Two weeks before the end of December, 2013, a horrible strain of flu swept through Camp Chitaqua.

When it was over, three children had passed away, one adult, but Dean Winchester had been spared.

That's all that Castiel was concerned about. He had known, as soon as the first few had gone down with the virus, that a few weaker individuals would not survive the illness. There were no longer facilities to care for the ill, nor the large amount of medicines and vaccines needed to treat so many.

They'd all ducked and covered, the well took care of the sick, and they did what they always did-improvised and hoped for the best.

Chuck and Castiel fought Dean tooth and nail over the course of the week, both of them demanding that he sequester himself in his cabin.

It wouldn't do, Cas had told him, for their fearless leader to fall ill. His presence was needed, and they couldn't risk him.

So, two days before the New Year, when the last few were well on their way to recovery, Castiel felt like he could finally breathe.

It was over, and neither he, Chuck, or Dean had ended up with the illness and they were truly out of the woods.

Or at least that's what he had thought, when he woke that morning.

Then Dean went and collapsed at the morning staff meeting.

"He's burning up," Chuck said quietly, his hand on Dean's forehead.

Castiel looked up from where he was unlacing the other man's boots. "Cold compresses. Wet rags. We've got to break his fever."

Chuck nodded, and left the cabin to get the required items. Castiel removed Dean's boots and set them on the floor. He then methodically removed the rest of his clothing, stripped him down to nothing and covered him with a sheet.

There was a fine sheen of sweat on Dean's forehead. His head tossed on the pillow, his lips moving in soundless speech.

Cas was worried. Dean's collapse had been spectacular, and they had yet to be able to rouse him. And, as Chuck had said, and Cas could now feel under his own fingers, Dean was burning up. His fever was soaring, and with no way to check it, no thermometers to be found in camp, it was a guessing game as to how high it was. If it was too high, the fever could cause seizures and possible brain damage.

They had to get his fever down as soon as possible.

Chuck returned with buckets of water and Risa and Yager in tow. It had become a well-rehearsed dance in the last several weeks, and the four of them had managed to avoid being sick, and had been the main caretakers of the camp.

Yager immediately set to work building the fire they would need to keep the cabin warm while they conversely covered Dean in cold sheets and rags. Risa had her arms full of extra sheets which she set near Chuck's bucket.

The fire was blazing, the room already starting to warm, and the four of them wordlessly began dipping the sheets in the bucket of cold water and wringing them out as best they could.

Castiel grimaced at the unhappy groan that issued from Dean's throat at the first touch of the wet fabric. His body became wracked with shivers, his teeth chattering noisily, but they didn't stop. They covered every surface of Dean's body with the exception of his nose and mouth.

Warmth from Yager's fire filled the cabin, and it was entirely too hot for the group, but the air had to be kept warm. With the cold cloths on his body, it would do them no favors to allow Dean to breathe chilled air. No one needed pneumonia on top of the flu.

Chuck slipped out of his jacket before sinking woodenly into a chair. The day had just begun, and already the prophet looked exhausted.

"We'll be back, Castiel," Risa said quietly, gently touching his shoulder as she and Yager made their leave. Cas nodded vaguely, the Ritalin he'd taken that morning already beginning to wear off as the seriousness of the situation hit him.

This was Dean.

Not some random camper, not some no-name survivor. This was Dean.

The man that every last man, woman, child, and fallen angel in Chitaqua depended on. This was the man that was going to kill the devil…the one wearing his own brother's face. This was the man that was the last, great hope of planet Earth.

If Dean got sick enough that he died, Chitaqua might as well give itself over to the Croats. There would be no carrying on without him. Fearless Leader jokes aside, Dean was the heart and soul of the camp.

Even though he'd become as cold and unemotional as the rocks the camp was built on.

"We're just going to have to watch him. Going to have to make sure he stays hydrated," Chuck said quietly, the warmth of the room making his eyes droopy.

"I'll take first shift. Trade out every five hours."

"Sounds good." Chuck stood and pulled his jacket back on. "I'm going to go check on some of the others. Ring the bell if you need help."

"Of course."

Chuck let himself out, and Cas busied himself tidying the cabin. They'd brought Dean to Castiel's own cabin because he had an actual bed, and the room was larger and easier to move about in, not to mention the added bonus of the fireplace.

He knew damn well that Dean's guilt over his situation had led him to give Castiel the nicest of the cabins, and of course, he and Dean had made use of that bed many, many times, the first time being the night they got word that Sam had said yes.

Dean had come to him, eyes angry and hard, blind drunk and begging Cas for something chemical to numb the pain, but the minute Castiel got him through the door, the hunter had fallen apart completely, breaking down in bitter sobs about how his only job had been to look after Sammy, and now he'd failed, for the last and most unalterable time.

He'd held Dean in his arms, the two of them wrapped tightly around each other on the bed, and something had finally given way that night. Cas had reached out and wiped a tear off of Dean's cheek and leant forward to kiss his forehead, but Dean pulled him down, bringing their lips together like Castiel had dreamt of for years.

He still thought of it as one of the best nights of his life, despite the crushing news.

A murmur from the bed drew his attention.

Dean was muttering and whimpering, struggling weakly with the sheets.

"C-c-cc-a-as-s?" he whispered.

"I'm here, Dean." Cas lifted the rag off of Dean's face. He grabbed a cup of water, and slid his hand under Dean's head, gently lifting him off the pillow. "I need you to drink this. You can't get dehydrated. Open your mouth."

Dean obeyed, but was shaking so badly, only about half the water made it in his mouth, the rest spilled down his neck and into the already wet sheets. He gasped for air, eyes rolling under the lids, a pained whimper following the gasp.

"Hhh-urts-s-ss," he moaned.

"I know," Cas said softly. He dipped the rag that had been on Dean's face in the cool water again, wringing it out and laying it across Dean's brow. "I wish I could make it go away."

Dean said nothing, and Castiel assumed he had fallen asleep again. He moved to get off the bed, but a hand shot out from under the sheets and grabbed his wrist.

"Ddd-oonn-nn't-t gg-goo-o…" Dean breathed. "Ddonn-nn't l-llea-vv-ee mm-e." His words were low and broken, the chattering of his teeth making it hard to speak.

Cas sat back down, resting his free hand on Dean's shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere. I won't leave you, Dean. I promise."

This seemed to calm him, the grip on Cas's wrist loosened, and within minutes, the rest of his body had relaxed.

Castiel stayed beside him until Chuck came back, determined to keep his promise not to leave.