Thunder rumbles overhead. Rain gently drums against the rocks above our hollow, a rhythm so soothingly soporific that it's threatening to make my eyelids grow heavy. I'm not sure if the rain is acidic this time, or if the Gamemakers deemed it boring and uninteresting and added some other twisted feature to the arena, but it doesn't matter. We're protected here in the hollow, regardless if the rain is lethal or not. Now we're free to think of it as relaxing.
I merely watch, leaning back against the tree trunk, as Cas uncaps a bottle of painkillers and pours a few pills into his hand. They're dark purple, looking like something that probably shouldn't go in a human body, but it's Capitol medicine. If how miraculously that little syringe of antivenom worked is anything to go on, these painkillers might just end up getting rid of my agony overnight. One can hope, anyway.
Cas returns to my side with the few pills and our water bottle. I can't stop my heartbeat from quickening when he meets my eyes and tips the pills into my good hand. "Thanks," I tell him, and I wash the dark purple tablets down with a gulp of water. Unfortunately, the pain doesn't dissipate in an instant.
A clap of thunder booms through the darkening sky, rattles the ground beneath us, as Cas moves to sit cross-legged in front of me. Everything feels so much different now. It's like his presence is stronger, more magnetic, and the simple act of him sitting across from me is enough to make my adrenaline run rampant. I can't meet his gaze without losing my breath. It just makes me think of his lips, how much I want to kiss them, how closely I want to hold him. Part of me even starts to forget we're in the arena at all.
I don't know what he's doing to me, but I never want it to end.
"I see you brought back some weapons, too," Cas remarks, his voice soft, a faint trace of a smile showing on his face.
I spare a glance at the sword lying on the ground, the knife still resting in the opened trunk. "They were some of the only ones left," I say. "I figured it might be good to have them, just in case we need them. Don't think I'll be going back there any time soon."
I meant for my comment to be lighthearted, but Cas doesn't seem to think so. A worried glimmer shines in his eyes as he looks down at my bandaged hand. The gauze is dark red with old blood. I've tried not to pay too much attention to it, despite how much it hurts. The memory of what happened to it is still horrifically fresh in my mind.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Cas asks. I almost miss his words over the rhythmic thrumming of the rain.
I haven't uttered a single thing about my little escapade at the Cornucopia. I'm not sure if I'll be able to without breaking down or bursting into tears. The mere thought of it all makes shivers run down my spine, paralyzes me with unbridled dread. It's too soon, too recent, too horrible to share right now. Maybe someday I'll be able to discuss it, but not now. Not so soon after I was beaten within an inch of my life. Surely Cas will understand, right?
I hope he doesn't notice the shudder in my breath as I struggle to inhale. "I just ran into some trouble."
Understatement of the century.
Cas knows it, too. "Looks like it was a lot more than just a little bit of trouble," he says, but his tone has no bite to it. He reaches out to gently touch the skin beneath the cuts on my face, still crusted with dried blood but thankfully no longer bleeding. Goosebumps prickle my arms when his fingertips graze my cheek. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Just remember that I'm always willing to listen if you need to get something off your chest."
I catch his hand as it drifts down from my face and squeeze it tightly, thanking him without words, showing him how much I appreciate his understanding and compassion. And I really do. I don't know where I'd be without his overwhelming kindness lifting me up whenever I'm down. I think he gets the message, too, because a warm smile tugs at his lips and flickers in his bright blue eyes. He squeezes my hand back.
"We should probably get that old blood off your face, though," he says after a beat. "Do you mind if I do it? I promise I'll be gentle."
"Go for it," I tell him with a feeble smile of my own. I know he'll be gentle. Every touch is. "I trust you."
The storm outside the hollow rages on as Cas pulls down the sleeve of his shirt so he has extra fabric to crumple into a ball. Then, carefully, he tips the water bottle and lets a thin stream trickle out for just a fleeting moment to wet his sleeve. I watch as he inches closer to me and sits back on his heels. I can't stop my stomach from fluttering when his fingers rest on my jawline, all the while he brings his damp sleeve to the crusted blood on my cheek. It's cold, startling, but the warmth I feel when he looks down and meets my eyes makes me forget about it in an instant.
He's so close that I can feel his breath. He returns his focus to the cuts, gently presses his sleeve against the dried blood to wash it off, but not once do I tear my gaze away from him. His slightly furrowed brows, knitted together in concentration. His tenderhearted eyes. His parted lips. I always thought he was attractive, but now, it just seems amplified, and I can already feel the adrenaline kicking in.
Sparks follow his fingertips as he traces them down my jaw and to my chin, tilting my head to the side to get a better angle for the cut by my eye. Gingerly, he pats the old blood, sweeping it off my skin. I think he inches closer. It takes all of my willpower to restrain myself, to not nudge his arm away so I can lean forward and kiss him. He's so close. I can practically feel the heat radiating off him.
My heart is beating out of my chest when Cas finally lowers his hand. His gaze falls to lock with mine, and it's like time itself freezes in place. I barely hear the rain, the thunder, booming outside. All I hear is my own rapid heartbeat, the blood roaring in my ears. All I see are those bright blue eyes, those lips that I want to feel against my own. Nothing else matters. Nothing.
My breaths turn into a heavy, frantic mess when Cas lays both of his hands on my face and starts to lean toward me, slowly, tantalizingly. I close my eyes and wait for the dreamy feeling of his lips to meet my own, but it doesn't come. He stops just before my mouth, his nose brushing my cheek, his fingers pressing into my skin, his labored breaths fanning my lips. He keeps inching his body closer, so close that he might as well be sitting on my lap, but still, he doesn't seal that microscopic distance between my mouth and his. It's driving me crazy.
My palm finds his collarbone, the base of his neck. His heart pounds against my hand. I clutch the fabric of his shirt, try to pull him toward me, try to bring his lips to mine before my wild breaths make me dizzier than I already am.
Then the anthem blasts through the air, and the adrenaline dissolves into an irksome wave of disappointment when Cas draws back and rises to check the sky. Although, judging by the look he flashes me as he stands, I think it's safe to say he'd much rather prefer to continue what we were doing. Have to check the sky, though. Have to keep tabs on who's left to outlive.
As he trudges up the slope and parts the vines, careful to avoid the raindrops in case they're still acidic, I find myself gnawing on my lower lip, still feeling the ghost of his warm breaths. Of course the recap had to start now. I hardly even think about it and who's going to be on it until I hear Cas' shocked voice piercing through the swarm of thoughts in my mind.
"Both Cresh and his partner are dead," he says, turning back to look at me with wide eyes.
It's such a simple statement, but its innocence cuts deep. Terror seizes me, completely paralyzes me. Suddenly I'm no longer in the safety of the hollow, but back in the Cornucopia. Cresh punching me, kicking me. Cresh pinning me to the earth. Cresh cutting my face, spearing my hand with a knife. His horrible cries of pain as I stabbed him, over and over and over until something finally snapped me out of my violent trance, and I realized what I'd done. How much of a murderer I'd become.
And then I feel Cas' hand on my shoulder, squeezing it tightly, and I'm not being beaten. I'm not being tortured. I'm not driving a blade into someone's chest. I'm here, with him, in the hollow, and I'm alive. I see the concerned look on my district partner's face as he asks me if I'm okay. There's a worried glimmer in his eyes; I notice tears stinging my own.
The words slip out before I can stop them. I barely recognize my own feeble voice. "I killed them..."
For a long, agonizing second, Cas doesn't move. He blinks, glances between both of my eyes as if he's going to find the answer in there. "What?" he eventually murmurs. I'm not sure if he didn't hear me or if he's just struggling to believe what I said. I know I still am.
"I killed them," I repeat. My voice catches as a tear trickles down my cheek. I didn't want to talk about what happened, but here we are. It's too late now. "Both of them."
A look of shock ignites Cas' expression. He falters, his concerned eyes widening, his mouth slightly agape with words he doesn't have the strength to speak. Then, with a hesitant hand, he reaches up to gently rest his fingertips beneath the cuts on my face. "Did they do this to you?" he asks, a near-whisper.
I manage a nod. My lip has started to quiver. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks in a dangerous stream, and I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to stop them. That one little sentence, those harmless pictures shining in the sky, have opened the floodgates. I tried so hard to build a dam around those awful memories, tried so hard to keep the aftermath at bay and forget about it as best as I could, but I suppose there's no escaping something like this. No one will forget what I did back there. Not me. Not Cas. Not the Capitol and the rest of Panem. I'm the boy who, against all odds, killed two Careers from District 1 by himself with only a switchblade and a knife that was stabbed through his hand. There's no way that should've happened. There's no way I should be alive right now. That just means it'll be all the more memorable for the Capitol, and all the more traumatizing for me. No one will ever let this go.
I have to explain myself. Cas is looking at me like he's not sure who I am anymore, and I can't have that. I can't bear the thought of it. "He beat me," I say, voice unsteady as the tears begin to flow, as the memories creep back into my racing mind. "Cut me up. Stabbed a knife through my hand." Cas' eyes widen in fear, in pure shock. "And he was about to kill me, but I still had the switchblade. I killed him. I killed both of them."
The silence that follows is like experiencing the torture of my hand injury all over again. I shouldn't have said anything. Cas must think I'm a monster, a cold-blooded killer. The glint in his gaze shatters my aching heart into pieces. He looks like he wants to say something as his hand drifts down from my face, but he can't bring himself to do it. That only makes it worse.
I grab his hand, desperately squeeze it, force myself to meet his eyes through my blurry vision. "Please don't think any less of me," I plead, a feeble whimper. Every word burns in my throbbing throat. "I didn't want to. I was so scared. I really didn't want to, but he was gonna kill me, and I had to get the medicine, and—"
I'm hushed when Cas leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my lips. It lasts but a moment, but when he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine, his presence gentle and warm and reassuring, I feel the relief start to chip away at the pang in my chest.
"You did what you had to, and it doesn't matter to me what it was," he tells me, his thumb rubbing tender circles on my tear-stained cheek. "You saved my life, Dean, and I'm just happy you're alive, too."
I don't know why, but his words make the tears fall faster, makes the grief clawing at my heart more insufferable. It spreads through my blood, to every part of my shivering body, like a painful virus. Why is he always so nice to me? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve him. I try to move my left hand, try to bring it to his cheek to tell him how thankful I am, but the agony is immense. My palm burns. It shoots through my entire arm. I bite on my tongue to suppress a cry, but it does nothing to stifle the fresh flood of tears.
"I can't move my fingers, Cas," I whimper. I can barely move my whole hand, for that matter, let alone each individual finger. It's so much worse than I thought. The damage is grisly, and I'm terrified to think it might be irreparable. "What are we supposed to do?"
How are we going to survive this if I only have one fully functional hand?
Apprehension shines in Cas' eyes. I can see it clear as day, but he tries to hide it with a small smile. "We'll figure something out," he reassures me. It's impossible to miss the weak tremor in his voice. "We always do."
I can't do anything except hope he's right. Hope I don't bleed out, slowly and miserably. Hope the wound doesn't get infected. Hope we somehow figure out a way to stay safe when only my right hand is able to operate normally. There's a lot of hope in the air, but nothing concrete, nothing that can guarantee our continued survival. And right now, after everything that's happened, I'm afraid to rely solely on something as intangible as hope.
It's difficult to restrain a shuddering breath when Cas gently presses his lips to my forehead. He lingers for a moment, the warmth from his touch prickling over my skin like tendrils of electricity, before drawing back and sitting across from me once more. He takes my right hand in between both of his and doesn't let go.
"Can we talk about something else?" I ask, willing my tears to stop, willing myself to calm down. I don't want to think about any of it anymore. It's over. It's in the past, and as horrible as it was, I have to try to keep moving forward. What matters now is the present and what we're going to do next. I'm only going to put us in danger if I stay frozen in the past, desperately wishing to change something that's already been done. I know that. It's just too nightmarish to forget.
"Of course," Cas says with the most comforting smile he can muster up, but he's distressed. I know he is. He's just trying to conceal it for my sake. "What were you thinking?"
"Anything." I pause as what I hope will be the final tear slides down my cheek and drips off my jaw. There are plenty of things to discuss, surely, but nothing comes to mind. Then, looking at his bright blue eyes and how he's hardly glanced away from me all evening sparks an idea, and it actually makes me smile. "How long have you liked me?"
My smile only widens when a faint tint of pink flushes Cas' face. A sheepish grin tugs at his lips as he breathes out a feeble chuckle and lets his gaze drop to the ground. "A few years, maybe," he replies. I'm quite taken aback by his answer. "I saw you one day when we were both working in the fields. We were a couple rows apart, but I still knew that you were easily the cutest boy I'd ever laid my eyes on. I asked around, found out how funny and caring you were, and then the rest is pretty much history."
"A few years?" I repeat, still in disbelief, slightly blushing from his comment about me being cute. "How come you never talked to me? I don't bite."
"What was I supposed to say?" Cas says with an amused smile. "Hey, I've kind of been stalking you for a while because I think you're cute and interesting. Want to date?"
I can't help but laugh. I'm already beginning to feel better. "You could've just come up to me and started talking about anything," I tell him. "Charlie starts the strangest conversations sometimes. I wouldn't have been fazed at all if you did that, too."
For a moment, Cas' smile remains. Then he gives a faint shake of his head, his eyes flitting down to the ground as his expression diminishes. "No, I was always too nervous. You were way out of my league," he says. "You probably still are. I always overheard girls talking about you and how charming and attractive you were. I knew there was no way I'd ever have a chance."
"Well, I hate to be so blunt," I say in hopes to bring back that smile that I love, "but you were wrong. It's unfortunate that all of this couldn't have happened in a brighter, less deadly scenario, but whatever works, right?"
Warmth prickles in my chest when Cas suddenly lights up, mirth shining in his gaze as it locks with mine. "Okay, speaking of that, now it's my turn to ask you a question," he says. I'm not sure if I should be afraid or excited by his burst of enthusiasm. "How long have you liked me? I never thought I'd see the day."
I have to stop and ponder, reflect on when I first started noticing those unusual feelings. I'm positive they've been there for a long while, but I never paid too much attention to them until recently. So when did they actually arise, despite my ignorance toward them?
"Maybe since that first night we talked, on the rooftop of the Training Center," I eventually reply. "After that conversation and how much time we spent together, I think it just kind of grew and developed from there."
I remember that night, that blissfully peaceful night up on the roof where the gleaming lights of the Capitol looked like they stretched on for miles and the starry sky above twinkled in response. That's where we had our first real conversation, where he opened up to me about his older brother and how terrified he was of ending up the same way. And that's where I promised him that everything would be okay, that I would do everything in my power to keep him safe and bring him home to his family, no matter the cost. There, on that little rooftop in the center of the city, is where we became the inseparable team we are today, and I can't suppress a frail smile when I think about how far we've come since then.
I'm brought back to reality, to the dim and muggy hollow in the middle of a rainforest, when Cas breathes out a laugh. His cheeks are still ever so slightly tinted pink. "That feels like such a long time ago," he muses. "Sometimes I forget we were ever in the Capitol at all."
"Me too," I sigh. "It's only been six days, I think, but it feels like six decades." I pause as a disquieting thought washes over me, makes the pang in my chest return. "Six days ago there were still twenty-four of us."
I notice Cas' face fall, but only for a fleeting moment. He's quick to hide it and steer the conversation in a different direction. "We're in the final eight now," he says, his voice as optimistic as possible. "That's good, though, right?"
I don't hesitate to nod. It's incredible. We managed to outlive sixteen other tributes thus far. I was afraid we wouldn't even make it halfway. But I can't ignore the guilt still pulsing through my veins. We're only in the final eight because of what I did at the Cornucopia. There were ten tributes left at the start of the day. Now there are only eight.
But I know Cas is right. I did what I had to do. Neither of us would be alive if I hadn't done what I did back there. It was either us or the boys from District 1, and it had to be us. I just wish that realization would make dealing with the aftereffects easier.
"That means they'll probably be starting the interviews back home," Cas goes on, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the palm of my hand.
That's right. I'd almost forgotten that's what happens once the final eight are brought to light. Friends and families of the remaining tributes are interviewed, and those are broadcast during lulls for the rest of the Games. I never quite understood why they do that. Probably to determine more betting odds. This is when the betting starts to get insane in the Capitol. Only eight left, and it's a battle for them to figure out who has the best chances of winning. It doesn't matter much to me, but I can't help but wonder what our odds look like in the eyes of the Capitol.
"What do you think they're gonna ask?" I say, not necessarily expecting an answer. All I'm imagining is a bunch of Peacekeepers and Capitol officials rounding up our parents, little Sam and Gabriel, Charlie, anyone and everyone who's close to us and asking them questions about us. What we're like, how they think we're doing, whether or not they believe we'll survive.
Cas lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Probably personal things," he says. "You know, since the Capitol loves sticking their nose in other people's business."
He's smiling, and I am, too, but a transient flicker of worry sparks inside of me at his words. "You probably shouldn't say things like that," I tell him. "The whole country might be listening right now."
"What are they gonna do?" Cas says with a laugh. "Put me in the arena?"
I can't stop my smile from widening at his sudden nerve and valor. It's not usually like him to be so outspoken, but I have to admit, I kind of like it. "When did you get so bold?"
My heartbeat quickens when he shifts to his knees and starts to lean toward me, his face alight with the faintest trace of a smirk. "I guess maybe you're rubbing off on me."
He presses his lips to mine, and my stomach still flutters. I hold onto his wrist, soaring way beyond cloud nine, as his warm hand cups my cheek and pulls me closer. I don't think I'll ever get over how euphoric he makes me feel. There's just something about him that's so irresistible. I don't know what it is, but I can't get enough of it. And that is far from a bad thing.
He draws back when we hear a soft chime echoing through the air, gradually growing louder and louder as the seconds pass. I barely have time to express my excitement about us receiving another sponsor gift before the container crashes through the curtain of vines and rolls down the slope, tangled up in its silver parachute. Its song halts as soon as it bounces off Cas' leg.
Cas flashes me a curious glance as he picks up the container and unscrews the lid. I wonder what we've been sent now. No doubt my little escapade at the Cornucopia attracted some attention, so there's no saying what could be inside that metal container. It could be anything.
The first thing Cas fishes out is another slip of paper, presumably from Bobby. "A collective gift from almost everyone in District Nine," my partner reads, his brows knitted in confusion. When he looks at me, searching for an answer, I only shrug and motion for him to keep digging through the contents of the container. Now I'm very interested to see what's inside if it came from home.
Setting the slip of paper down, Cas grabs a small green bottle full of a clear liquid. Labeled on the glass is the word "Antiseptic." Then he picks up a fresh roll of gauze. Finally, at the bottom of the container rests a portable canister with yet another lid. Cas unscrews it, and the unmistakable, pungent scent of strong Capitol medicine stings my nose. It's a completely medicinal sponsor gift. This must have cost a fortune, especially so late in the Games. I can't believe it. How in the world did this come from District 9?
Cas looks like he's on the verge of exploding with a blend of happiness and bewilderment. I can only imagine I mirror his expression perfectly. "Everyone back home must've gathered up a ton of money as a group and sent it to Bobby," he says breathlessly. "There's no way a single sponsor coughed up that much cash to send us medicine. This is crazy."
My chest aches—this time it's in a good way—when I think about the idea of everyone in District 9 pitching in to send us a gift in the arena. Not many people have extra money lying around back home. Almost every cent goes toward what little scraps of food we can purchase. The fact that most of them were so willing to help us, despite their own worrying financial troubles, warms my heart so much that I think it might melt me. Our home district must really have faith in us and our ability to make it out of here, and that thought alone is enough to fuel the determination that once coursed through my veins.
I notice Cas glancing down at my bandaged hand. It must be what the medicine is for. The antiseptics, the fresh roll of gauze, the creamy ointment in the canister. Neither of us knows what that does, but it's Capitol medicine. Surely we'll just have to smear it on the wound, and it'll do its job. I wonder how much of that ghastly wound it will heal, though. I mean, there's a hole in my hand. I don't think any medicine is that magical.
I lift my left hand onto my lap, wincing as a wave of pain shoots up my arm, and Cas begins to pale at the sight of all the bloodied bandages. The fabric is so stained with dark crimson that I can barely see the gauze anymore. I'm terrified to unwrap it and see what kind of horrible damage awaits us underneath, but I know it has to be cleaned and disinfected. The last thing we need is me getting an infection or losing any more blood.
"I can do it," I say, watching as the color drains from Cas' face. I start to reach for the green bottle of antiseptics, but he stops me and shakes his head.
"No, it's okay," he reassures me, although the weak tremor in his voice says otherwise. "I've got it. Don't worry."
I'm not really in a position to argue, nor do I want to. I stay silent as Cas gingerly takes my left wrist and brings my bandaged hand closer to him. When he starts to unwrap the gauze, my stomach churns as the fabric peels away from my raw skin and layers of fresher blood. It makes a nauseating squelching noise, blood and broken flesh and all sorts of gruesome things that I don't even want to think about sticking to the gauze and dangling off it in strings. And that isn't even the worst of it. He still hasn't unwrapped to ground zero.
The back of my throat stings with bile when a breeze passes over my hand. Through my hand, more like it. The bloodied gauze crumples to the ground in a useless heap, and the appalling wound is now uncovered and, unfortunately, very visible.
It looks even worse than it did before. I can almost see right through my palm. My left hand is a bloody mass of ripped skin, torn muscle, probably some damaged bones and tendons and ligaments. I try not to stare too closely. I might burst into tears all over again.
Cas' face is sickly pale. He clasps a trembling hand over his mouth at the sight, still managing to hold my wrist with his other. "Oh my God, Dean," he murmurs through his fingers. I think I see tears glistening in his eyes.
There's not much to say. I try to cast him the most reassuring glance I can muster up, but it's futile. Both of us know how horrific this injury is. There isn't a point in trying to act like it's not a big deal. All I can do is stay still and calm for him as he reaches for the bottle of antiseptics and uncaps it, his shoulders shuddering with a nervous sigh.
Stinging agony explodes in my hand and prickles up my arm when Cas tips the bottle and pours a thin stream of the clear liquid over the wound. I can't suppress a sharp inhale, a pained grimace. The antiseptics almost seem to sizzle on my bloodied palm and mutilated skin. I can feel my pulse in my hand, and with every beat, it brings more and more waves of discomfort.
"Sorry," Cas says with a flinch. "I didn't know it would hurt that much."
I manage to tell him it's okay through gritted teeth and motion for him to keep pouring. The wound is deep. It's probably going to take a lot of antiseptics to be completely free of bacteria or any other disgusting things that might've gotten inside before I wrapped it up. I'm just going to have to tough it out.
I bite down on my right wrist, barely breathing through the surges of intense, throbbing torment that convince me my hand is on fire. Cas almost looks more pained than I do, though, as he carefully empties the bottle of antiseptics onto the wound that's growing angrier and angrier by the second. The skin surrounding it is bright red. The dried blood is flaking off. New blood is oozing out. Not much, but just enough to be concerning.
Not once does the smarting subside as Cas sets the green bottle down and picks up the metal canister full of that strong-smelling cream. He unscrews the lid once more and gives it another sniff, his nose wrinkling. He raises an eyebrow, flashes me a worried yet quizzical look, but I merely nod. Bobby wouldn't send us that cream if he knew it wouldn't help. It has to do something, but that something will just have to remain a mystery for the time being.
Drawing an unsteady breath, looking like he'd much rather be doing anything else, Cas scoops a bit of the cream—now I can see that it's a soft, velvety pink—onto his fingertips. Slowly, and hesitantly, he brings it to the outside of the wound and smears it around with a touch so gentle that a mouse might as well be applying it.
The initial cold temperature against my hot skin is jarring, but then the relief that follows is almost instantaneous. It's pure bliss. It's like the cream is swallowing up all the intolerable pain, all the damage that the knife did to my hand, and completely dissolving it as it soaks into my skin. I don't know how it's doing that, but I'm not complaining. I close my eyes, lean back against the tree trunk, relish the rapturous alleviation that this bizarre cream is giving me. It's like the injury doesn't even exist anymore. It's incredible. The capability of Capitol medicine will never cease to amaze me.
I don't even realize I've started to doze off until I feel Cas wrapping my hand back up with the fresh roll of gauze. He tightens the fabric and makes sure it's secure before dropping his own hands to his lap and heaving a sigh. He looks drained, his face still ashen as he wipes the leftover cream and traces of my blood off his fingertips, but he persevered. Yet another reason why I've fallen so hard for him.
"Am I good to go, doctor?" I tease with a smile. Without the constant aching pain in my hand, I feel better than ever. I'm not sure what exactly that cream was or how the Capitol scientists managed to cook up something so powerful, but it seemed to work wonders so far.
Despite Cas' exhaustion, he prods my arm and returns my smile with one of his own. "For now," he says. "You might have to come back in for a follow-up appointment if you notice anything that feels wrong."
I'm so overjoyed that I can't help but laugh. Most of the pain is gone. A fresh roll of bandages is wrapped around my hand, and not much blood has seeped through the fabric yet. It's far too early to say for sure, but maybe things will turn out all right for me and my injuries. We have painkillers. There's still some cream left in the canister if I end up needing more. We used the whole bottle of antiseptics, but overall, I don't think we could've lucked out more. And it's all thanks to the people back home. If we manage to make it out of here, I'm going to hug each and every one of them until they can barely breathe. I hope they know how much they've helped.
"You should get some sleep," Cas says, startling me back to reality. "I can stay up for a while. And don't even think about arguing on this one. You're the one who's recovering from worse injuries than I am."
He must've noticed me opening my mouth to tell him I could stay up instead. I can't stop another fit of laughter from slipping past my lips. He's already reading my mind, and we've only closely known each other for a couple of weeks. That's amazing. I love it.
So I don't argue. As the rain pours down outside and the thunder continues to rumble, I lean back against the trunk once more and try my best to find a comfortable position to lie in. Cas watches me, probably to make sure I don't hurt myself, but looking at the tender glint in his bright blue eyes makes my heart swell. I reach out and give his hand a squeeze, suddenly overwhelmed with blithesome gratitude.
"Thanks for patching me up," I tell him.
A warm smile adorns his face as he leans forward and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. "Thanks for saving my life," he says, his voice as benign as his touch.
For the first time in the arena, I fall asleep cheerful.