WARNING: Contains potentially disgusting and painful imagery.
Author's Note: In addition to the above, I must apologize for the excessive absurdity herein. I can provide an explanation for those who desire to hear it, but it did not fit naturally or fluidly within the story itself.
Gluttony is a Sin
He should have learned from past experience. He should have had more self-control. He should have been paying more attention.
But Castiel had done none of these things. Instead, he had sat down at the table, a set of Hittite tablets in one hand and a fresh package of charcoal in the other. Now, he's looking regretfully at a set of useless tablets and an empty bag. Sighing, he rises to clean the charcoal dust from his face and hands. He winces as he tries to straighten; he is experiencing discomfort in his abdominal region. He had first begun to notice it during the last few briquettes, but they were so delicious, and by then it had seemed pointless to stop.
Now, he resists the urge to hold his stomach with his blackened hand as he shuffles to the sink, where his toothbrush resides in a blue plastic cup. The pressure seems immense. He has not felt so terribly full since Famine caused him to over-consume red meat. He grimaces at the sight of the black powder on and in his mouth in the mirror. It makes him feel uncomfortable in a manner he distinctly recognizes but can't quite place, so he opts to close his eyes as he cleans his teeth. After washing his face and hands and rinsing grey water down the sink, he gingerly returns to the large study and disposes of the charcoal bag. The sight of it only increases his discomfort.
Dean's cleaning the kitchen when he crushes the bag into the trash. "You eat that whole thing in one sitting?" queries the hunter, looking impressed.
"So it would seem," admits Castiel ruefully. Dean might view the consumption of vast portions of food to be an accomplishment, but Castiel feels more than a little ashamed by his lack of restraint. Rightfully so, too, for gluttony is a sin.
His physical discomfort is already beginning to vastly outweigh his shame, at least until Sam also notices that something isn't right with him.
"Cas, you're looking kinda pale. What's up?"
"I seem to have overindulged in charcoal briquettes," he says, looking at the floor rather than at Sam. He does this both because he is embarrassed and because the floor is firm, solid, and reassuring.
"How many did you have?" Sam asks, not unkindly.
"Thirteen point nine pounds," groans Castiel, recalling perfectly the number on the package.
Sam sucks in an audible breath. "Yeesh. Yeah, that's a lot."
"I am aware," says Castiel. "It's very uncomfortable."
"I bet," says Sam sympathetically.
Castiel sits at the table, resting his elbows on it and placing his face in his hands. "It was foolish of me to do this," he confides. "I should know better."
Sam stands behind him, gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder. "We've all done it," he says. "Most of us, more than once. Just ask Dean. He'll tell you stories that'll make you never want to eat again."
Castiel rests his head on his arms and allows himself a tiny, pathetic moan. "I already don't want to eat ever again."
"Yeah, you probably don't need that right now," concedes Sam. "Is there anything you do need? I'll get it for you."
"I'm open to suggestions," grunts Castiel.
"Well, what did you do last time you over-ate?" asks Sam. "I mean, if you were human, I would know what to do, but since you're an Angel…"
"I waited for the discomfort to pass."
"Well, maybe that's the best thing to do here."
Castiel cringes. "I think… this might be worse," he informs Sam. "I believe I am in more pain this time."
Sam pats him again. "I'm sorry, but I think waiting it out is probably your best bet. How long did it take to feel better?"
"Hours."
"Yeah, that's pretty typical for humans, too," confirms Sam. "There's a couple things we can try to help you feel better in the meantime. First, I think you should drink a glass of water."
That, Castiel thinks, is a terrible idea. His stomach clenches at the very thought. "No," he whimpers.
"It's up to you," says Sam. "Here, I have an idea. Wait here."
Minutes later, Sam comes back with a heating pad and wet washcloths. He helps Castiel into an easy chair, places the heating pad over his aching middle and the washcloths on his neck and forehead.
"Better?" he asks after a few minutes.
It is, a little, so Castiel says so. Sam leaves him be, but hangs around the room, and when Dean comes and finds them, Castiel can hear Sam explaining what's going on.
"Don't sweat it," says Dean, just as Sam predicted. "I've done it a million times before. This one time when I was fourteen, I ate a box and a half of Froot Loops –"
"Please stop," whispers Castiel.
Six and a half hours later, it becomes apparent that this is unlikely to pass on its own. Castiel's discomfort has increased just slightly, rather than getting better. He rests in the easy chair, attempting to move as little as possible, pain creating tension throughout him, which in turn begets increased pain.
"Try an antacid," says Dean, handing him a plastic bottle of multicolored tablets. Castiel ingests half of the chalky contents before determining that they are making things worse, not better.
"I think they're too similar to the charcoal," comments Sam.
Castiel swallows convulsively.
"You okay, Cas? You just went white."
"No, I am not okay!" Castiel growls. "I am in great discomfort! We established this some time ago!" He knows they do not deserve his vitriol, that he is simply responding poorly because his pain is making him irritable. It further shames him.
"I'm sorry," he bites out.
"Maybe try some Pepto?" Dean suggests.
The pink fluid turns out to be even more disgusting, but Castiel drinks half the bottle, and then the other half thirty minutes later. It only adds briefly to the volume in his already overcrowded stomach, before dissipating.
The sensation becomes almost like that of burning inside. He flings the heating pad across the room in frustration. The effort makes everything worse.
Sam peers at him. "Cas, do you maybe need to throw up?"
Castiel shudders. "NO," he says firmly. He has vomited before – while human, he learned the hard way that sometimes, food which has been discarded has been discarded for a very good reason. It was terrible; the physical discomfort was some of the worst he experienced as a human, never mind the panic he had felt. He never, ever wants to do that again.
"Can angels even do that?" asks Dean, his face scrunching in disgust at the thought.
"No," answers Castiel. He's relatively certain this is true. It never happened to him prior to his becoming human, unless one counted his expulsion of the Purgatory souls – admittedly, a similar sensation, though far more painful and intense.
If he's honest, what he is experiencing right now is also not entirely dissimilar from that feeling, but he is determined that he will never go through that again. He says so, just to solidify it.
Sam smiles sympathetically. "Whatever you say, Cas. Just, if you need to, it's okay."
It is not okay, not with Castiel, but he doesn't say anything more. He thinks the pain is getting worse.
After a while, Sam suggests that maybe they've been going about this the wrong way. "I mean, here we are, giving you human medicine, but you're an Angel. Why would we expect that to work? I think we should try something… well, supernatural."
"Like what?" Dean wants to know.
"Like salt," answers Sam.
Salt. Yes, salt is a purifier. "That might help," admits Castiel, though he winces at the thought of trying to swallow rock salt.
Fortunately, Sam is more thoughtful than that. "Here, drink this," he urges, pressing a glass of warm salt water into Castiel's hand. Castiel drinks it, finds that the taste is not intolerable. The molecules are sufficiently simple that they don't overwhelm him - just sodium chloride and dihydrogen monoxide.
The effects, however, are unpleasant. His discomfort increases dramatically. He can feel his abdomen distending; it is terrible.
"Ugh. This was a mistake," groans Castiel.
"Give it time," comforts Sam. "It might just take some time to work. And besides, nothing's changed for hours, now. At this point, change is good, even if you feel worse. At least we might be able to figure out what to do next."
"Yeah, a lot of the time, stuff like this gets worse before it gets better," Dean agrees.
A half hour later, Castiel chokes down another glass. The pain increases yet again, and he suddenly recognizes the sensation which he couldn't identify previously; that which he experienced in response to the sight of the charcoal bag and charcoal dust, and now even the very thought of charcoal is making it worse. He's definitely feeling nausea.
Sam and Dean can see it in his face. "You sure you're not gonna hurl?" asks Dean doubtfully. "Cause you sure look like you're thinking about it."
"I refuse," moans Castiel, hugging his knees miserably to his chest and burying his face in them – and then immediately sitting back up straight, because curling up like that makes everything so much worse. Something in the region of his throat tightens. He lets out the tiniest of whimpers.
Dean leaves and comes back with a wastebasket, which he hands to Sam. Sam places it near at hand. "Just in case, Cas. If you need it, it's right here."
"No," he wails.
Sam sighs. "Ready for more salt water, then?"
Castiel responds with an affirmative "Mm-hm," even though that's the last thing he wants – besides more charcoal, that is. Sam hands him another glass. He gulps at it, trying to swallow down the panicky feeling. Leviathan, insists a small, backwards part of his mind, even though he knows this is incorrect.
Then it happens. The violence of it actually sends him to the floor, the glass flying from his fingers, and it's so very much worse as an Angel than it was as a human. The sickness and the pain overwhelm him, and his throat an innards burn. It feels as if he's vomiting up jagged stones.
"Oh my god, Cas, you're puking rocks!" Dean exclaims, sounding awed. This remark is not helpful.
"Dean!" chides Sam.
Castiel doesn't look. He doesn't want to see.
Sam's beside him, rubbing his back gently. "It's okay, Cas. Um. Better to get it out." He sounds choked, from concern or disgust or both.
Castiel's shaking when it stops. Sam's cool hand is wrapped around his forehead. He is given a glass of water – no salt this time – to rinse out his mouth. Sam wipes his face with a wet washcloth, and the brothers help him back into the chair.
"Feeling any better?" Sam asks gently.
"A little," whispers Castiel hoarsely, after considering. "But still not good." His stomach still feels upset, though there is less pain, and now his throat feels absolutely destroyed. He coughs harshly, and blood mists over his lips. Sam and Dean make exclamations of horror, but Castiel can already feel the cool warmth of healing. "It is only superficial damage to my vessel," he reassures them. "From the… rocks. It's already nearly healed."
"So, that normal for angels?" asks Dean, with an awkward chuckle. "Do you guys usually puke up rocks?"
"Never," rasps Castiel. He dares a glance downward, just for a second. The wastebasket is completely empty. How humiliating.
"I missed the wastebasket. I'm sorry," he says woefully.
"Never mind," says Dean soothingly. "Sammy'll clean it up, right Sam?"
Sam scowls, but gets up to take care of the mess.
Dean plunks the wastebasket on Castiel's lap. "No offense, but you don't really look "done."
"Give him more salt water in a few minutes," says Sam, returning.
Castiel doesn't want to consume anything ever again, but even now he can feel the purifying influence of the salt. It's supporting his borrowed Grace in cleansing and healing.
There's a pause in the rattling sound of Sam sweeping pebbles off the rug.
"Dean!" he cries. "Dean, these aren't just rocks. Dean, I think these are uncut diamonds!"
Diamonds? Repulsive and unclean as it is, Castiel holds out his hand. "May I… see?" he asks reluctantly.
Sam passes him a handful of stones, having dried them with a cloth. Castiel forces himself to examine them. They are grayish, bipyramidal lumps, with just a hint of translucence about them. They are definitely crystalline.
"Carbon," he whispers. "A different form of carbon. Yes, these are diamonds." And though diamonds have no value to Angels, he knows their value to humans and finds the situation surreal.
Dean whistles. "How much you suppose they're worth?"
"Depends where you sell them," says Sam. He gets Castiel more salt water. Castiel drinks it, even though he doesn't want to, and is almost immediately overcome once more by severe nausea.
"We can take them to one of those people who tells you how much stuff is worth tomorrow."
"An appraiser," Sam supplies. "You okay with that, Cas?"
Castiel doesn't care. He's too busy heaving up more of them into the wastebasket.
"Give him charcoal, and he hurls diamonds," says Dean approvingly.
Castiel spits out a mouthful of small stones. "Never again," he gasps, before the next wave hits.
By the next afternoon, Castiel is recovered but sore. Dean returns from the appraisers with the sack of diamonds.
"So, apparently, we're millionaires," he says. "Some of those rocks weighed in at over ten carats. That's a lot, by the way. Some are jewelry grade, some industrial, but the upshot of it is, we don't ever have to hustle pool again."
(Castiel knows he will, though, just because he thinks it's fun.)
Dean claps him on the back. "Ya did good, Cas. Any chance there's more where that came from? I'll buy you all the charcoal you can eat!"
"Dean!" says Sam indignantly.
Castiel just turns to Dean and mildly states: "You know, greed is also a sin."