Work Text:
The meat sat heavily inside him, a cumbersome uncomfortable presence within his vessel. Now that famine’s will was no longer pressing him down he couldn’t fathom what the appeal of this chilled dead flesh was. He wiped at the blood on his face, eyes glancing at the much more sinister red on Sam’s. It seemed famine had gotten to him as well, nothing surprising, though as it came with they’re success in obtaining the horseman’s ring he wasn’t too bothered by it. He had a feeling Dean would not see things in such a sensible light.
He stood slowly, hyper-aware of how the contents of his stomach shifted. He knew if he were human consuming such a large volume of matter would have likely proved extremely detrimental. As it was he was fairly certain he would escape this with little to no ill effects. Though, as the meat continued to settle and shift within him, stomach emitting a loud gurgle, he couldn’t help but feel that perhaps it was disagreeing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Castiel was hunched over a plastic bag Dean had insisted upon giving him in the back of the impala, fighting desperately against the inevitable. He was ashen and clammy, cold sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to take regular breaths. Wet burps and occasional spitting could be heard as they drove onward. Dean was doing his best to ignore it, focusing instead on the road, and Sam had fallen into a fevered sleep as his body began to rid itself of the demon blood.
After half an hour more of this and the angel swallowing down several abortive heaves Dean decided to put an end to it. He pulled the impala off to the side of the road, traffic was light and the shoulder was wide enough to not to be an issue anyway. Without a word he stepped out of the car and moved around to open the back door facing the woods.
“C’mon Cas,” he sighed, pulling the angel towards the door, “Let’s get this over with, ok?”
The angel didn’t feel at all like moving, but allowed Dean to pull him to the edge of the car with nothing more than an unpleasantly acidic burp. The man squeezed in behind him then, taking the plastic grocery bag from his hands and repositioning Castiel so that his legs were planted apart and he was hunched over again.
He didn’t like this. The sick feeling was rising up again, more strongly this time, and being bent over like this was making it significantly worse. He tried to straighten, swallowing compulsively as he did so, but a firm hand pushed him back down.
“I know it sucks, but you gotta get it out,” Dean said, rubbing his damp back. “Promise you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
The angel let out a pitiable groan, the uncomfortable fullness rising up to the back of his throat. He gagged wetly, still trying to hold it off, and a trickle of bile and saliva spattered onto the ground. Dean continued to rub his back and wait with the patience of a saint, urging him to let his vessel go through with this wholly disgusting task. After another few moments it became clear that any choice he’d thought he had in the matter was gone.
I little gush of foul tasting liquid flooded his mouth and then, without further warning, his abdominal muscles contracted forcefully and unexpectedly. His whole body tensed, doubling over further, and a torrent of half-digested meat poured out onto the gravel. He coughed harshly, managing to draw in a quick breath before more pressed violently up his throat and sluiced out.
Against his will his vessel continued with these involuntary motions, muscles contracting in unfamiliar ways, forcing up the viscous contents of his stomach in an almost unceasing flow. Tears had gathered at the edges of his eyes and the unfamiliar need to breathe clawed at him between heaves. Dean stayed, a firm presence at his back, and for this he was immensely grateful. It was unpleasant going through this but having Dean’s support, even if he couldn’t really do anything, was appreciated.
After a solid ten minutes of vomiting the muscle spasms began to slack off. By this point Castiel was so exhausted that the only thing keeping him upright was the hunter’s arm wrapped around his midsection. He was still retching passively, little spills of vomit pushing past his lips to splatter messily at his feet. Dean was a little grossed out, especially as he could feel the angel’s muscles fluttering under his hand every time he puked. He was resolved to do what he could though, and if that just meant keeping a hold on the guy then that’s what he would do. It seemed like Cas was close to being done though, the vomiting having tapered off into mostly unproductive heaves and burps.
After a few moments without any further gagging Dean decided to try and get the angel settled and get them back on the road to Bobby’s. Castiel was a dead weight in his arms, too exhausted to do much more than focus on breathing. He allowed Dean to move him easily enough though, and soon he had gotten the angel situated in the backseat, lying down with the grocery bag next to his head just in case.
“You any better?” he asked before moving back to the front, hand running gently over the angel’s back.
“I believe so,” Castiel replied weakly, “Though I am tired in an unfamiliar way.”
“Yeah, being sick will do that to ya,” Dean said with a sigh, “Try to get some rest, ok? And if you feel sick again the bag’s right there.” He ran a hand lightly through the angel’s messy hair as he moved away.
“Thank you Dean,” Castiel said quietly as the hunter slid back into the driver’s seat.
“Hey, no prob man, what are friends for, eh?”
Castiel smiled faintly, letting his eyes slip shut as Dean got them back underway. The familiar sounds of rock n’ roll drifted over him as he slipped in and out of sleep. An hour or so further into the drive he regained full consciousness long enough to be suddenly and violently ill again.
Dean was truly a good friend. He didn’t even get mad at him for being sick in the impala.