started coughing fiercely - and couldn’t stop.
He couldn’t breathe. The gunk which had settled in his lungs because of his illness had been loosened by the punch and subsequent impact with the wall; his body, recognizing an obstruction, was automatically trying to clear his airways.
The attack seemed to last forever. Misha was barely aware that he remained on his knees on the mat, that his hands were fisted against his chest desperately, as though this would help him breathe and against the sharp yet aching pain which filled him in place of air.
Can’t breathe … c-can’t … breathe … h-help…
A burning erupted in his throat; one of Misha’s arms lifted, seemingly on its own, and he coughed twice more into Castiel’s coat sleeve. Some of the gunk from his lungs felt his body in a nasty spray against the sleeve, and his chest almost immediately unclenched.
Sights, sounds and touch slowly filtered back with every weak, wheezy, relieved breath he took. Hands clutched desperately at his shoulders, keeping him mostly upright; a small crowd had gathered around him, all worried and anxious sounding, intermingled with shouts that sounded like orders.
Misha’s head spun - the trauma his body had just undergone and his overwhelming surroundings making him feel dizzy and faint.
“Misha! MISHA!”
Somebody nearby was shouting his name, shaking him slightly; it took him a long moment to realize it was Jared.
“Misha! Co’mon man, answer me! Are you alright?”
The babble around him fell silent.
“ ‘K…. ‘m ‘k….” Misha croaked breathlessly, and it was as if this realization took the last bit of strength out of his body. To his alarm, he felt his knees give out, and he started pitching sideways.
The concerned voices once again rose in alarm, subsiding slightly as strong arms arrested his fall, then propped him against a solid chest.
“He’s burning up - Kim has someone called an ambulance?” came a voice directly above him, and Misha slowly realized that it must be Jensen’s chest he was leaning against. “Man, what the hell were you thinking coming to work so sick?!”
“Not … gonna let … ‘vryone down,” Misha mumbled, not having the strength to speak louder. “Th’ show … more ‘mpor’ant….”
The fluid shifted in his lungs again, setting off another coughing attack. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. The coughs emerged as nothing more than wheezing gasps; Misha’s chest squeezed thighter and tighter; he couldn’t make his lungs expand, couldn’t draw breath; he was suffocating -
Misha pushed frantically, panicked, against Jensen’s chest, pure instinct taking over.
Air … air … please ….
The black spots swelled, and he knew nothing.
* * *
A soft beeping accompanied Misha back into the waking world, and he instinctively knew he was in a hospital. This was not surprising; what was, however, were Jared and Jensen sitting beside his bed. They both grinned as he squinted up at him.
“Hey man, welcome back,” Jared beamed, leaning over to push the call button. “Don’t look so surprised to see us, you’re part of the Supernatural family now! You gave everyone a real scare.”
“Yea, no more Living Dead routine again, okay?” Jensen scolded lightly. Real concern shone in both his and Jared’s eyes.
“ ‘M sorry,” Misha rasped, gratefully taking an ice chip from the cub Jared tipped to his lips. “ ‘m really, really s - sorry.”
“Mish, why didn’t you just call in sick? Jared asked, not accusing, simply curious.
“I …” Misha paused. “I didn’t think it’d be fair. We have such a tight schedule … and I could still work … it - wouldn’t have been fair to everyone on set, to the fans, if we got behind just because I got a chest cold.”
”I’m afraid it was quite a bit more than a chest cold, Mr. Collins,” a deeper male voice said from the doorway before either Jared or Jensen could respond.
“Dr. Alberts,” he introduced himself, shaking Misha’s IV-less left hand. “Mr. Ackles, Mr. Padelecki.”
“Doctor,” Jared and Jensen responded in kind, both grinning at the inadvertent ‘Changing Channels’ reference.
“Now Mr. Collins,” Dr. Alberts continued, studiously ignoring them and flipping through Misha’s chart. “I can not release any medical information in the presence of your friends unless you give your consent to their presence.”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well. Mr. Collins, it appears you contracted pneumonia due to mucus build up in your lungs. The fluid build-up re-aggravated your childhood asthma, which is why you deteriorated so rapidly.
“We’re going to monitor your condition over the next 24 hours. If you continue to improve we can then discharge you on amoxicillin to clear up the rest.”
Misha nodded his understanding.
“Good, then if you have no questions at this point, I have other patients to attend to. Please push the call button if you need anything at all; I’m glad to see you feeling better Mr. Collins.”
“Thanks Dr. Alberts,” Misha smiled, shaking the man’s hand before he retreated from the room.
“I’m so, so sorry,” MIsha murmured again once the doctor had left, gazing shame facedly down as his blanket-covered knees.
“Mish, if this is about that damn schedule, don’t worry about it!” Jensen stressed. “The directors know people get sick or hurt or whatever. A few tweaks to the timeline or the writing and we’re good to go! Lookit what happened with Jays arm - and that was a hell of a lot more long-term than this!”
“And if you don’t believe us,” Jared continued, “as Kim. Hell, ask Kripke, they’ll both tell you the same thing.”
“Either that, or we can just threaten you with junk food until you believe us.”
Misha couldn’t help it - he laughed. This, predictably, turned into a coughing fit.
Jared shook his head and fed him more ice chips.
The next day, Misha received a “Get Well” card, signed by the entire cast and crew. Inside, underneath an ‘I Told You So!’ written in Jensen’s hand with pink, glittery gel pen, was a bag of Skittles and a filming schedule. Only three minor edits had been made, gleefully marked with the pink glitter pen.
Misha smirked, relief and gratitude filling him with a warmth, and settled back to enjoy his candy.