"I am unbalanced," a voice declared from the backseat of the Impala—a voice that hadn't been there only a few minutes before.
Dean swore and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Whatever gave you that idea?" he bit off as calmly as possible.
The angel that had appeared in the backseat gazed levelly at them through the rearview mirror. "I have no balance," the angel reported stoically, and then clarified, "Something is wrong."
Fighting the skin-crawling sensation that came from an angel staring at the back of your neck, Sam risked a glance at the mirror again. "Wrong?" he asked dubiously. Castiel looked mostly normal to him—a little constipated, but calm. Or calmly constipated. Sam winced. This was wrong on so many levels. And since Sam wasn't Dean, he stayed tactfully silent.
Dean had never heard of tact.
"Dude, you look like you're going to barf," Dean observed. Castiel repeated the word soundlessly with obvious confusion. "Yeah, barf," Dean repeated helpfully without any further explanation. "Angels don't barf, do they?" he asked warily.
Castiel blinked. "I do not know. What is barf?"
That said, Castiel leaned forward and threw up on the floor of the car. Brief pandemonium reigned.
"You threw up in my car, Cas!" Dean was still bellowing a few minutes later as the angel perched miserably on the hood, and Dean dealt with the mess.
"Why didn't you say you were sick?" Sam queried from a safe distance.
"Angels don't get sick," Castiel and Dean returned simultaneously.
"Well, obviously Castiel does," Sam pointed out. "So what's wrong?" he asked rhetorically, not really expecting an answer.
"I fear I may suffer from the plague," Castiel decided slowly.
Sam took another step backward, eyes widening as he considered all of the exotic places that Castiel had been exploring recently. "You don't have the plague," Dean interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Why would you think that?"
"I have spots," Castiel reported. He pulled back his sleeve to reveal three small raised dots on the back of his wrist.
"Spots?" Sam repeated dumbly.
Ignoring his brother, Dean inspected the proffered arm. "I think it might be chicken pox," Dean finally decided. "We did that case at the hospital, remember? The hot nurse said there were a couple kids in the pediatric ward with the chicken pox. How about it, Cas? Did Jimmy ever have the chicken pox?"
Castiel stared at him blankly.
Castiel was a horrible patient. He threw up everything they fed him, including Sam's all-natural health food crap. He wouldn't stay in bed. And the angel was downright cranky. Castiel had actually scowled at Dean. For the normally serene angel, this was the equivalent of a Winchester sickroom brawl. Worse, the angel simply couldn't resist scratching.
"Dude, don't scratch . . .
". . . Knock it off, Cas . . ."
". . . I'm going to tie you to the bloody bed if you don't stop!"
The maid didn't come around for housekeeping anymore.
Worst of all, though, Castiel constantly wanted to know why . . . about everything. After even Sam had gotten bored with a rapt audience for his lecturing, Dean finally settled on one universal answer that shut the angel up for ten minutes at a time.
"Bobby said so."
Technically, the older hunter had been consulted on the matter two decades ago, but Castiel didn't need to know that. Somewhere along the line, the Winchester faith that Uncle Bobby knew everything had been transferred to Castiel. So, when finally reaching the end of their ropes with the feverish and miserable angel, Sam and Dean did what they should have done in the first place. They called the man who had nursed all three of the Winchesters through the chicken pox two decades ago.
Bobby was both incredulous and sympathetic. "Shoulda called me first, ya idjits . . . Yeah, adult cases are always the worst. Your daddy was worse than a grouchy grizzly when he caught if off the two of ya boys. He took twice the care too . . . You better bring that angel of yours back here . . . Mercy knows you two couldn't nurse a sick dog," Bobby continued bluntly. "Get a move on."
Castiel sat up suddenly, dislodging the wet towel on his forehead, and nearly colliding with Dean, who had just leaned forward to change it.
"Dude! Where are you going?" Dean backpedaled, still on the phone with Bobby.
Castiel frowned. "Bobby said come. I will take us there," he reached for Dean.
"No!" Dean and Sam shout together, echoed by Bobby over the phone. Castiel stared at them expectantly, waiting for a reason. Dean didn't give him one. He just started packing his stuff and harping on Sam to do the same as the older brother paced irritably.
A resentful Castiel waited for his chance patiently. Timing his lunge perfectly, Castiel dove at Dean on a return pace. The angel's lesser weight still managed to knock them both to the floor and they disappeared right before Sam's eyes.
Only to reappear three feet away, as Dean continued to swear. Sam's low gasp silenced his older brother, and Dean caught onto the change in his surroundings. "Did you just try to zap me somewhere under the influence of chicken pox?" Dean shouted loudly.
Castiel didn't say anything or even move. He just stayed where he was, kneeling doubled-up on the floor beside Dean.
"Cas?" Dean asked in a softer tone. He reached forward to touch the angel's shoulder, only to draw back as Castiel threw up again. "Ugh."
Castiel looked up at Dean blearily. "I hate this," the angel informed him solemnly, before passing out. Only Dean's reflexes kept him from landing in the puddle of puke.
Castiel was too groggy to be anything, but well-behaved after that incident. When he wasn't puking, he was sleeping. When he wasn't sleeping, he was puking. Dean had given up on Sam's nutritional guidelines and fed the angel anything he came across. What did it matter if the angel couldn't keep it down anyway? Besides having something to throw up was better than dry heaves. Even Sam had agreed with him on that after Castiel nearly suffered a heart attack when struck with a case of those.
The Winchesters had manhandled their angel into the backseat of the Impala, cocooned in both motel blankets (it wasn't the first time they stole from the places they stayed although the blankets would have to disappear before Bobby saw—the grouchy old anti-klepto). Once settled in with the motel trash can, Castiel slept, puked, and was force-fed in turn all the way to Bobby's.
It was an eight hour drive. Dean made it in six—without as much as a single ticket.
Even Sam had to marvel at that.
Bobby's first words were: "You idiots."
You could tell the older hunter was put out when he bothered to enunciate clearly. Dean winced under the intact words. Sam fidgeted. Uncaring, Castiel hung between the two of them, too miserable and pathetic from prolonged illness to even hold himself up. His lack of pride gave him the look and feel of what the cat dragged in. It was somewhat fitting when one paused to consider the way the Winchesters chose to haul him around.
"How you feelin', Feathers?" Bobby asked, his voice comfortable again as he peered up at the angel. It was obvious that the old hunter was trying to hide his concern behind the gruffness.
In response, Castiel threw up on Bobby's welcome mat. Raising his head, he somehow managed to gaze up at Bobby, who was lower than him.
Angel physics. Just no explanation for it.
"This—to borrow a phrase from Dean—sucks," the angel concluded with such feeling that it made all three hunters blink. Apparently, if the angel had to suffer from human laments, he was going to suffer whole-heartedly.
A pitiful sniffle on Castiel's part kicked Bobby into gear. Bobby was never so much in his element as when he had someone else to fuss over and order around. He was particularly partial to the Winchester boys, and had developed a fondness for their guardian angel too. So Bobby grouched and growled, making all three of his guests feel that much more reassured by his very anti-reassurance.
"Well, ya managed to survive these two, so I reckon you'll live, Feathers," Bobby grouched. "C'mon, let's get ya settled. Sam, go and get yer stuff from the car. Dean, take care of that mess," Bobby indicated the welcome mat with a wave of his hand. Castiel, heartened by Bobby's promise, took a step over the threshold to lean on Bobby's chair the whole exaggerated distance to the couch.
Dean—having glanced inside before doing as he was told—protested loudly. "Sam! He cleared off the couch!" There was the heavy thud of Sam's footsteps as the younger Winchester moved to rejoin the first. All the while, Dean continued saying, "He cleared off the couch," in a marveling tone usually reserved for really good pie.
Sam was staring incredulously at the piece of furniture which had been more theory than fact for most of his childhood. Discerning its color or even shape had been a game for the Winchester boys, and everyone knew not to touch the books on Bobby's couch under fear of severe pain.
"He's never cleared off the couch," Sam finally found his voice. "In twenty years, he's never moved those books once. Dad said there wasn't even a couch there at all, and Uncle Bobby was just teasing us."
"He cleaned off the couch," Dean marveled again, ignoring Bobby's rapidly reddening face, and increasing proximity to weaponry. "Admit it, Bobby! You like Cas best!"
"Git, ya two!" Bobby shouted, chucking a paperweight at Dean's head. The Winchester dodged, and laughing set off to deal with the mess he had been assigned. Gross tasks are always better undertaken when a person is laughing too hard to see and/or smell the problem.
Castiel let Bobby order him about with relief. "Off with the coat . . . and the tie, the shoes, the other coat—for cryin' out loud, boy, don't you have any decent clothes? Alright, feet up, and wrap yourself up in that blanket there . . . I put those pillows there for a reason, boy—use 'em . . . there's a bucket next to you . . . Just what have those fools been feedin' you?"
The fussing faded into a comfortable background noise, and Castiel found himself slipping away into sleep, comforted by the presence of an expert.
Even if that expert was insulting the intelligence of angels everywhere.
"Is he sleeping?" Dean whispered from the doorway.
Sam nodded, holding one finger to his lips as he leaned forward to check on the sleeping angel again.
Castiel was oblivious. Chin tucked in close to his chest, one arm thrown across his chest and the other hanging off the side of the couch, Castiel was peaceful for the first time in three days. He even kind of looked cute in a kicked!puppy sort of way. It was weird.
Perhaps the new clothing helped. They had known that Castiel was freaking short (shorter than Dean is freaking short to Sam), but once Bobby badgered them into providing clean and comfortable clothing for the angel, it had been demonstrated that even Dean's clothing was too big for Castiel's borrowed frame. Sam had actually had to go buy stuff in the right size while Bobby and Dean tag-teamed coercing the angel through the indignity of oatmeal bathing.
By the time Sam had returned, Castiel was dry again and sitting on the edge of the tub ensconced in a quilt. Bobby was still in the same pristine condition as when Sam left. Dean, on the other hand, resembled nothing more than a drowned rat. In a completely un-creepy way, Sam wished that Bobby had thought to record the incident somehow for future blackmail purposes.
"Dude, is that a plate?" Dean interrupted Sam's somewhat maniacal train of thought.
"Yep."
"And the bucket's still empty?"
"Yep."
"Bobby got him to eat something and keep it down?" Dean grinned.
"It's Bobby," Sam pointed out. It was somewhat expected of the older hunter to perform minor miracles on a daily basis. The Winchesters didn't have faith in much of anything, but Bobby had always been a prime exception.
"True." Dean cleared off the chair next to Sam, and plunked down into it. "So where in The Apocalypse for Dummies are we today?"
"Jimmy Novak's medical records," Sam returned, passing the file folder to his older brother. "Because if Castiel is becoming more and more human every passing day . . . if he can catch the chicken pox . . . what else are we in for?"
Dean paged through the documents. "Asthma," he grimaced. "That'll be fun. He better hang onto his wings for a good long while then, because all the running we do will just about do him in."
Sam nodded. "I called Amelia, asked about Jimmy's medication, inhalers, doctors, all of that . . ."
"She didn't hang up on you?" Dean asked in surprise. "Cause she plain ignores Cas."
"She hung up," Sam acknowledged. "I called back," he continued with steel in his voice. "She's transferring prescriptions and medical records to Bobby's pharmacy. He'll handle it from there."
"We better transfer everything," Dean groaned, dragging one hand over his face. "Medical proxy, insurance, ICE numbers . . ."
"Done."
Sam's voice is so simple . . . so calm . . . that Dean doesn't want to know what Sam's been doing for the last four hours while Dean was patching a roof and building a second ramp to Bobby's garage. But Castiel is that much safer for it, so Dean doesn't care.
Dean turned the page. "Allergic to cherries? How on earth can you be allergic to cherries?" He glanced at the sleeping angel. "Sorry, buddy. You'll never get to know the heavenliness of cherry pie. Your life sucks."
"So do ours. And Bobby's. It's becoming a family thing," Sam mutters, bent over the paperwork once more. Thankfully, Dean doesn't point out the sentimental remark, because this is not a Disney movie and heaven help them if they share a chick-flick moment. "Freaking vulnerable human-angel without the sense God gave a toddler," Sam continues to mutter dismally.
Even Dean kind of had to agree with that.
"Doesn't know what the chicken pox is, can't pick up women, never heard of nicknames, barely knows how to turn a computer on, fights like he has a death wish . . ."
Dean frowned. "Remind me to go over blocks with him once he's on his feet. His preferred method of defense is holding still for the monster to slug or stab him. Which is all very well for an angel, but for a human . . ."
"Letting supernatural stuff hit you is a good way to get killed fast," Sam agreed, as he gave up trying to read the scribble some doctor left on obscure paperwork. "Must teach the angel how not to get killed fast," he goes about adding to his checklist. Because he has a checklist and Dean could tease him about it all he wants. Sometimes, it's necessary.
Castiel shifted on the sofa, kicking the blankets away, before curling up like a child. It's so cute that Sam wanted to gag. This is just what he needs. A millennia old angel in thirty-six year old vessel with the combined street smarts and cuteness factor of a neglected ten year old. They are so screwed.
The sad thing is that Dean really really buys into the whole neglected child part of Castiel's psyche. It's the older brother in him, and Dean couldn't give a shit over angelic and human concepts of time.
So it doesn't surprise Sam in the least that Dean actually got up and walked over to straighten the blankets out again.
Castiel opened one blue eye in response. "Too hot."
"That's the fever. Bobby says to keep you warm so you don't end up with pneumonia or any other nasty complications." The magic phrase Bobby says silenced Castiel. "Go back to sleep, Cas," Dean urged, actually tucking the angel in.
Dean Winchester—daddy, mommy, and awesome big brother rolled into one, circa 1983.
Sam missed that.
Castiel is unaware of the significance of Dean's actions. The angel just nodded dimly, but his eyes don't close. He watched Dean instead.
"Glad you're feeling a bit better," Dean grinned, settling back and preparing to act as Castiel's personal comedian and entertainer in case Castiel has finally hit the sleeping saturation point. After all, he's been rather impressively marathon napping for three days now. "Bobby makes a bitchin' nurse, doesn't he?"
"You watch your mouth, boy!" Bobby shouted from the other room. "And you let that angel sleep!"
Dean grinned again as Castiel obediently shut his eyes. "Yeah, Bobby's awesome," Dean gloated as if he was somehow personally responsible for Bobby's awesomeness.
"When I find my father, I'm requesting that he makes Bobby Singer a saint," Castiel agreed, without opening his eyes.
"Dude, don't you have to be dead to be a saint?" Dean pointed out, slightly concerned by that little flaw in the angel's plan.
"An exception will be made," Castiel asserted sleepily. He's asleep before Dean can form a response. But at that point, what else needed to be said?