decimus; [visual]; and not to pull your halo down
He's never woken up before. At least, before the week he'd been pulled from his vessel. But that's just what Castiel has just done, and he wakes up to something strange -- not that waking up isn't strange, itself. He wakes up to uneven breathing, pain in his head and the physical feeling of his vessel - no, something tells him body, his body - throbbing with each pulse of his heart. Something claws at his insides, an angry roil, and for several minutes the angel is too shocked to say or do anything.
He can feel. He wants to cry out, he wants help, he wants someone. He feels detached, alone, weak. Castiel gropes at the device on his wrist, knowing it well enough by now to be able to turn it on. On, visual, public.
The surprisingly natural action of closing his eyes and inhaling to regain composure throws him off for a moment, and when he opens his eyes again he can see that he's on a sidewalk, horizontal. The angel is strangely not bothered by this at the moment and stays there, lifting his arm so that he can see the device. To anyone who is familiar with his usual stoic appearance, his current air is fairly... not as well-held.
"I need help."
He can feel. He wants to cry out, he wants help, he wants someone. He feels detached, alone, weak. Castiel gropes at the device on his wrist, knowing it well enough by now to be able to turn it on. On, visual, public.
The surprisingly natural action of closing his eyes and inhaling to regain composure throws him off for a moment, and when he opens his eyes again he can see that he's on a sidewalk, horizontal. The angel is strangely not bothered by this at the moment and stays there, lifting his arm so that he can see the device. To anyone who is familiar with his usual stoic appearance, his current air is fairly... not as well-held.
"I need help."