Archive of Our Own ^beta

 

 
Of all the diseases, injuries, or general maladies that can incapacitate a human, Castiel never would have believed that which would make him as weak as a baby in a trenchcoat (he will never allow Dean to forget this particular insult, no matter how many kisses Dean rains on every inch of his skin) would be as mockingly simple as the flu virus.
 
But much to his dismay, incapacitated Castiel has become. It's two days since he began feeling lightheaded and off-kilter, but as he's only been Fallen for less than a month, he didn't recognize the signs of impending illness. It wasn't until he lost consciousness after a particularly nasty fight with a werewolf outside Memphis that he realized something was wrong. He hadn't so much as a scratch from the beast, and had by no means overexerted himself in the brawl, mostly due to Dean not allowing him to take on his share of the hunting and fighting until he came to terms and fully understood his own limitations now as a human. That was one of their more heated arguments of late, ending with Sam getting his own room at the motel to get away from the tension because, as he bluntly stated, "If I ever have to hear how loud my brother gets while having makeup sex again, it'll be a day too soon."  
 
Deep down, Castiel had agreed with Dean. He's still learning all of the quirks and drawbacks of being a human, not to mention he's still frequently disconcerted over his lack of angel strength and "mojo." But he would never admit it to Dean (he's found he enjoys their fights too much at times), and would never willingly agree to not remain steadfast by Dean's side, doing his best to guard and protect him, lack of powers be damned.
 
Because of his impending illness, the adrenaline rush from the scuffle with the werewolf had been too much for Castiel. And simple as that, he'd fainted while attempting to help Dean and Sam haul the corpse into the Impala. From what Sam had said to Castiel afterwards, Dean went into a panic, believing Castiel to have been injured by the monster. But after searching his body for bites, bruises, or scratches, Dean and Sam both had taken notice of the feverishness and clamminess of Castiel's skin, put two and two together, and reached the conclusion that their former angel was, indeed, a victim not of a supernatural being but of the common flu.
 
Castiel is most displeased by this humiliating development.
 
One of the more surprising symptoms of this illness is how much he hurts. Every part of his body hurts and aches, even his teeth, although Castiel isn't quite sure if that’s because of the flu or because he can't stop them from chattering. He's cold, a bone-deep cold, and yet he's sweated enough to soak through at least three t-shirts and two bedsheets by his reckoning. The fever is high enough to make him fall in and out of consciousness, not remembering much of anything happening around him. He does remember both Sam and Dean bending over him, watching him, and fingers gently brushing across his forehead. At one point he remembers a cool, wet washcloth being placed on his brow, sending a chill so cold throughout his body that he snatched at the cloth and threw it across the room, spitting out, "Get that offensive thing off my face!" before curling further under the covers and falling back into a restless sleep.
 
He's vaguely aware of the concern both the Winchesters seem to have over his state, but it's not until the third day of this atrocious sickness that he's well enough to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, focusing on Sam and asking for a glass of water. His throat is parched, feels as if a knife is stabbing into it each time he swallows, but he's so thirsty he's willing to suffer the pain for the moment. As Sam makes his way to the kitchenette of their motel room, Castiel allows his gaze to wander around the room, taking in the detritus of the ill and those who would care for them—bags and empty boxes of various medicines, towels, used cups and bowls, and dirty clothes strewn across the beat-up chairs of the dinette set.
 
"You should really eat something, Cas," Sam remarks mildly. "You haven't been awake long enough to eat anything for days."
 
"I don't feel as if I can ever eat again," he grouses back. "You and Dean should have left me here, I'm no use to anyone right now, and I'll probably just get you both sick. I'm worthless."
 
Sam snorts. "Way to be melodramatic, Cas. Dude, it's just the flu. The first few days suck, but it gets better. Everyone is useless when they have the flu. Besides, if you really think Dean could walk away from you and not be your nursemaid when you're sick, then you don't know the guy very well."
 
"Does everyone with the flu feel this horribly?" Castiel marvels. "If so, why haven't humans found a cure for this? There must be a way to eradicate it… all monsters have weak spots."
 
"Heh, trust me, it's not for lack of trying," Sam retorts. "But viruses are crafty little buggers."
 
Castiel pulls his face into a grimace. "I believe it's possible they may have been spawned from Lucifer himself."
 
Sam rolls his eyes, walks to the bed and hands Castiel the glass of water with two pills. Castiel reaches for the glass greedily and winces as he drinks the pills down with tiny sips. Once sated, he wipes his lips free of water with the back of his hand and settles his head into his pillow. "Where's Dean?"
 
Laughing, Sam replies, "It took you almost three minutes to ask where he is, you really must be sick."
 
"Of course I'm sick, did you really need further evidence?" Castiel scowls as he tries to maneuver his sore limbs into a comfortable position.
 
"I was just teasing you, Cas, I'm sorry." Sam leans across him, pulls the sheet and blanket back up over him. "Dean went to the store to pick up a few things. He should be back in a bit, but in the meantime, I think you should go back to sleep. You need the rest."
 
"That's all I've been doing," Castiel replies skeptically. "Surely I've had enough?"
 
Sam shakes his head. "Okay, you? Are a horrible patient. The flu can be a real sonofabitch, your body needs a lot of time to recuperate. So go back to sleep, and Dean'll wake you up when he gets back." He narrows his eyes. "No negotiating this, Cas. If you're not gonna eat, then you need to go back to sleep."
 
"Fine," Castiel concedes grudgingly. "But only because I grow weary of this conversation. And because it hurts my throat to even look at you."
 
Sam chuckles. "You realize that made no sense, right?"
 
"You may leave now."
 

 

Castiel wakes up what must be a few hours later to the sound of pots rattling in the kitchen. He realizes that he feels somewhat better: the chills aren't wracking his body so violently as before and his throat isn't quite as painful. He props himself up on his elbow, and looks around the room. Sam is nowhere to be seen, Dean being the one in the kitchen making noise.
 
Castiel's voice is still hoarse and raspy. "Hello, Dean."
 
Dean quickly turns around and bellows, "Good morning, Sunshine! I heard someone's being a grouchy goose!"
 
Castiel winces at the auditory annoyance. "Must you be so loud and offensive? And why are you referring to me as a bird?"
 
Dean bites his lip, apparently attempting to prevent a grin. "Sorry, dude," he soothes. "Just trying to get you to loosen up and take your mind off of feeling like shit. Feeling any better now? Hungry?"
 
Castiel sighs and leans back into his pillows. "I suppose I'm feeling a bit more lucid than when I was awake earlier. And yes, I do believe I should eat something if I'm to build up my strength to fight off this wretched virus." Since he has become well aware of Dean's culinary preferences, he adds, "But despite what you may be thinking, a cheeseburger is the last thing I can eat right now. I doubt I could get anything so large and thick down my throat at the moment. And please don't say 'that's what she said'. I grew tired of you repeating that after the first several dozen times."
 
Dean snaps his mouth shut and smirks at that, returning to whatever he has brewing on the tiny stove. "For your information, I'm making you soup. Soup is good for you when you're sick. Besides, this soup is a good comfort food."
 
Castiel finds he's unimpressed. "I've never understood why humans claim that soup is a good remedy for illness. Is there medical research to support this theory?"
 
Dean glances back at him, sucks on his bottom lip in a way that sends an enjoyable skipping sensation skittering through Castiel's belly. "Dude, I don't know. It's just soup. It goes down easy on sore throats and the heat feels good. Stop overanalyzing everything. And sit up so I don't have to spoon-feed you, because I draw the line at that."
 
Castiel does as he's told, watching Dean as he stirs the soup, the steam from the broth rising to meet and cling to his face. He leans over as he brings the spoon to his lips, blowing on it before slurping the liquid and humming. Castiel watches all of this, and smiles despite his overall moodiness. "Why did you call this soup 'comfort food?'" he asks.
 
Dean looks over his shoulder at him again. "It's just a saying. Some foods make people feel good by reminding them of something happy, something from their past maybe."
 
Castiel ponders for a moment. "And why does this soup provide comfort for you?"
 
Dean shrugs. "It's a long story."
 
"I'd like to hear it."
 
Dean turns around fully now, and a few seconds pass before he blushes and mumbles, "It's really stupid, Cas. Just some story my mom told me once to get me to eat beans." He twists around to stir the concoction some more, and grabs a ladle and bowl, spooning the soup into it. He grabs a bottle from the counter, twisting the top and shaking powdery granules on top of the food. He looks up and sees Castiel watching him. "Parmesan cheese," he offers. "Stinky, but it's really good, trust me."
 
Without hesitation, Castiel says, "I always trust you, Dean."
 
Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, watch the sap levels. It's just cheese." He walks over to the bed carrying the bowl of soup and a spoon in one hand, a glass of water in the other. Castiel reaches for the glass as Dean sets the bowl on the nightstand. "Need to let this cool down for a few minutes," Dean tells him. "Last thing you need is burnt taste buds along with everything else." He sends a leer in Castiel's direction too. "We don't want to be scorching the tongue either, do we? You might be needing it now you're feeling better."
 
Castiel keeps his face stony. "This is a perfect moment for you to explain why this food provides comfort for you."
 
Dean side-eyes him as he scoots a dinette chair closer to the head of the bed. He sighs. "Okay, but just ... no laughing, okay? The only other person I've told this to is Sam, and that's because I needed to convince him to eat the soup, just like my mom did to me."
 
Castiel tilts his head, since he knows Dean finds this endearing. "Why did you both need to be convinced to eat it? Does the soup taste foul?"
 
Dean's eyes widen. "Oh God no, it's awesome. It just—it has beans in it, and I hated beans when I was real little. So did Sam."
 
His suspicion aroused, Castiel asks, "And why is that?"
 
Dean frowns. "Uh, well… the texture is kind of weird. And some of 'em kind of reminded me of organs… like kidney beans, they look like real tiny kidneys." He shudders. "Gross." He smirks then. "And, um, you know they make you fart, right? 'Beans beans, the musical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot?'" He chuckles as Castiel furrows his brow in confusion.
 
"I have never understood humans' fascination with flatulence. It's a normal bodily function, everyone does it. Why is it found so amusing?"
 
"Dude, farts are funny, I don't care how scientific and boring you try to make them. They're loud and stinky and come out of your ass. Remember when you sat on that whoopee cushion? Hilarious." Dean grins as if he's still proud of the practical joke.
 
Castiel sighs. "Dean, I don't understand..."  
 
"Cas, let it go," Dean tells him. "Farts are funny. Do you want to hear the story or not?"
 
He nods obediently. "Yes, Dean."
 
"Okay. So, I hated beans. But one day my mom announced she was gonna make a pasta and bean soup. Since I hated beans, I whined and bitched, and she said she'd make me a grilled cheese to eat instead, but only if I'd help her make the soup. I loved me some grilled cheese, so I agreed." Dean leans forward so his elbows are on his knees, and he rests his chin in his hands. "She gets the chicken broth boiling, and adds these little pasta shell things to it, and then goes to add a can of white beans. Me being the snotty little brat I was, I was all 'eeewww, beans are gross!' And my mom said, 'No, they're not, watch how much the pasta shells love them." His eyes go dreamy. "When I pour the beans into the soup, watch as each little bean finds a shell, the one that fits it best, the one that will protect it with the most love. Each bean will find its perfect mate, snuggle into the shell, and the shell will grow bigger and wrap the bean up to protect it and hide it. So when you eat the soup, you find a cute little treasure hidden inside each shell.'"
 
Castiel watches, entranced as Dean tells the story, his features softening into a faraway expression on his face as he remembers that moment in the kitchen with his mom. "Did this make you more inclined to giving beans a chance?" he queries.
 
Dean smiles. "Fuck yeah, thinking of the beans as a hidden treasure inside the shells? What little kid wouldn't love that?" He huffs gently. "Funny thing is, she was telling the truth… those beans do find their way inside the shells. Happens every time. And so, if Sam got sick when Dad was out of town I'd always fix this soup for him. First time I told him mom's story, I thought the kid was gonna have a seizure he was so fucking happy."
 
He nods, reaches for the bowl and stirs the contents, and Castiel ponders the story, comes to a conclusion that pleases him. "I can't help but see it as almost a metaphor of our own relationship," he observes through a yawn that reminds him how tired he still feels.
 
Dean raises an eyebrow. "How so, Plato?"
 
"Well, we found each other, against so many odds. We fought against so much to get where we are, Dean. And now we're finally together without any obstacles, and we recognize each other as perfect mates. You are mine, as I am yours. To put it simply, you are the bean to my shell," Castiel finishes with a happy smile.
 
"What?! Oh, hell no, there is no fucking way I'm the bean," Dean barks, a look of disbelief on his face.
 
Castiel lowers disapproving eyebrows. "Of course you're the bean," he insists. "I've saved and protected you from all kinds of dangers and demons, Dean. Much like the shell wraps itself around the bean and protects it against the elements and all kinds of trauma, I was the one to grip you tight and raise you from--"
 
"Oh come on!" Dean cuts in. "That was a long time ago—and look at all the times I've saved and protected you lately. I've stayed up all night the past three nights, by your bedside, nursing you back to health, all because I'm the shell and you're the bean."
 
This gets Castiel's temper flaring. He sits up straighter, his voice rising as he says, "How can you so easily dismiss me going to Hell to find you?! I spent years in Hell looking for--"  The strain on his voice and throat launches him into a coughing fit so violent that Castiel has to grasp the bed with one hand and his chest with the other. Dean surges forward from the chair, perches on the edge of the bed and begins rubbing soothing circles on Castiel's back.
 
"Hey, hey Cas, I'm sorry," he hurries out. "Hey buddy, it's okay, it's just a nasty cough, just try to breathe." He bends down, trying to peer into Castiel's face and meet his eyes, but Castiel has his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Dean sighs guiltily. "Would it make you feel better if I admit that you're maybe a little right, and maybe that sometimes I have kind of been the bean?"
 
Castiel clears his throat, coughs a bit more, then opens his eyes. "Yes," he croaks triumphantly. "I think it would make me feel better if you were able to admit that, to me as well as to yourself. Being the bean isn't a sign of weakness, Dean."
 
Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh my God, okay then. Yes, Cas, sometimes, when it comes to you and me, I am the bean."
 
Castiel stares at Dean for a few moments, and he smiles as he contemplates being the bean himself now he might have recovered enough for Dean to curl around him under the sheets. He raises a hand and cups Dean's cheek. "You make a very fine bean, Dean."
 
"Shut up and eat your soup, weirdo."