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Title: Blame It On the Illness
Rating: PG
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Word Count: 2,704
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural in any way. I am making absolutely no profit from this fanfic.
Warnings: None
Summary: Castiel loves God's creations and everything about them; but even he thinks it's gross when Dean Winchester throws up on his shoes.

Feedback is love!

I was complaining to my best friend Joey about how I have a lot of trouble writing Castiel, and how I need to work on his speech/characterization. Joey, finally fed up with my whining, told me to write a fanfic. I told him I had no new ideas, and after writing two fanfics for [ profile] spnkink_meme I wasn't in the mood for porn. I asked him to give me a story idea.

My best friend, who is currently suffering from a stomach bug, asked me to write a fic where Dean, sick with the aforementioned illness throws up on Castiel's shoes. Being the awesome friend I am, I said I would write it for him.

I don't know if this plot is the best way to work on my Castiel issues(And boy does that sound dirty!) but a promise is a promise. Despite the crackiness of the summary this is not a crack story...mainly because I am terrible at writing humorous things

Dean knew it was going to be a terrible day when exactly twelve seconds after waking, he had to stumble to his feet and make a mad dash to the bathroom. Twenty-six seconds after waking, Dean was kneeling in front of the toilet throwing up everything he'd ate in the last six months. At least that's what it seemed like.

Seven minutes and forty-six seconds later, Sam woke and shuffled into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and stifling a yawn into one massive hand. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the stale smell of bile and sick permeating the air.

“Gross,” Sam said and picked up his toothpaste.

“That's what I was thinking when I saw your face.” Dean snarked, albeit weakly. His stomach chose that moment to rebel and he leaned back over the toilet.

Sam spat toothpaste into the sink. “Oh snap.” he deadpanned. He frowned as he caught sight of Dean's pale face and his brother heaving weakly into the toilet, panting between each retch. He knelt beside his brother and brushed back sweaty strands of hair from his forehead, frowning as he felt how warm Dean's skin was to the touch.

“Get off.” Dean panted. He rested his aching head against the toilet's cool porcelain exterior. He felt terrible, not that he'd ever say so to his brother. He was the eldest; he needed to be strong for Sammy.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked, confused. He stroked Dean's back absently. “I'll think you're the best no matter what, Dean.”

It was a testament to how out of it Dean was that he didn't start bitching about chick-flick moments and instead sagged back against Sam's chest. “Don't feel good 'mmy.”

“I know, Dean,” Sam soothed. He helped his brother to his feet and helped Dean exactly four steps away from the toilet before Dean swayed unsteadily and slapped Sam's steadying hand from his shoulder and leapt to the toilet. Sam shuddered at the sound of Dean throwing up but he forced himself to wait for Dean to finish.


One hour and thirty-nine minutes
after Dean woke he was still in the bathroom, praising the porcelain god. Dean giggled, lightheaded and delirious from fever. He remembered John saying the same thing after waking up hungover after a long night drinking.

I need to go and praise the porcelain god, Dean.

Sam had tried dragging Dean to his bed four times, but each time Dean had been unable to make it and instead sank down next to his trusty friend the toilet. He knew his brother was worried, but Dean felt too damn shitty to ease his own suffering, let alone Sam's.

Sam had already tried plying Dean with water and some soup he'd found at the bottom of Dean's duffel from when Sam had been incapacitated after a rough hunt. Soup and water had done the exact opposite of what Sam'd intended. Minutes after consuming both, Dean was back to throwing up. All Sam could do was watch helplessly as both fever and nausea did a number on his brother. He also forced Dean to take sips of water in ten minute increments. While throwing up water wasn't pleasant, it hurt a hell of a lot less than puking up stomach lining, and it staved off dehydration.

Sam knew he needed to go out and get medicine for Dean, but he didn't want to leave his brother alone. While he doubted Dean could get into any trouble weak as he was, Dean was delirious from fever, and, with all of Lucifer's agents searching for both Winchesters, Dean needed the protection while he was too ill to defend himself.

Sam fished his cellphone from his hoodie pocket and dialed Castiel's number. One ring and the angel responded. “Dean's really sick, and I can't leave him alone to go and get medicine. I need you to come to the Motel 7 in Connecticut.” Sam listed off the address, and seconds later he heard the flutter of wings and Castiel was beside him.

The angel followed Sam silently to the bathroom, his eyes tracking Sam as he knelt beside his brother. “I'll be back soon, you hang in there, okay? I'm going to sneak into the hospital and get you some anti nausea medicine so you can sleep, and also some Tylenol for your fever. I'd have Cas bring you to the nearest hospital, but there's no way you could survive all that time in a waiting room.” Sam pressed a kiss to Dean's forehead, frowning at how hot Dean's skin was. Dean twitched weakly and mumbled incoherently.

“Watch his fever, Cas. If it gets any higher than 102, take him to the hospital immediately. His brain could fry. I've been giving him water every ten minutes to fight off dehydration, so keep doing that. If he stops throwing up, maybe see if you can get some soup in him? There's still a bowl sitting on the counter.”

At Castiel's nod, Sam shot his brother one last worried look and rushed out of the motel room. He would be back as quickly as he possibly could.


Two hours and eleven minutes after waking up, Dean Winchester was still miserable, but he hadn't thrown up in roughly twenty minutes. The water felt like a stone in his stomach, and he was still nauseous, but at least his body was giving him a respite.

Castiel even managed to get Dean out of the bathroom without incident, and to his bed. The angel wrapped Dean up in every blanket he could find. Dean was oddly touched by Castiel's mothering. If Dean felt better he'd have asked the angel if he'd used some mojo to take away the constant vomiting so he could rest. But his head was spinning and his body was wracked with chills, so Dean decided to forget speaking for now. And maybe forever, because every time he opened his mouth, vomit came out, which is just gross.

Even with his eyes closed, Dean could feel Castiel's eyes boring into his skin like lasers. Dean could also feel the heat the angel's body gave off, and his hand was a warm, steady weight on Dean's left foot. Other than the connection via Castiel's hand, the angel was eerily quiet. There were no soft breathing, no restless shifting. The fingers on his left hand didn't even twitch. He was utterly still beside the hunter.

Dean was just beginning to doze off when his stomach began to roil insistently, and that odd feeling started in his throat. Dean knew if he didn't move now he would end up throwing up all over himself. Dean jumped out of his cocoon of blankets and was across the room before Castiel could react.

The angel sighed as the now familiar sounds of the hunter throwing up shattered the quiet of the room.


Two hours and twenty-three minutes after waking up, Dean was back in the bathroom. He wondered if he could convince Castiel to knock him out so he could get some rest. Knowing his luck, however, he would asphyxiate on his vomit. His life sucked.

Where the hell was Sam?


Sam was, unfortunately, stuck talking to a busty, raven haired doctor who'd cornered Sam shortly after entering the hospital and, deeming Sam a 'Nice, kind looking man' proceeded to unload all of her relationship woes onto Sam. Since Sam needed to keep a low profile and couldn't afford to raise any red flags, he was stuck listening.

He really, really wanted to knock her out. He wished there weren't any witnesses, because he was tempted to do just that, to hell with the consequences.


Strong hands grab Dean's shoulders and pull him to his feet. Dean moaned pitifully and lurched forward. His eyes open a crack and immediately water as he caught sight of Castiel. Dean's heart flutters at the tenderness the angel shows him; though Castiel is manhandling him out of the bathroom, his touch is gentle and loose enough that Dean could break away and get to the toilet in time should he need to throw up.

Too bad his stomach didn't get the message.

Dean swatted feebly at Castiel as he retched weakly, his throat burning like he'd been throwing up shards of glass. The angel promptly released Dean, but the hunter's feet refused to work. He stayed locked in place. God, he was going to toss his cookies(And good Lord was he out of it if he was thinking of similes like that) and he couldn't move.

“Dean Winchester, are you all right?” Castiel asked. Castiel leaned forward to try and peer into the hunter's eyes. The angel practically radiated concern.

Dean opened his mouth to tell Cas no, he was not all right. Unfortunately the instant his mouth opened Dean leaned over and threw up all over the Angel of the Lord's shoes.

Dean froze, horrified, his eyes glued to Cas's face. The angel blinked owlishly, looked at Dean and than down at his shoes, covered in sick. Dean was terrified; Castiel was going to smite his ass.


Castiel loves God's creations and everything about them; but even he thinks it's gross when Dean Winchester throws up on his shoes. The human was decidedly ill; his body screamed for sustenance it could not hold down. Dean Winchester radiated heat to an unhealthy degree, and his green eyes were glazed and foggy with fever.

The look of abject terror on Dean's face was almost as vexing as the constant vomiting and fever taxing his fragile human body. He wished he could tell the hunter how worried he was, but he wasn't Dean's brother Sam. Should he voice his concerns Dean would lash out and wear down his body further.

Castiel once again grabbed Dean's shoulder, his lips turning down in a frown as he felt the heat coming off Dean's body even covered as it was by his t-shirt. Dean flinched at Castiel's touch which caused his heart to clench painfully.

“God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to throw up on your shoes.” Dean whispered guiltily. Castiel shrugged as if having the contents of Dean's stomach on his shoes was of no consequence. The smell was foul but Castiel could easily ignore it. Dean was more important than the state of his shoes.

“A stomach virus is taxing on the human body, and one of the symptoms of the illness is constant nausea and expelling ones stomach.”

Dean shrugged off Castiel's hand and shot the angel an incredulous look. Castiel squelched the urge to roll his eyes at Dean's weak defiance and instead forced Dean back to the bed. He wrapped Dean back up in the motel blankets despite the hunter's protests.

“Promise me you'll never again say 'Expelling ones stomach.' That just sounds nasty.”

Castiel nodded. “Agreed. You must promise you'll rest until your brother returns. I will bring the wastebasket from the bathroom. You can use it if your stomach protests the water you must drink.”

Dean laughed, the sound muffled by the blankets. “You're one weird angel.” He grunted when Castiel held the glass of water to his lips. Castiel persisted and since Dean's arms were trapped in the ball of blankets and he had no choice but to accept Castiel's help.

“I don't like seeing you so ill.” He said after Dean finished drinking. “I wish you could sleep at least a little.”

“This is no party for me.” Dean said. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief as Dean leaned back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. He hoped the hunter would be able to get some rest.


Three hours and twelve minutes after Dean woke, Sam burst into the motel room with all the force of a small tornado. Dean, who'd been sleeping, if his tossing and turning could be called such, jackknifed into a lounging position and glared at his brother.

“Jesus Christ Sammy. What were you doing? Did you stop to get your nails done or something?” Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's bitching and began to empty the contents of the grocery bag onto the dresser by the door.

“No, but I do know all about Nurse Christine's relationship problems.” Catching sight of his brother's confusion, Sam elaborated. He figured he could deal with some ridicule once Dean was better; he'd throw his brother a bone since he was feeling so terrible. “Just as I was about to sneak into the supply closet, the on call nurse catches me, and instead of, you know, throwing me out, she precedes to tell me all about her relationship with her boyfriend. It was awful.”

Dean laughed before sinking back against the pillows, his energy drained. Sam turned to Cas. “Has he stopped throwing up?”

Castiel watched Sam from the other motel bed as Sam administered the anti-nausea medicine and handed his brother two Tylenol pills, which Dean swallowed dry. “He is not sick as often as when you left. His fever has held at 102. His body is retaining some of the water he's drank, but I do not believe Dean is ready for any food.”

Sam sighed but didn't disagree. “I'll let him sleep for a couple of hours and than I'll try to get Dean to eat some saltines and drink some more water.” Sam's nose crinkled. “Why do you smell like vomit?”

Castiel actually blushed. “Dean was sick on my shoes.”


Three hours and thirty minutes after Dean woke, and after Sam had stopped laughing hysterically---for some reason Castiel could not fathom Sam found the thought of his brother throwing up on one of God's angels hilarious---Castiel washed his shoes and left them outside of the motel room to dry.

Dean Winchester was sleeping a deep, healing sleep. Castiel sighed and ran a hand through Dean's hair. Sam watched from the bathroom doorway. Castiel felt self conscious under Sam's watchful eyes, a feeling he was unused to, but he didn't stop. Dean whimpered but moved closer to Castiel's hand, a smile spreading across his face.

“You love him.” Sam said.

Castiel thought of protesting, but lying was a sin, and it also seemed wrong to mislead Dean's beloved brother. “Yes. He is precious to me.”

Sam smiled at Castiel and slapped his back. “You're precious to him too. If you catch my meaning.”

It took a moment for Sam's words to take root, but once they did, Castiel couldn't stop smiling.


Fifteen hours
after Dean first woke, and three trips to the bathroom to throw up, a meal of saltines and water he kept down, another trip to the bathroom for a shower which he only managed because his brother helped, and more Tylenol and anti-nausea medicine, Dean felt almost human.

Castiel sat next to Dean on the bed and he was watching Dean with wide, earnest eyes. Sam was in the shower, and Dean wished his younger brother would finish already, because Cas was making Dean nervous. And he was still too weak and shaky to be dealing with this shit.

Dean blurted out the first thought that came to his mind. “I'm sorry about throwing up all over your shoes.”

Castiel blinked at Dean before he smiled. “It is all right. I would rather we talk about how precious you are to me. Your brother was must adamant about how you viewed me.”

Goddamn but he was going to kill Sammy. Dean blushed as Castiel moved closer to Dean. “It's all right,” Cas soothed, stroking Dean's cheek. “You're precious to me too.” The angel's lips pressed against Dean's, and as the fire spread through Dean's body and he pulled Castiel as close as possible, he figure he could forgive his brother for sticking his nose into Dean's business.


Fifteen hours and five minutes after Dean woke, Dean was making out with an Angel of the Lord on top of his motel covers. And it was awesome.
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