Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, and am making no money off this.

Summary: Cas tries his hand at eating. Naturally it doesn't go well.

This was originally a drabble for the E/O challenges, but I decided to expand it to, well, thirty times it original length. Cas's slow fall to humanity is something that seems pretty inevitable for next season, and it's something I look forward to seeing. What's more, it seems like every other fanfic is either Sam or Dean getting sick, so I figured Cas deserves a little 'love' as well. Oh, Supernatural. You guys are the most emetophilic fandom I've ever been a part of. Enjoy.

The Glamour of Humanity

Cas falls by pieces, which doesn't seem to follow the rules (but nobody's playing by rules anymore, anyway). Every morning when Dean wakes up, it seems that the angel is just a little more human than he was the day before. There's something altogether awkward and just bizarre about it, but they deal. So Dean's not too surprised when one afternoon they're eating a late dinner in the motel, and Cas's stomach lets loose a resounding rumble.

Dean laughs, and beside him Sam does too, because if they don't think about the implications and instead just looked at Cas's priceless expression of surprise, it's hilarious. It's not until Dean does dig a bit deeper that he sobers, recognizing hunger as one more big step towards humanity. He doesn't voice his concern though, because he knows everyone else is well aware. Instead he puts on a baby voice and cooes, "someone hungwy?" and smiles again as Cas glares.

"There is a sort of suction-like feeling in my abdomen," he reports, coming over to stand by them from where he'd been starting out the window by the door. "This is hunger?" Dean nods.

"It was coming sooner or later," Sam comments, shrugging, and Dean surveys the table before them. It's Chinese takeout, and it doesn't seem that moo shu pork or extra greasy chicken lo mein is the best choice for someone's first meal. Then Sam picks up a small container of plain white rice, and Dean nods again. It seems all right.

"Okay," he says brightly, "let's build up your strength, Cas." Cas holds his hand out for the container, and Sam gives it over. Then they both look at Dean. "We usually sit to eat," he adds, and the angel sits on the edge of the bed next to Dean, because Sam is in the only actual chair. Still gripping the container, Cas continues to stare at Dean.

"Okay, now these are called chopsticks," Dean informs him sagely, handing him a pair. "Hold them like… you don't know how to hold a pencil, huh? Put one between your thumb and your pointer, and the other under it, under your middle finger." Cas ends up with them both grabbed in his fist like the handle of a blade. "Maybe you're left-handed," Dean suggests, barely hiding a smile, but then Sam plucks the chopsticks from the angel's hand and replaces them with a plastic spoon.

"You're no fun," Dean complains. Sam sticks his tongue out. "Right. So," he continues. "Stick it in the box, and stick some in your mouth." Cas inserts his spoon into the rice with the rounded side up, getting no rice on, then puts the spoon in his mouth. Dean's beginning to think that if Cas had been born human, he'd have been the kid failing all his math tests because he's much, much better at following orders than he is at working with concepts.

"You want to get the rice into your mouth," Sam explains gently, once again robbing Dean of his fun. "Use the spoon like a shovel. Fill it about halfway." Clumsily, Cas gets a few pieces of rice into his mouth, and works out on his own that he should pull the spoon back out and close his lips.

"Um… chew," Sam prompts, but Cas just stares back blankly. "Crush it with your teeth," Sam clarifies. "Good. Now, swallow."

Cas blinks. Dean laughs, because he has no idea how Sammy's gonna explain this one. How do you coach someone human enough to need food, but not enough to have the suckling instincts? Sam grabs his drink and demonstrates, and after a long pause Cas gulps. He coughs, once, but seems all right.

"How you doin', Cas?" Dean asks. Cas purses his lips.

"This is humiliating."

"Oh, you just wait," Dean promises slyly, then stops, because he doesn't want to think about the rest any more than the angel does.

"Okay, well, you've got the hang of it," Sam says, breaking the tension. "Eat the rest."

Dean returns to his lo mein, and slowly, Cas eats his rice and drinks the water that Sam gives him. "You like it?" Dean asks after a while. Cas thinks, then reluctantly nods.

"I've heard reference to 'taste' but had never experienced it for myself. It's intriguing." Dean grins.

"It's awesome, innit? We'll get you some pie next." Sam glares, but he ignores him.

Dean's still trying not to think about what a hungry angel might mean for the big picture when out of the corner of his eye he sees the empty rice carton being set on the table. "You ate that whole thing, Cas?"

Cas cocks his head. "Sam said to 'eat the rest'."

"Yeah. Okay." But at the back of Dean's mind a voice is calling him stupid and saying that he should have told Cas to stop halfway through. But he pushes that voice aside too; the container isn't that big. "How's it feel?"

"It feels… different," Cas says slowly.

"Different-better? Like you're not hungry anymore?"

Cas frowns as he thinks, but doesn't come up with a clearer answer. "Just different."

"Typically you shouldn't feel anything," Sam pipes up helpfully. "If you do it means you're hungry or too full." As Dean could have guessed, this flies right over Cas's head.

"Don't worry, Cas, you'll get the hang of it," he assures him, but at that moment Cas's stomach gurgles audibly. Cas frowns, looking down at himself, and suddenly Dean's getting antsy.

"What's it feel like?" he prompts, thinking that this sort of frustration is usually reserved for new parents. Even if he'd essentially raised Sammy, Dad had still be there for some of it. He's never had to try to work out the status of someone else's digestive processes.

"It's equally as unpleasant as hunger," Cas replies. "It's somehow difficult to stay still."

"I'm sure it's just gonna take some getting used to," Sam assures him. But then Cas lurches forward, frowning, and puts a hand to his stomach lightly, as though he's not sure that he should. Dean knows half by cues and half by instinct that something's wrong.

"Uh, actually… I think you're gonna be sick, Cas," he informs him, uncomfortably.

"Vomit?" Cas clarifies, as though he doesn't believe him, but the way that Cas is unconsciously shifting around on the bed makes Dean all the more certain. He stands, frowning when Cas doesn't.

"C'mon," he urges. "Last thing I feel like doing right now is cleaning puke outta carpet." But the angel remains unconvinced. Dean sighs. "It's like a pressure-y, shifty feeling?" he asks, and Cas nods. "You wouldn't want to eat anything right now, not even pie?" He shakes his head. "Cas. Come on," Dean says firmly, and finally Cas lifts himself gingerly out of the chair.

"I'll go gas up the Impala," Sam volunteers, standing as well. He and Cas still aren't exactly best friends, and though Dean isn't sure how to handle this on his own, it still sounds good to him, for Cas's sake, that Sam won't be there

The angel follows Dean to the bathroom, letting himself be ushered in first.

"Uh…" Dean swallows, leaning against the doorframe. "Should I stay, or give you some privacy?" By rights as a big brother he should be an old pro at this, but he's a little rusty, and not sure what Cas is thinking. But when the angel says quietly, "I'm not sure what I need to do," he takes it as a yes, stay. Cas's face has gone tight and sallow, and though it carries no expression Dean can still tell that he's afraid.

"It's no big deal," Dean assures him, and for Dean himself, it wouldn't be; a lifetime of truck stop food and gory visuals has left him no stranger to puking, and usually he just takes care of it by the side of the road and moves on with things. But, he realizes, he can't imagine how frightening it must be to go through it with no idea of what's going on, so when he continues his voice is as gentle as he can make it. "You just need to kneel down, Cas."

Cas kneels on the spot.

"Over the john," Dean directs, and Cas shuffles over to where he's told. The bathroom is so small that Dean steps into the bathtub and takes a seat on the edge, legs facing in, swinging the door shut behind him.

"Remember taste?" He asks, feeling like he's talking to a two-year-old, and not an angel of the Lord. Cas nods. "When you puke, it's gonna taste bad," Dean tells him, thinking of anything he can say to help prepare Cas for what's coming. "But it's not gonna hurt."

Cas gives him a look, cocking his head slightly. "I'm not afraid of pain, Dean," he reminds him coolly, and for a minute, Dean feels dumb.

"I know," he backpedals. "I just want you to be ready."

"I just wanna finish. This is wasting time," Cas says flatly. But Dean's pretty sure it's at least half bull, because the angel is starting to sweat, and he doesn't hold eye contact for as long as usual. What's more, Dean notices, he's swallowing spasmodically.

"Lean over," Dean orders, and Cas does, but his lips stay pursed. Dean tries not to sigh, remembering how he's decided to be the epitome of sympathy throughout this ordeal. "You need to open your mouth, Cas," he prompts, and after a beat the angel does so, looking awkward. "Breathe really deep," he adds, hoping that maybe this will speed things along.

Dean's not sure exactly how to describe the moment when nausea turns to oh-my-god-I'm-really-gonna-blowrightnow, so instead he just waits, staring at the mildewed tile of the shower wall and tapping his heel on the textured tub floor. There's a definite tension in the air that tells him Cas is feeling equally impatient, and he almost laughs at the whine in Cas's voice when the angel asks, "how long does this usually ta--"

But at that moment he gets his answer, and Dean turns his head in time to see puke that looks unpleasantly like watery rice pudding go splattering into-- and onto-- the toilet in one short, swift wave.

For a moment neither of them moves: Dean because he's beginning to get very uncomfortable with the whole taking-care-of-an-angel situation, and Cas because he looks scared to death, his breath coming in pants, his face the very portrait of shock. Then he blinks, releasing two streams of reflex tears, and the spell on Dean breaks as well because angel or not, Cas looks absolutely, heart-wrenchingly pathetic.

"Does your stomach feel better?" He asks gently, knowing he's been made a liar, because Cas is visibly in pain.

"Not by much."

"Gonna puke again?"

Cas thinks about it, nods, and then does, aiming slightly better this time and getting nearly all of it in the bowl, for which Dean is grateful. When he's finished, he sits back on his heels, and Dean can tell that he's working hard to regulate his breathing. He keeps one hand on his stomach, one hovering near his mouth, like he's determined to hold the nausea back, to not be sick again.

Dean climbs delicately over him to the sink, where he fills a cup with water and plucks a tissue from the dispenser, then returns to his seat and hands both to Cas. "Wipe your mouth, then take a drink," he tells him, and Cas does. But Dean forgets to warn him about sipping and Cas downs the glass in one go. Dean winces, cursing inwardly at his oversight, because sure enough, less than a minute later, Cas spits the water back up.

This time he's is caught off guard again-- he must have thought that he was finished-- and he leans forward a second too late, getting a splatter of puke down his shirt. Dean knows enough to be thankful that it's mostly water, but Cas looks abjectly miserable anyway. This time he stays bent forward, and even when he's finished retching, his shoulders don't stop jerking, as though in response to tiny shocks. If Dean didn't know any better he'd swear that the angel was about to cry, and the thought turns Dean's own stomach more than the sight of the rice-y puke ever could.

Either way, though, it's clear that he is now fully, functionally taking care of Cas, so when he's sick for a fourth time, Dean reaches over and rubs the angel's shuddering back in small, slow circles. This time almost nothing is left to come up, but Cas still doesn't move when he's finished, head thrust over the bowl, both hands gripping the rim. He stays there while Dean refills the glass, and has to be pushed gently back to his heels.

He stares suspiciously at the water when Dean holds it out to him, and of course he can't be blamed for that. "Just rinse your mouth this time," Dean tells him, then adds as an afterthought, "you're doing great, Cas."

Cas frowns, as though the comment were meant as an insult, but doesn't argue, and swills and spits a mouthful of water before setting the glass gingerly on the floor.

"I think it's finished," he announces, and he says it so firmly that Dean believes him for a moment. But then his knees buckle as he tries to stand and he falls back on his butt. Dean knows from experience, and the look on his face, that his head is spinning, probably stomach too, and this is confirmed when he begins to gag again, although there's nothing left to come up. And, boundaries be damned, Dean finds himself crouching on the floor next to the angel, one hand rubbing his back again, the other squeezing his shoulder.

Cas squirms, trying to get back to the toilet, but Dean knows he doesn't need it, and tells him so. "There's nothing more to puke, Cas," he says quietly. "It's okay. You can sit."

Cas seems to take that invitation as permission to panic as well. Through it all he says nothing, face staying nearly calm, but his heaves have turned into deep, rapid breaths and his heart is racing so fast that Dean can feel his pulse under the fabric and skin on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean soothes, and by this point he doesn't even have to pretend that he's talking to Sammy. "You're not gonna get sick again. Just relax." And because his own tired knees are beginning to complain, Dean sits too, just inches of space from Cas. Cas stays unmoving, once again audibly trying to time his breathing. After a moment he seems calm enough that Dean is getting awkward again and, stupidly, chuckles and says, "humanity's so glamorous, innit?"

It's the worst thing he could have said. Cas's back starts going again, but Dean can't tell if he's heaving or worse. He bows his head, mouth slightly open like he expects to puke yet again, but all that comes out is a short involuntary moan.

Dean scrambles, back on his heels, reaching for Cas's shoulder then taking his hand away again, losing himself in a flurry of useless, frantic motion, none of which the angel reacts to in the slightest. Finally he stands, fully meaning to walk out and give his friend a modicum of privacy for the first time that night; instead, though, he finds himself pulling another tissue from the box and crouching back down again to hand it to Cas. "Wipe your eyes," he says gently, surprisingly himself, because he hadn't known for sure that Cas was crying, at least not consciously.

Cas takes the tissue and rubs it clumsily over his closed eyes, as though he's following directions without understanding their intent-- which, of course, would be quite in character. Dean has the sudden urge to take the tissue and do it for him, but that's just too far over the line, so instead he sits and replaces his hand on the angel's back.

"You're okay now, Cas," he assures him, hoping with all his might that his friend's tears will stop. "This is all gonna take some getting used to. But it won't be that bad again." He hopes as well that this would prove true.

Cas nods, slightly more in control now. "That was extremely unpleasant," he deadpans. Dean has to smile at that.

"Think you can stand up?" Another nod. Cas lets Dean help him to his feet and slowly he shuffles out to the main motel room and deposits himself on a bed. Across the room, Sam is back from his gas run but doesn't look up from his laptop as they enter; the stillness strikes Dean as pointedly deliberate.

"Don't sit, lie down," Dean orders, and Cas does, curling instinctively on his side, knees bent, facing the wall. "How do you feel?"

"Corporeal," Cas answers after a moment of thinking, sounding like the tears aren't far from coming back. "I'll need to eat again tomorrow."

"Yeah," Dean admits, leaning with his arms crossed against the wall. "Maybe we should try baby food or something."

"I liked rice," Cas muses, "at least, I thought I did." And Dean has to laugh because it's so something that Sammy would've said as a kid. Then he sobers as he glances at the angel's face.

"You'll get the hang of it soon," he promises. "And wait 'til you do. Eating's great, Cas."

"I don't want to derive pleasure from such a physical experience."

"Hey, trust me," Dean drawls. "You take the pleasure where you can." To that, Cas has nothing to say.

A long moment passes, and Dean yearns for a way to break it, but comes up empty. Finally Cas says quietly, "Dean?"

"Mm."

"I think I'm fallin' asleep."

Again that heart-breaky, protective urge swells up in Dean's gut, still an unexpected response to the angel's voice. He's been wondering about that, because if Cas has gotten to the point where he needs food, sleep seems a logical counterpoint, and there are few things quite so exhausting as a pukefest.

He says none of this, though, far too tired himself, far too under-qualified to be advising an angel, and instead he tells Cas, "close your eyes and find out."

Dean waits to see what the outcome will be, and when Cas still hasn't replied five minutes later, he takes that as his answer, and wearily turns to face the task of cleaning up after his angel.

BONUS

I was originally going to post the drabble as well, but since I finished this before the deadline for the drabble challenge, I figured I should go ahead and post it. But I felt bad to think of the drabble just wasting away in my hard drive, so here it is. Prompt was "time".

Dean's there the first time he eats, just rice and water, starting slow.

Dean's there the first time he's sick, body rejecting even the blandest of foods.

Dean's there the first time he panics, heart racing, breath gasping, because nothing's where it should be-- not Heaven, not Hell, not the contents of his stomach-- and how is it that something as interesting and pleasant as taste should backfire, leaving him sputtering and choking helplessly at the bitterness…?

And Dean puts an arm around him the first time he cries, overwhelmed, curled up on cold tile, feeling far, far too human.