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“Dammit, Cass,” Dean huffs, “can't you be even a little human about this?”
(Or: Castiel takes Dean's advice. It doesn't go well.)
...
Connecting to a vessel is different than simply occupying it; it is difficult work. Castiel usually wouldn't even entertain the idea, but... Dean had asked. Dean had asked him to try, to feel like a human did.
So, Castiel had connected to his vessel. And immediately, Castiel had regretted it.
He comes to a few moments later, laid out on the ground. Castiel shudders against the tile. He feels... hollow, as though his abdomen is caving in on itself. His throat seems to create daggers when he swallows. He is cold. And also hot. And yet he is cold.
His thoughts are slow and fuzzy, coming to him as honey drips from a— he can't think of the word. The honey... spoon... thing. He blinks (his eyes ache like the rest of him does).
He has seen Sam and Dean (and any number of other humans) wounded in various ways. Bones snapped like twigs. Internal organs tearing themselves apart. Skin splitting under blades. But sickness— sickness he is unfamiliar with.
Castiel feels sick.
He's certain he's stationary on the floor, but he feels like he's spinning. The... the food, organ, where food goes, feels as though it is trying to eject instead of absorb. He doesn't... feel... well.
What does he do in this situation? Castiel's not human. He doesn't know how to deal with human things. He needs a human. He needs his human. He needs Dean.
Castiel fumbles in his pockets until he finds his cellular phone.
“Cass?”
“Dean.” Castiel needs something. He reaches for the feeling of Sam and Dean; their locations are usually neon signs to him, impossible-to-miss markers. Castiel misses the markers.
He keens, pressing his forehead into the tile, remembing a moment too late the Enochian sigils hiding them. He can't find them.
“Uh. Cass? Hey, are you, uh...” Dean's voice wavers, his tongue clicking. “...busy?” Castiel doesn't answer. Awkwardly, Dean asks, “Do angels jerk off?”
“I don't know what that means,” Castiel responds roughly, squeezing his eyes shut. He gets an elbow propped beneath him, shaking with the effort. “Where are you?”
Dean rattles off a motel name and room number. “I'm not going anywhere until the sun comes up, though, you hear me?”
Castiel swats the phone closed and warps.
...
Dean startles so hard he ends up on his ass.
Castiel doesn't usually poof into existence the very second he hangs up, and he especially does not appear on the ground, heaving. Fearing the worst, Dean hauls said ass over to the angel's side.
Castiel retches, though nothing escapes him but drool. Dean reaches out to hold up his tie, hissing, “Shit, Cass!”
“Forgive me,” the angel manages, barely more than a whisper. His one supporting arm gives— Thank God Dean was there, or else he would have just eaten shit. “I don't know what's... what's wrong with me.”
Dean pulls Castiel basically into his lap, peeling off his coat to check for injuries. Cass is all but boneless, leaning weakly into Dean’s hold. God, he’s burning. Do angels get fevers? Dean didn’t exactly pay attention to Cass’ usual body temperature. But surely he’d have noticed if he was always warm like this, right?
“Cass, are you… are you sick?”
Castiel shivers miserably in response, leaning forward to bury his head in Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, “I don’t feel well.”
“I gathered that,” Dean huffs. He smooths a hand over Cass’ hair gently, sighing. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I...” Castiel swallows thickly, a rough whine escaping him. Oh, that's what that noise was. Dean smooths a hand down his back without really thinking about it. “I don't feel well.”
“Or so I've heard.” Dean sighs. He guides Cass upright, nudging him onto the bed. The angel blinks uncomprehendingly. “Alright, feathers. Talk to me. What doesn't feel good?”
“Everything,” Cass responds, incredibly helpfully. He curls forward, eyes narrowing at nothing. “My... insides. The place where you store food.”
“Your stomach,” Dean tells him. Well, that explains Castiel trying to puke his guts up. Dean purses his lips, thinking. Why would an angel be sick?
He thinks about Jimmy Novak, how hungry he'd been when Cass left him. He was an angel, he didn't think about food or water. The guy was probably starving and dehydrated to all hell. That's an easy fix— the real question would then be why Castiel was feeling it.
And, y'know, what was causing the fever. But the fever probably wouldn't kill his vessel— assuming the body could die??— and starvation totally would.
Dean nudges him with a shoulder. “You know how to eat?”
“I can consume,” Castiel mumbles. He squints at Dean like he's trying to figure out what that has to do with anything. “Why?”
“And you're feeling human things,” Dean hums. Castiel nods blearily. Tears gather in his eyes. Not aknowledging them, Dean continues, “I bet you're starving. Thirsty, too.”
Luckily, Dean has just the thing (half a burger from the fast food place on the corner and shitty motel sink water). The cup ends up in Castiel's hand first. The angel, of course, stares at it like he has no idea what it is.
“Drink.”
“It's a drink, yes,” Castiel mumbles. He blinks slowly at it. “Why do I have this?”
“No, drink, like—” Dean sighs, wrapping his hand around Castiel's. “You know how to swallow?” Cass nods at him. Dean helps him guide the cup to his mouth and gestures. “Drink.”
The first sip is tenative; the rest of the water disappears before Dean can warn him to take it slow. Well. At least he's drinking. He passes Castiel the burger and refills the cup.
He takes one (1) bite and stares down at the food like it's grown a second head. Or a first head. Principle of the thing.
“You good?” Dean brings the trash can with him when he comes back over, just in case. Probably a lot easier to throw up when there's food in his stomach.
“Yes,” Castiel whispers, mystified. He devours the rest of it, barely stopping to chew. “It's good,” he says through a full mouth. He probably would have eaten the wrapper if Dean hadn't stopped him. “I like it.”
“Good,” Dean chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Feelin' better?”
“Yes.” Cass pauses, immediately folding in on himself. “No. Yes?”
“Well, if you're so sure.” Dean wraps an arm around Castiel's shoulders even as he snarks, patting his arm. He's shaking. “Easy, buddy. Easy.”
“Dean,” Cass keens, working his jaw, “Something's wrong.” His hands knit into Dean's jacket with a ferocity to rival a demon's. “Dean.”
Dean is very, very thankful that he grabbed the trash can.
...
Castiel dreams.
He hasn't slept before, really. This is new. He sleeps and loses track of what's real and what's not. A distant, logical part of him knows where he is, feels Dean's hand carding through his hair. The rest of him hears Dean's voice tell him he hates him, tells him never to come back.
Or he's hurt, bleeding under archangel blades, tormented by his own devotion. It's not a memory he cares for.
But through it all— phantom pains and nightmares and memories— he knows who he will come back to. Dean cards a hand through his hair. Dean murmurs warmly to him. Dean treats him like something he cares about. Like something worth caring about.
Castiel dreams, and when he wakes, Dean is with him.
...
He's not generally a good cook, but Dean can make a mean can of soup, even in a cheap motel microwave. (He's quietly thankful Sam convinced him to start carrying microwavable things, instead of just eating takeout all the time.) Guy hadn't eaten in a couple months— soup was probably a smarter, safer choice than the burger. Dean's not too keen on figuring out what happens if Castiel or his body got any sicker.
He's been coming and and out of it, damn near delirious. Face impassive, he begs, he begs Dean not to leave him. He tells Dean, pressing his head back to bare his throat, that he would let Dean kill him if he so much as asked. He speaks with such unflinching devotion. He says that he'd never wanted or loved or felt anything at all before meeting Dean. It's the fever talking, definitely. Dean refuses to believe it's anything but.
When it's not the fever talking about Dean, it's about Raphael, about what happened in Heaven. Sharp words about Castiel getting too close to his charges beaten into him. Angels have never been above torture, and apparently especially not to their own. Dean never wants to hear Cass beg again.
It reminds him... of Sam, in a weird way. Little Sammy laid up in a shitty motel with the worst flu Dean had ever seen, asking if Dean would protect him. If Dean would keep the monsters away while Dad was out hunting. And, as the night went on, asking if Dean thought he was a freak. If he was broken.
The microwave beeps. Good— God knows Dean didn't need to be thinking about tiny Sam right now.
He props Cass up against the wall, gently shushing the angels frantic murmuring. “Alright, feathers, let's try and get something lighter in you.”
“Nn-hn,” Castiel responds, grabbing at his hand. He pushes weakly away, mumbling.
“It's alright, Cass, it's me,” Dean hums, smoothing his hand over Cass' hair. He calms at the words, relaxing into Dean's hold. “There you go, bud. I got you soup.”
Castiel blinks at him, eyes unfocused. “S'p,” he says. Dean chuckles.
“Easier to eat than a cheeseburger.”
“Eat?” Cass' voice pitches up into a whine, shaking his head. “No. I'll... th'wup again.”
“That's what the trash can is for, feathers.”
“It feels bad.”
Dean sighs gently, feeding Cass a spoonful (he takes it despite his protests). “I know, buddy. Welcome to humanity.”
“Human'ty,” he mumbles, tilting back against the wall. He takes a small breath, laughing. “Beautiful humanity. You feel and you feel and y'feel...”
“And that's...” Dean swirls the spoon to have something to do with his hands, squinting. “Beautiful?”
Castiel giggles, reaching for the soup. Dean has to stop him from putting his hand into the broth. “You're beautiful.”
Dean feeds him another spoonful to shut him up.
...
Castiel wakes slowly, infinitely less miserable.
“Mornin', sunshine.” Dean's thumb rolls softly across his cheek. His words are flat and amused, but his touch is tender. Castiel leans into it with a sigh. “Wanna tell me what that was all about? Last I checked, you didn't feel any human needs.”
“I connected with my vessel,” Castiel responds, humming. He blinks his eyes open, looking up at his human. “I was trying to… be human. Like you asked me to.”
Dean tilts back incredulously, raising an eyebrow. Castiel almost chases the retreating hand before he can stop himself. “I asked you to?”
“You said,” Castiel sits up, still aching, “and I quote… ‘can’t you even be a little human about this?’”
“That's not... Cass, that's not what I meant.”
“You asked me to be human,” Castiel responds lowly. "I can't do that. But I thought..." He swallows thickly.
“I meant—” Dean scowls. Humans are such strange creatures— they speak so bluntly, and yet Dean can't hold Castiel's gaze. Eyes burning a hole in the distant wall, Dean continues, “I meant, y'know, try some emotion. Dance in the rain. Laugh a little.”
Castiel glances outside. The rain falls in sideways sheets, wind pelting it against the building. “I haven't danced before.”
Dean follows his gaze. “You take everything literally, huh?” He purses his lips in the corner of Castiel's vision. “We don't have to go out there. I wasn't—”
“I want to,” Castiel says, before he can stop himself. He's still grappling with the feeling— want. He stands, swaying, planting a hand on the bedside table. Dean surges up beside him. Callous hands hover with a care that's almost reverent. “I want to... stand... out there.”
“...Alright,” Dean chuckles, cocking a shoulder in a shrug, “why not. Let's go stand in the rain.”
The storm has softened now. Rivulets of rain roll off Castiel's coat. It's beautiful. Warmth bubbles up in his chest, a contrast to the chill of the breeze. Dean watches him with his usual intensity, hostile and hopeful and so fiercely human.
Castiel closes his eyes, tilting his head back to let the water run down his face.
He loves. Castiel doesn't have a subject, at the moment, but he stands there on the sidewalk and loves. A thin chuckle worms out of his ribs; he looks to Dean, smiling wide enough to hurt. “Is this human enough for you?”