elixir
Disclaimer: Just borrowing them.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel (friendship or pre-slash)
Warnings: snot, sad angel eyes
Rating: G
Word Count: 383
Soundtrack: "Colors" (Amos Lee)
Description: His body was shaking, and he felt cold sensations running from the back of his neck to the tips of his fingers and toes. His head was throbbing, his throat burned, and an unfortunate greenish fluid was dripping from his nose. He suspected he had been hit with some sort of demon curse.
Author's Notes: This one's for Candie Girl, who is sick today, and for her mom and sisters, who are taking good care of her. Feel better, CG. <3.
One More Note: Just assume it's set near the end of Season 5.
Elixir
SPN - for CG
Castiel stirred in his makeshift bed at Bobby’s. He’d finally gotten used to sleeping, but now... something was wrong.
His body was shaking, and he felt cold sensations running from the back of his neck to the tips of his fingers and toes. His head was throbbing, his throat burned, and an unfortunate greenish fluid was dripping from his nose. He suspected he had been hit with some sort of demon curse.
Dean would know. He needed Dean.
He rose from his bed and immediately regretted it when a wave of dizziness nearly knocked him off his feet. He found himself sweating, in spite of the chills. He gathered his trench coat closer around him, hoping in vain for a bit of comfort.
He staggered slowly down the stairs and into the library, where he found Dean buried in a stack of ancient texts, a thick Latin-to-English dictionary open on top of the pile. An expression somewhere between concentration and frustration furrowed his brow.
“Dean.”
“What’s up, Cas? Whoa, buddy, you look awful.”
“My vessel is malfunctioning. I believe it is a demon curse.”
Castiel wiped some more of that irritating nose substance on the sleeve of his coat. Where was all of this abominable fluid coming from? And what was he supposed to do with it? Very troubling indeed.
Dean stood up from his chair and walked over to where Castiel was standing. He laid the back of one hand against the angel’s forehead. It was soothing, and Castiel leaned into the touch.
“You don’t have a demon curse, Cas. You have a cold. Go get some pajamas out of my bag, put them on, and get into bed. I’ll be there in few minutes.”
Castiel trudged back upstairs to do as he was instructed.
Dean arrived, as promised, ten minutes later. He brought with him a tray holding a glass of water, a small white plastic container, and a steaming mug filled to almost to the brim with a savory-smelling broth.
He placed the tray on the bed next to Castiel.
“Chicken soup,” he said. “And ibuprofen.” He shook two blue capsules out of the bottle into Castiel’s palm and handed him the glass, indicating that he should swallow them.
He did.
“Now get some rest.”