ataraxionlogs | twenty-eighth jump;

CHARACTERS: Any and all.
LOCATION: Gravity Couches and beyond.
WARNINGS: Maybe some swearing, or even some violence, and more than likely some implied (and possibly explicit) nakedness.
SUMMARY: Another month, another jump, another round of new faces.
NOTES: It could just be the standard sensation of air on wet skin, but if you bother to check, you might notice the steam rising from your body, barely there and gone within a minute. By the time you get to the showers, it will be clear that it's not just taking you time to adjust. The room is cold — colder than usual, but no worse than the last jump. While it's nothing dangerous, it's certainly motivation to hurry through the usual routine and get dressed quickly.

It's getting closer.

YOUR EYES ARE OPEN.

KEEP LOOKING.

You wake up in darkness.

There's a breathing tube jammed down your trachea, and you're suspended in a tube of clear blue fluid. Upon registering your level of consciousness, the gravity couch drains the fluid surrounding you and retracts the breathing apparatus; the doors in front of you open, and you're deposited on the floor of a stark, sterile medical bay.

You are not alone.
There are others who have come before you, others who are awakening beside you. Some may be familiar to you, perhaps even friends. Others have much less amiable plans. Some are merely alien and inexplicable, but there are always those who might mean you harm.

After you catch your breath and your vision returns, you notice a number on the inside of your forearm. Maybe it's a familiar number. Maybe it means something. Maybe it's just a number. But the number—completely unique to you—is a tattoo, and it does not come off.

If you enter the room adjacent to the medbay, you will find a small locker with your number on it, surrounded by rows upon rows of identical lockers. Inside, you will find a few of your personal items, a communications device, and a ship's uniform in your exact size. The comms device is fully powered and connects directly to the ship's network; it's your only means of communication beyond physical conversation. Upon turning the device on, a neutral, automated voice will say, "Please take the blue lift to the passenger quarters." Any other attempts at communicating with the rest of the network are met only with static.

This is your welcome party.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ There's a moment he meets Dean's eyes without hesitation, foregoing an answer and just offering the slightest nod. He would do nothing but be careful, not wanting to risk jarring the wound open further and causing more damage that couldn't possibly be repaired. Castiel's strength is wavering here, slowly seeping out the longer he stands and does nothing. He doesn't mind the way Sam touches his clothes or stains them, reaching out to grab Sam's wrist. The hold won't do much, even if they're going a short distance, so he has to step even closer to support him as best he can. ]

Don't worry.

[ Whether he speaks to Dean or Sam or to no one in particular remains unclear.

Instead, he turns his head and looks and is gone with him just as quickly. It's faster than a blink, could possibly give Sam vertigo or interfere with his perception due to the lack of warning, but Castiel is there to brace him, to ease him onto one of the free beds before looking around for someone to help them. Help Sam.

He could try again to heal him, but he doesn't know how well it would go this time. So, he hovers almost impatiently, entirely indecisive. ]

I'll beat you six ways to Sunday.

[ oh sam. despite the words, you barely get a smile -- it's a strained shadow of one -- before dean's nodding at cas, putting all his faith in the angel to make sure everything goes alright. once they're gone, he races to the medbay, like it really is a matter of time and being there first, though he knows by the time he's skidding to the door, rushing inside that sam and cas will be there...

when he spots them, he's already twisting around for medical staff, hoping those who work there have recovered from the jump are back at work immediately. it's asking a lot, but when it comes to sam, dean knows no boundaries. ]

How is he--

[ he's approaching then, like something drastic might have changed in the past three minutes. ]

[Sam's curled up on a bed with his shirt removed and a pad of gauze on his back, on his side. He's still pale and shaky and looks prone to fading in and out of consciousness -- feels cold, sleepy, distant -- but he still manages to hear Dean.]

Feel like crap.

[His eyelids flutter and he closes his eyes, and they feel sort of stuck like that.]

Dean -- [No passing out yet, Sammy.] Azazel... Got all the kids t'gehter like me... Whuh' happened?

[Nailed it, perfect conversationalist.]

I imagine that's normal.

[ It's what he says to Sam in way of trying to make him feel better, but he doubts it actually will, even if his efforts are blatantly there. At one point, he wouldn't have even bothered with it. Yet, things have changed since he'd first taken a vessel. He's hardly the same angel he used to be.

Castiel does, however, pause at the question and doesn't answer. Instead, his eyes find Dean to look at him, about what should be said. Sam is still so far in the past in comparison. While problematic, it's best to remain quiet in the event he's needed for something else. Like inducing Sam faster than the exhaustion would, which is why he continues to hover with his fingers curled tight.

If he doesn't want to tell him, just yet, he's more than willing to do so, and it's conveyed with only the slightest glance, one hand resting on the bed beside Sam's head. ]

[ feel like crap, look like crap. dean huffs another half-strained sound, something close to amused but not exactly. it dies quickly enough though, as sam starts asking questions. ]

Not now, Sammy, just rest.

[ yup, gonna just shoot you down on that without hesitation. they can't talk about this now, not with sam only somewhat better but very much still in need of more treatment. they talk about this now and sam might misunderstand something, might connect some missing dots-- something, anything that dean doesn't want him to do.

so he looks at cas then, that same pleading in his eyes as what had clung to his prayer when he'd found sam.

put him to sleep. ]

[Sam doesn't want to end it at that. But his vision is fluttering and trying to drag him back under — he pats around for Dean's arm, skin clammy and waxen, heart beating wildly though weak. Confusion is starting to become a problem, because he can't remember how he got here anymore; Dean had said something, but he's not sure what. Everything wants to click off on him.

Dean was — running toward him, but now he's in a medical facility. He squints hard, eyes nearly shut, trying to focus. He sounds out of breath. Can't get oxygen as quickly as before, not until he's got the blood for it.]

Dean... Not your fault...

[ His expression is considerably thin through the exchange, looking between Dean and Sam and finding that he doesn't need to be asked or told what to do now. Sam isn't in any condition to be having this sort of conversation, and Dean-- Well, it's not a stretch to know what he wants of him without really saying much of anything.

Castiel's hand flexes for just a moment at his side, hidden by the height of the bed and the cuff of his coat. He doesn't glance at Dean when he finally reaches out, settling on Sam's face instead the very second fingertips gently touch his forehead. It's not difficult to put him to sleep, not like it had been when he'd struggled to heal him. Everything is smooth and as it should be.

The apology he'd wanted to give doesn't reach anywhere but his eyes, and he doesn't think anyone, not even Sam, will see it. ]

[ sam's body is not up for this and dean forces his face away from twisting into something upset over the slowly muttered words. it's a time long gone for him, but sam having gotten stabbed-- it'd been a mess, something he probably could have prevented from happening. somehow. his hands curl into fists by his sides, watching cas reach out and touch his brother's forehead.

once it's done, once sam is asleep, dean looks to the angel. ]

Thank you.

[ it's barely audible, said with a small nod and then his eyes are back on sam, for a beat or two-- and he's off then, to find whoever works there, to bark at them to fix sam up faster, to give him what he needs. to keep him alive. dean might be stepping away, but he won't be straying far for the next few days. ]

twenty-eighth jump;

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