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Now.

It's dusk by the time they come rolling back into camp, dusty and exhausted.

Dean is remarkably cheerful, and once they deliver the antibiotics to an impatiently waiting Luke the hunter invites the small company back to his cabin for a celebratory beer. Benny and Castiel are happy as always to oblige, and Alex is downright thrilled. It'd been a relatively quiet mission. The hospital was located in a part of town the military had recently swept through, pushing the Croats out of the area for the time being. Only problem is a lot of the buildings in that sector have suffered significant damage. The hospital wasn't an exception. A whole wing of the building was knocked off, and what's left looks about ready to crumble and cave at any time. They salvaged what they could, including all the medical supplies, instruments, and medicine they could find. They filled the truck bed with bedding, towels, cots, whatever they could fit. It was a smooth and unhurried operation; opportunities like these don't come around too often. It had occurred to Cas at one point that Dean had probably somehow been tipped off by someone who knew that there would be no military activity on this particular block today. He never bothered with asking the hunter if his suspicion was correct. If Dean wanted him to know, he would have told him and that's where the discussion would have ended.

Driving in and out without being spotted is a little touch and go at certain points, but there's hardly a Croat to be seen. It's just about unbelievable.

The ease of the venture does not damper Alex's resultant feelings of pride. It was, after all, his first mission, and it was hugely successful. Sitting at Dean's table, the kid's face is practically glowing. He watches Dean with rapt attention, the admiration shining in his eyes.

Cas can't help but be amused.

Dean tosses a beer to each of them, including Alex. "Don't tell your parents," he tells the teen mock-sternly. Then the hunter tips his own beer in the direction of his comrades in salute, cracking the can open. He meets Castiel's eyes briefly as he drinks and looks away.

Benny chuckles as Alex opens his beer and warm foam spills out, leaving the kid no other recourse but to clamp his mouth on the can and suck it back before it makes a mess on Dean's floor.

It's the first genuine smile Cas has seen on Dean's face in days, maybe weeks.

"Would you quit saying that?" Dean snaps, scratching under his chin irritably.

Cas looks up from the joint he's rolling. Benny and Alex left some time ago, and he and Dean have since moved on from beer.

"What? Dean, that kid looks at you like you're a hero. It's not the most terrible thing in the world, you know. He clearly idolizes you and it's kids like Alex who are next in line in this fight. It shows that people look to you as their leader. Also, you tell them what to do, how and when to fight. Ergo," he adds flatly, "you are their leader."

Dean drops down onto the edge of his cot with his whisky bottle. He starts rubbing a hand back and forth over the top of his head, distracted, as Cas continues.

"You're just doing what comes naturally to you, Dean. And you do it well, too. So don't let some title get you uppity." He moistens his rolling paper with the tip of his tongue, swiftly tucks and twists and holds the finished product up between his fingers, asking permission to smoke inside. Dean makes a vague assenting motion with his hand. He offers it to Dean after he lights it but the hunter predictably refuses.

"Just…don't say it, okay Cas?" Dean fixes him with a quietly beseeching look. Maybe it's the way the light from the lantern is throwing shadows but the hunter reminds Cas of the hospital they ransacked today, ready to crumble. Cas taps the ash from his joint into his empty beer can to break eye contact. When he looks up, Dean's face is back to its familiar stoniness.

"I won't, if that's what you want," Cas solemnly promises. "But it doesn't change anything."

There's a knock on the door before Dean can reply.

It's Gerald, breathing heavily as though he's been running for some time. He's also clutching his handgun. He steps inside as Dean opens the door.

"They saw him. I just came from the south post."

Dean's already got his rifle in hand and is out the door before the man takes his next breath. Cas hands Gerald his joint and leaves the messenger still huffing for air and takes off after the hunter.

It's late at night and there's hardly a soul about; they can break into a run without much worry of drawing attention.

"What are we going to do if it's really him?" Cas asks, keeping pace with Dean.

"What do you think?" Dean's voice is hard and blunt as a rock.

It would have been nice to pretend, even for one moment, that they had another option besides extermination. Cas gives his head a wry shake as he pants along beside Dean.

Obviously, the hunter doesn't feel like indulging in that kind of frivolity this evening.

Then.

Dean's first memory of Camp Chitaqua is a happy one.

When he opens his eyes he's dazzled nearly to the point of blindness, despite the dimness of the room. That's how he knows he's been asleep for a long time.

A face bends down close to his, and it takes Dean's reeling senses a fraction of a second longer to register that the face belongs to Castiel. Eventually things come into focus and the angel begins to lose his blurriness. Dean blinks to clear his eyes.

"Dean? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Cas," he groans, voice scratchy in his own ears. He turns his head and tries to look around while he forces himself into alertness. "I can hear you…you're two inches…from my face." He suddenly realizes that he has no idea where he is. Also, his body aches. Now that he's had a minute to think about it, his shoulder is humming with a sharp pain that's bone deep. He looks down at it and sees it's been immobilized with heavy bandages. Even just the simple motion of turning his head makes the bolt of agony spike and Cas is already reaching solicitously, guiding him back down with gentle hands. Dean hadn't even realized he was trying to sit up.

"Just lie down for awhile first, Dean," Cas tells him. "Do you remember what happened?"

Something clicks in his head at the words and Dean is suddenly aware that something is very, very wrong. It's then that he remembers and he's pushing against Cas, trying to get up again. He's already exhausted himself, and he can feel his heartbeat thrumming in the path the bullet took through his body. He's nauseated from the sensation, the pain stealing his breath.

"Where's Bobby? Is he okay?" The bed next to his is crisply made and undisturbed; the implication makes him scared to even ask.

Cas pushes Dean carefully back down. There's the sound of shuffling, and suddenly someone else is standing beside the bed, looking over the angel's shoulder.

"Bobby's going to be fine," the stranger says, extending a hand to Dean. The hunter regards him warily for a moment, and the man's bearded face breaks into a genuine grin when he notes Dean's guarded expression. "I heard you were the surly type, Dean Winchester. I'm Marcus – pleasure to meet you."

Dean registers the name and he reaches up with his good arm and Marcus gingerly shakes, mindful of not causing further pain. "Pleasure's all mine," Dean tells him. "I'm grateful to you for saving Bobby's life."

"From what I hear, you're the one who saved him. That's quite the drive, you must have made it here in record time." Marcus moves out of Dean's line of sight and there's the sound of a chair scraping over to the bedside before he reappears and continues.

"And Bobby came out lucky, all things considering. From what we can tell, the bullets missed his organs. Luke got them out without too much trouble, and he should be out of the woods so long as infection isn't a problem. He's sore as hell and cranky from blood loss. Probably will be for awhile."

Marcus' face suddenly darkens, and he leans forward. Dean feels his mouth go dry.

"But I have bad news. There's something you should know, Dean."

The hunter can only stare and wait for Marcus to continue.

"I'm afraid Bobby's paralyzed from the waist down."

A tense moment passes as Marcus sits there and waits for a reaction while Dean struggles with how to tell him that this isn't news. Suddenly Marcus leans back and makes a waving motion, grinning conspiratorially.

"I'm just shitting you," he tells the gawking hunter. "First thing he did when he opened his eyes was demand someone replace the wheelchair you left behind so he could be brought in here to see for himself you were okay."

Marcus reaches out and gently clasps Dean's good shoulder as he stands to leave.

"And I must say you're a damned sight for sore eyes, Winchester. Welcome to Camp Chitaqua."

Dean only barely hears Marcus. Bobby's going to be okay, that's all that matters, and he sags into the mattress in relief. He doesn't remember much of their insane flight to the camp. It's all a blur after the attack. His last clear memory is barreling down a dirt road, trying to keep his focus on driving even as the world flashed and fluttered like a movie reel at the edges of his vision. He remembers the panic, the fear that he's going to pass out behind the wheel at any moment, and the feeling of absolute certainty that when he gets to Camp Chitaqua he's going to arrive with a corpse in his backseat.

Dean has other questions that he wants to ask, but he can't muster the strength to open his mouth and say the words. As his eyes begin to drift closed and he's tugged into unconsciousness he hears Castiel's voice, carrying him down into the oblivion of sleep.

"Maybe we should wait a little longer before we tell him about the car."

It's a pretty fair trade.

If he could have, Dean would've smiled.

NOW.

It's raining for the third night in a row.

Smith and Colin are on watch when Cas and Dean get to the south post. Cas can see that both men are shaken.

"Where'd he go?" Dean asks, dropping low beside Smith on the rocky outcropping, peering down into the gulley. Smith points off into the darkest part of the shadows.

"It sounds like he's in the caves," Colin says, voice hushed.

Everyone strains to listen, and it can be heard. Thin laughter floats up to them, bouncing off rock and the sides of the gulley.

"How close has he gotten?" Dean doesn't take his eyes away from the patch of darkness he's studying.

"Just outside of shooting range," Smith responds. Cas drops to his knee beside Dean.

"Want some company while you wait it out?" he asks. He shows Dean the inside pocket of his hunting vest. A flask glints softly in his pocket, a flask that he keeps for just such occasions.

"Much obliged," Dean smiles grimly, turns back to peering into the black.

After some hours of fruitless vigilance the heaviness of night begins to wane into a predawn haze, and slowly the gulley becomes a recognizable shape that can be picked out of the gloom. Someone should be coming along to relieve them at any moment.

And just in time, too. Castiel's fingertips have long since gone numb, and after a long night of sitting in the misty rain he's more than ready to pack it in. He glances at Dean; the hunter's nose is red from the cold but he's not shivering, the whisky obviously doing its job. Cas had taken a couple of sips from the flask himself, and he did enjoy the fire it stoked in his belly but otherwise doesn't care for it overly, just brings it with him in the spirit of comradeship.

It had been an uneventful night. Shortly after Dean sent Smith and Colin away the laughter in the gulley died down and went silent; there hasn't been the faintest stir since, not even a leaf rustling the wrong way.

"If you want to take the rest of the day off after this, I wouldn't hold it against you," Dean tells Cas, breaking the silence that had settled some minutes ago.

Cas rolls his shoulders and head, loosening tense muscles. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since Dean roused him out of bed by pounding on his cabin door. "What about yourself?" he asks, feeling his neck crack.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Cas answers slowly, "what are you going to do?" He turns his head and looks at Dean, waiting.

Dean considers. "I thought I'd go swing by and see how Chuck's doing on inventory. We should probably start getting ready for winter."

"Couldn't you get Reese to do it? He's done it before."

Dean's voice is flat. "Cas, is there something you wanna say to me?" He hands back the empty flask and Cas tucks it away in his vest.

"Nothing in particular, I guess." He gets to his feet and brushes himself off. Behind them, someone whistles in a low tone and Cas returns the signal before continuing. "You just seem a little more tightly wound than usual. Maybe you should just take it easy today, relax. Maybe go see what Tiffany's up to." He grins suggestively. "I seem to remember that you two got along well the last time you met."

Of course, Cas is referring to the time he accidentally interrupted Dean and Tiffany when he borrowed the supply truck in the dead of night to haul a load of sandbags, not realizing they were…preoccupied in the truck bed, both naked as the day they were born. Dean looks like he's about to comment but stops when he hears someone coming.

Cas turns and is greeted by the sight of Gerald approaching, ready to start next watch. He's happy to be relieved, and he drops the subject and extends a hand down to Dean to help pull him up to his feet.

The walk back to camp is done in companionable silence. The gray light of dawn is filtering through the trees and the forest is stirring. A few birds call back and forth amidst the droning hum of insects. The air is cool and easy. It's so peaceful it could almost be possible to forget that the world is literally ending all around them.

"Do you miss it?" Dean asks Cas out of nowhere as they approach the gate entrance.

"Miss what?"

"You know what, Cas."

Cas pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat. This is the first time Dean's ever asked, ever brought it up. Cas became human immediately after Sam said yes in Detroit, and both events haven't been discussed since the day they happened. Until now, that is.

It takes Cas a moment to work up enough moisture in his mouth to answer the hunter. His throat suddenly feels constricted. Is this shame? Regret? It's hard to tell, at times. "I suppose I do," Cas says, falters. "Well, I do and I don't."

Dean doesn't say anything, just nods like he understands. From the way his mouth twitches it's clear that he doesn't.

"It's not exactly like a riding a bike, Dean," Cas tries again. "Me being an angel…the memory of it is slipping away. It's starting to feel like a dream I had in another life." He ruefully shakes his head, thoughtful. "Now that my bike's gone I'm forgetting how to even ride it in the first place."

It's almost poetic, because as soon as Cas finishes saying it he realizes that they're walking past the Impala, sitting broken and still.

Dean gazes at the wrecked fragment of his own former life and turns to Cas. His laugh is brittle and thin, like a dead leaf.

"I think I know where you're coming from," he tells the one time angel.

THEN.

Dean visits Bobby the next day. The older hunter is still in the medical tent. He's drugged to the gills, swaddled in bandages, and blearily awake. It's damn near the most beautiful sight Dean's ever laid eyes on.

Bobby smiles when Dean walks up to his bed, supported at the elbow by Castiel. Singer closes his eyes like it's too much effort to keep them open.

"Hey," Bobby says in a rusty voice. It takes him a few more seconds, but his eyes manage to crack back open. "Look atcha," Bobby fondly murmurs. "Ready to play nursemaid."

"In your twisted dreams," Dean retorts, but he can't keep the smile off his face. "Jesus, it's good to see you, Bobby."

Marcus comes in with Bobby's painkillers and a glass of water, nods in greeting at Dean and Cas. "I'm afraid you'll just have to settle for me swabbing your brow instead," he teases Bobby gently.

Bobby lifts his head enough to look at Marcus, lets it drop back against the pillow. "Oh, yeah," he intones. "Nurse Ratched over here."

"Oh, come now," Marcus laughs. "I'm not that bad. My bedside manner is a lot better than Luke's. You should be grateful."

Cas can tell that Dean's legs are still a little wobbly, and he brings over a chair, which the hunter doesn't sit in without a withering glance directed right at the angel.

"Enough about me," Bobby turns a serious eye to Dean. "I ain't the only one sporting a new hole or two."

Dean shrugs his good shoulder. "I'm fine," he replies with a dismissive smile, which may have been convincing if he weren't so pale. "Bullet went right through, nice and clean."

Marcus grunts in approbation. "I've got to hand it to you two: you are a couple of lucky buggers. I'm glad to see you both on this side of the grave." The hunter turns to Dean.

"So. Grand tour now, or later?"

Dean looks back at Bobby. The older man grins back weakly, closes his eyes again. He turns back to Marcus.

"Now sounds good."

It's slow going. Dean is shuffling along like he's eighty, even with Castiel's help. The hunter is leaning on the angel like his life depended on it, because as much as he is loathe to admit it he feels like he could fall flat on his face at any given moment. But he doesn't want to throw in the towel and go back to bed just yet, so he hangs on. Marcus isn't insensitive to Dean's weakness. He takes it slow and easy, leading them where the walking is easiest. He talks animatedly and gestures all around at various tents and cabins.

"It's not much to look at just yet," he's telling them. "It's a work in progress, you see. We're bringing in materials and we're going to start building more cabins as soon as we can. The communal garden is down this way, the community hall, mess hall. Over there's where the daycare's going, and the school, too."

"Sounds like you're planning on staying awhile," Dean jokes weakly, looking around. Christ, he's already out of breath.

Marcus glances around to make sure no one else is within earshot before he answers.

"I don't know how long we have here," Marcus tells Dean earnestly. "But I intend to give these people as normal a life as I can. So we plan ahead for the future, because that way we live like we have a future. Keeps the bedlam to a dull roar." He shrugs, turning his palms up to Dean and Cas. "Who knows? Maybe something will come from this, after all."

Dean nods, marvels at the strength and determination of the man standing before him. The more he sees, the more it becomes apparent that this isn't some two-bit operation he's got going. This is an honest to God, self-sufficient commune, or the makings of one. It's the real deal. When he looks around, he sees people working away, focused and calm. He sees people with purpose, intent on a common goal: to get this camp off the ground. He sees commitment, fortitude, hope.

He turns back to Marcus, the man responsible for it all, and finds himself truly at a loss for words. He struggles to keep the emotion in his voice at bay.

"It's great, Marcus."

It's not for another few days that Dean learns Marcus' wife was killed some time back while he was gone on a hunt. She was sitting at a bus stop, of all places, when a vehicle ran off the road. Apparently the driver had suffered a sudden stroke. Both were killed on impact. When Marcus' cell rang - the one with the phone number that was listed as an emergency contact only - he knew that his Sandra was gone and dropped what he was doing and drove three states home to his dead wife. They'd had no kids so Marcus was now suddenly alone, and when his neighborhood was evacuated under the first wave of the Croatoan outbreak he'd grabbed only one thing before he forever shut the door on his old home, his old life.

His wife's wedding ring, which he wears around his neck like an amulet.

Now.

Upon arriving at the camp, Dean is immediately whisked away by Chuck, who is wielding a clipboard and repeating the word "condoms" over and over as they walk away, heading towards the Quonset hut. It's not that babies are unwelcome, but it's still a problem trying to meet the camp's needs with the size it currently is. Contraceptives are a big deal, and there isn't exactly an Albertsons kicking around on the nearest corner.

Cas doesn't see Dean for two days after that. Not like it's unusual – there's never a dull moment around the camp and plenty of ways to become preoccupied. But old habits are hard to break, and although he's officially been relieved of angel duty Cas still can't help the residual twinges of concern regarding his former charge's whereabouts. He ends up blowing off his scheduled clinic to inquire after the hunter.

It's not long until he finds Dean sitting at Marissa's bedside. Her parents, pale faced and wan, admit Cas into their cabin without hesitation.

In Marissa's bedroom, the air is pungent with a sickly sweet smell. The little girl's face and arm are bandaged, the stain of infection slowly seeping through. Her visible eye is closed, her small chest puffing in and out like a scared animal. Alex is also sitting with his sister; when he sees Cas enter the room he jumps out of his chair and offers it to him.

Cas cringes. "At ease, soldier," he says, half-joking. "I just wanted to come by and see if there's been any change."

Shelley comes up behind Cas and lays her hand on his shoulder. "Not yet," she says in a soft voice, and she musters a shaky smile even though the tears are shining in her eyes. "But we're praying." She squeezes Cas' forearm lightly before her hand drops back down to her side.

Cas doesn't need to see Dean's expression to know the hunter is scowling. He's well aware of Dean's opinion on the matter, that if God can hear them praying down here he must obviously not give a crap.

Castiel's feelings are a little less straightforward. He still loses sleep trying to sort them out.

"Are you feeling okay?" Cas asks Dean as they walk away from Greg and Shelley's cabin.

Dean frowns, his expression quickly progressing from confusion to annoyance. "What? Yes. Why?"

"You turned down dinner. And you look beat to crap."

Dean bristles. "Cas, there's shit I need to do. You can come help or not, but if you do come you better change the subject." He quickens his pace, leaving Cas with the option of either following and thus agreeing to the hunter's stated terms or simply letting him stalk off.

This is one of those rare times where Cas becomes annoyed with Dean's brusqueness. The hunter is pale and tired looking, with dark circles under his eyes. There's no need for the brush-off. He pushes after Dean, has to jog a little to catch up.

"And what's wrong with pointing out the obvious?" Cas can hear the irritation creeping into his voice. Dean hears it, too. The hunter stops right in his tracks and fixes him with a strange look. It's not anger or annoyance. It's not sadness or remoteness. It's not anything. Dean just looks devoid of any kind of emotion, blank. It's upsetting. Cas wonders if that's what he used to look like, before he was downgraded.

"Because you sound like someone I used to know," Dean answers in a suddenly calm voice. Then, quietly, "Why don't you just enjoy the rest of your night off?"

This time, when the hunter walks away Cas lets him.

Then.

Within a matter of a few short weeks, Cas can see that Bobby was right. Coming to Camp Chitaqua was the right decision. It's been a balm to Dean's wounded spirit. The hunter's thrown himself into work with a refreshed sense of purpose. He's already asking to be put on patrol duty the day after he wakes up.

Marcus scratches his beard, thinks it over before answering.

"Give it a couple days and we'll go out together on the next rotation switch. In the meantime," he sternly adds, "you just take it easy."

"Fat chance of that happening," Bobby snorts from his bed, turns his head on his pillow and closes his eyes.

As for Singer himself, the hunter is steadily improving, but Luke insists he stay under observation until they can find him a wheelchair. Marcus was right about one thing: he really is sore as hell. It takes Bobby a week before he can sit up without grinding his teeth, and he and Dean are sporting matching slings for the first few days. Other than the discomfort, though, his healing goes rather smoothly.

Marcus gives Dean and Cas each their own cabins. They look like they were used as sleeping quarters back when it was a kid's camp. There were probably several child-sized bunk beds in them at one time, but they've since been removed and replaced by functional cots. Other than that, they come pretty sparsely furnished. A table, two chairs, a lamp, candles. A bookshelf with a dusty paperback or two. "Take the cabins while they're there for me to offer," he tells them, smiling. "Feel free to add your own personal touches." He smirks before continuing. "Pretty soon we'll have to start building new ones and newcomers will have to make due with tents until then. As for Bobby, we'll build him a ramp so he can get up to his door."

On Cas' first night in his cabin, he sees the book in his shelf is a tattered copy of East of Eden.

He reads until dawn.

On the ninth day after their arrival Marcus manages to procure a wheelchair for Bobby, and Dean wastes no time taking him for a long awaited stroll through the camp. Dean has already familiarized himself with the layout and some of the people, and he pushes Bobby through every inch of the place. Cas doesn't know who is more delighted, Dean or the older man.

As for Cas, he finds himself getting along well enough. He's put to work right away, and he feels a little clumsy at first but he manages to pull his weight. They decide not to tell anyone about him being an angel. Dean had figured it to be for the best. A lot of people weren't exactly thrilled with God at the moment, and there's always the chance that an angel of the Lord could also make the shitlist.

If anyone notices Cas' initial awkwardness with swinging hammers or pushing wheelbarrows it's not mentioned. He is, after all, another sorely needed pair of hands. A pair of hands that, if anyone were watching closely enough, inexplicably do not seem to feel fatigue. He's careful to come off his shift with everyone else and not outperform others. He makes a show of eating and drinking, has to remind himself at regular intervals to take meals. He follows suit when others complain about the weather. He tried laughing at a joke once but it sounded forced, even to his own ears. He hasn't attempted it since.

Dean tries to field questions directed at Cas whenever possible, saving the angel the difficulty of lying. He makes Cas sound as boring as possible, so as not to incite further questions. Yes, he's new to the camp. He was an accountant before he came here, from Virginia. No, he's not married. No kids. Had a goldfish named Stan, once. Cas commits the answers to memory as Dean helps fill the holes of his fabricated past.

Before long, they settle in. Cas becomes quite adept at pretending to be human. Bobby occupies himself with fixing weapons and communications equipment, and Dean finds himself a new life. The hunter can't get enough of it. He works patrols, goes on supply runs, signs up for watch duty. Even on his days off he's working away happily, hauling rocks or assisting with whatever building project is going on. He's anywhere the help is needed. Plus, he still gets to hunt on top of everything. He regularly goes off in search of Croats, black dogs, demons, whatever he can find that comes in the area. Marcus keeps him up to speed on demonic activity, signs of Lucifer or Michael, and anything else that's important to Dean, like which Rondell twin is Marcie and which one is Carmen.

Dean is smiling a lot these days.

The one thing that remains mangled is the Impala.

Dean mourns it, but it can't be helped. Marcus had broken it as gently as he could to the hunter shortly after he was up and about.

"I'm sorry," Marcus had said, and it was clear by the look on his face that he really was. "There's not much we can do, Dean. I know it's a gorgeous machine, but we don't exactly have parts lying around for a '67 Impala. Besides, it wouldn't do for long out here. Not with the roads already being the way they are, and they're only going to degrade over time. We need trucks, jeeps, things that can bounce along the mountain and do some hauling. We can't spare the oil and gas for anything that isn't absolutely necessary. I hope you can understand."

That night Dean sat inside the ruin of his beloved car and drank quietly.

Bobby explained it to Cas from his sickbed.

"What you need to understand is that Dean has spent his life in that car. His childhood, adolescence, all of it. Most of his memories of growing up take place in it. Of growing up with Sam." The hunter says the name emphatically. For a moment Bobby has to stop speaking, but he clears his throat and goes on. "It's been more of home than anything else. It meant the world to John, so it meant the world to Dean. That car is family. He's saying goodbye."

Dean doesn't mention anything about the Impala the next day.

He doesn't talk about it for a long time after that.

Now.

Cas knows something is wrong when Dean doesn't show up for morning report-in. He takes over and does Dean's part, gives out the details on any occurrences during the night watches and patrols. These last couple of nights have been unusually quiet, and that means that either they are just really fortunate or some huge nasty has moved into the area and scared all the smaller ones away. Dean and Cas are both inclined to believe that it's the latter, but no reason to make the locals fidgety until they know for sure. Until then, patrols are doubled and there is a mandatory radio check-in every thirty minutes. Most of these guys get it, anyway. It's no secret that something is up, but everyone is keeping calm about it. That's why Dean's presence is so heavily influential. No one keeps as rock steady as the hunter, and Cas knows that while he may be a pretty good number two he is no replacement. He resolves to go and see what's going on with Dean when he can manage to tear himself away from the day's obligations.

It proves to be a harder feat than he'd originally planned. Once he's given out the day's assignments he hears about a generator that's broken and has to run to the other side of camp to see which one it is. On the way back Chuck bumps into him, looking vaguely intense about something.

"Where's Dean?" he asks, adjusts his glasses in disheveled haste.

"Not here," Cas answers simply. "What can I do for you?"

Chuck pushes a piece of paper with a few frantic scribbles on it. "I need these tacked onto the list of supplies we need on our next run." Cas takes it and frowns, tries to decipher Chuck's illegible handwriting. He glances up when Chuck starts talking again.

"Hey, does Dean have messed up dreams often?"

Yes. "How would I know?"

Chuck shrugs. "I don't know. You guys are close; I figured you'd have noticed. Last night he was over at the Quonset doing inventory with me and I left to boil us some water for coffee. When I came back he was sleeping at the table sitting up. He was mumbling something, and when I put my hand on his shoulder he practically freaked out. Almost broke my wrist." He rubs at the offended limb and winces in memory. "He just muttered something about how he thought I was someone else in his dream."

"I better take this over right now," Cas says, indicating the paper in his hand before he stuffs it into his pocket. He turns on his heel.

"There's no rush," Chuck calls out after Cas. "The run isn't for a couple of days."

There's always a rush.

By the time Cas finally makes it to Dean's cabin it's already late afternoon. The window is shuttered and the door is locked. Sure signs he's home.

He knocks on the door and counts to ten. He's even polite enough to knock again before he picks the lock.

Dean is sitting up on the edge of his cot, blinking. He drops his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes, and complains bitterly.

"Damn it, Cas. I locked it for a reason."

Cas jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the door. "Yeah, I saw. I locked it behind me."

"I'm sorry I showed you how to pick locks," Dean groans under his breath, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. He has a bucket at his feet.

Cas looks him up and down. "What's going on with you?"

Dean laughs. It's a hoarse, wheezy sound. "Oh, not much," he mumbles. "What's going on with you?" He leans forward and retches, and Cas moves forward and catches him by the shoulder. The hunter shivers and heaves and shivers again, even though he's burning to the touch. Cas moves a hand to Dean's face briefly, palming his forehead and then the back of his neck. The hunter's head rolls and he observes Cas with glassy eyes. "You're actually here, right? I'm awake right now – not a dream."

"That's right." Cas bends down and picks up Dean's feet, guides his legs up onto the cot. The hunter acquiesces to the mild manhandling and actually lies down. Cas starts untying his boots while he's compliant and tugs them off. The water jug is sitting on the makeshift night table, empty.

"Dean? I'm going to get you some water." He's pretty sure that Dean doesn't hear him. His eyes are rolling under closed lids.

Cas doesn't want to alarm anyone, not just yet. Still, he figures he should grab Luke. Just in case.

Dean's voice is weak, but the glare in his eyes is smoldering when the hunter sees that he's brought company when he returns.

"Son of a bitch, Cas," he growls. "I just want to be left alone." He's got the blankets pushed off and he's pouring sweat.

Luke ignores the snarl of protest as he draws back the curtain covering the window to allow some light. He comes over and drops to his knees beside Dean, starts to palpitate his throat. "Are your glands sore?" he asks.

"Fuck off, please."

It gets to be a difficult situation. Dean is sick and he stays sick all that day and into the night. It's when the activity and the sounds of the daytime dwindle as the sky darkens that his raving becomes a problem. Cas is sure that anyone who passes by at the right time can hear the weak shouting. The hunter's either burning up, shivering profusely, or he's dripping sweat and slack bodied. His fever cycles endlessly, rising higher and higher, pushing his delirium, until it breaks and he soaks the mattress with perspiration before it begins to climb again. Luke initially holds out hope that whatever this is, it will burn itself out quickly.

It's clear by morning that this isn't the case. Dean's nearly out of his mind with the violence of the fever.

"Dean, can you hear me? Luke's back. He's got some pills for you to take."

"No," the hunter gasps, twists his body around and flops onto his stomach, curling around his midsection in agony as the cramps seize him again.

"What? Why no?" Cas wraps his hand around Dean's shoulder and gives him a gentle shake to keep the hunter focused on his words. "Why no, Dean?"

"Because," Dean rasps, "save them. For the girl," he gags again, leaning his head over the edge of the cot, over the bucket.

Luke leans forward and puts a cool cloth on the back of Dean's neck. Dean grunts in surprise at the sensation. The medic exchanges a quick look with Cas, who bends over closer to Dean's head as he tries once more.

"Dean, it's only Tylenol. Marissa is on antibiotics. And we raided the hospital's pantries, remember? We're good, there' s no shortage."

The hunter is already mumbling disjointedly again. Cas sighs, and with Luke's help he manages to force the pills on him, makes him drink some water. "You really should have said that you were getting sick."

"Quit it, Sam," Dean says as Cas lays him back down again, then turns his head and starts his muttering up again.

"Who's Sam?" Luke asks.

Cas keeps his voice completely level.

"I don't know."

If he were still an angel he'd have a hard time bluffing.

TBC