grandma make me sick


Word Count: 1,078

During Cas’s time as a human, he got to experience many things.  A few of which were eating food that didn’t taste like, as he put it, “molecules”, having to sleep, having to actually use the restroom, which, by the way, he didn’t appreciate.

Out of all those things, the thing he disliked most about humanity was getting sick.  And, sure, he had only gotten a cold, but his expression held nothing but confusion when he approached you that morning, unable to stop coughing and blowing his nose.

“Oh, God, Cas, I think you’re sick,” you said, looking up from your seat in the library.  You were drinking a cup of hot chocolate—your own recipe, one that your grandma used to make you when you were younger.

He looked down at you.  He looked slightly afraid but very confused.  “I don’t understand; I’m an angel.  How can I be ill?”

“Well, you’re a human now; humans get sick.”  He remained unresponsive; he just kept staring at you like you’d lost your head.  You rolled your eyes and stood.  “Come on.  Let’s get you into bed.  Rule number one of being sick: don’t do anything.”

“But how can I be of help if I’m—“

“You’re sick.  You don’t have to do anything but lie in bed and sleep.”  You took his hand in yours and led him back to the room you shared while he was human.  He had to sleep somewhere, and due to your relationship, he wanted to share your bedroom with you.  As he put it, “Like normal human couples do.”  You didn’t mind.  Frankly, you thought it was adorable.

You got him back under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment.  “Alright, first things first—you’ve got to take some medication and get some fluids in you.”

“Uh, fluids?”

You took note of his briefly terrified expression and suppressed a laugh.  “No, idiot.  Like water, or chicken broth, or something.  It’s just something that’ll help you get better.”

Clarity took over his face, and he nodded slowly.  “Alright… that sounds… nicer.”

You left him in your room and went to the kitchen.  You weren’t a great chef, but you also weren’t so bad that no one could digest whatever you made.

You rifled through the cabinets and found what you were looking for: Campbell’s chicken rice soup and a half empty box of Sudafed.  You would have liked to do something more special for Cas, but it wasn’t like you had a chicken in the fridge, ready to go, or rice on hand.  You didn’t even have a rice cooker.

You dumped the can of soup into a pot, and from the corner of your eye, you saw your pot of hot chocolate.  That’s right; you never finished it.  It was still on one of the back burners.  The milk had probably skinned over it, or all the chocolate—expensive chocolate, you noted, because your grandma would have nothing less—had probably sunken to the bottom.  That didn’t matter, though, because with a little mixing and reheating, it would be just as good as it was an hour earlier.

You stirred the chicken soup, thinking. Cas had been drinking coffee and water, for the most part, and maybe a few beers thanks to Dean, but that was it.  That was probably going to be his only opportunity to try your better-than-the-rest hot chocolate recipe before everything went back to tasting like molecules.  He was close to getting another stolen grace, after all.

You dragged the hot chocolate pot over next to the heating chicken soup and stirred both at the same time.  When you turned off the heat to let them sit for five minutes, you popped a Sudafed pill out of the box, filled a small glass of water, and put them both down on a tray.  Grabbing a bowl and a mug, you filled each with their corresponding food.  You made sure to arrange it nicely and picked up the tray.  Hopefully Cas wasn’t so sick that he didn’t taste anything at all.

You nudged the door open with your foot and found him sitting up in the bed.  Before you could scold him for not trying to sleep, he said, “I, uh, found that I could only breathe when I was sitting up.”

You gave him a small smile.  “It’s fine.  I made you something.”

He perked up a little bit, and you smiled as you sat down on the edge of the bed.  You put the tray down next to him and handed him the medication and water.  “First, eat this.  In thirty or so minutes, your nose shouldn’t be too stuffed.”

He did as he was told, and when he finished, you handed him the hot chocolate.  “What is this?”  He asked, leaning down to smell it.  “It doesn’t smell like coffee.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s not, Cas; it’s hot chocolate.  My grandma used to make it for me when I was sick, even though my mom was convinced that it would only make me sicker.  I always felt better after drinking something sweet, though, so I made you some.”

He blinked before smiling that signature, rare, Cas smile.  “Thank you, Y/N.  That is very thoughtful of you.”

You breathed a laugh. “Don’t mention it; just get better quick, okay?”  You leaned forward to give him a small kiss on the lips.

He flinched back, and at the look of your startled and confused expression, he said, “The common cold is a sickness that is very easy to pass.  I don’t want you to get sick, either.”

“I won’t,” you said, rolling your eyes.  “I haven’t gotten a cold since I was a kid.  Now, hurry up and eat so I can lie down next to you.”


You coughed, groaning as you tilted your head back onto the headboard.  So much for I haven’t gotten a cold since I was a kid.  

The door opened, and in walked Cas holding a tray.  It was almost identical to the one you had given him the day before, you noted as he sat down next to you.  “I, well, Dean had to help me make the food.”  He gestured to his singed shirt.  “I… almost caught on fire.”

With a tissue still to your nose, you started laughing, leaning forward so that your forehead touched his upper arm.  “You’re the best, Cas.”