Chapter Two: Fever breaks

Before he had joined them at the ranch, Castiel had been a drifter. For some reason, probably because Dean had always had a steady home, Dean had thought of drifting as something kind of romantic. Free spirit, roaming the country, doing whatever the hell you want and all that.

Drifting; that was a nice word. Like floating. Weightless. In a lake or pond.

It was rather less romantic when you were doing some drifting yourself, in and out of consciousness. Dean knew that there was little coherence to what he was thinking, but he was loosely drifting, there was that word again, caught between awake and asleep. His kind of drifting felt a lot like drowning. The blankets piled on top of him were heavy and hot. It felt like lying in a pool of stagnant water. Sweat was pouring down his face.

Every time he thought he was going to wake up and get out from under the blankets, he got pulled back down.

The centre of the… dream? hallucination? was finding Sam and Grace. For each vision of a midget, clown, bearded lady and two-headed lamb – he should really stop going to sideshows – there they were. Sam and Grace, buried in the snow, much more snow than there had actually been. Their faces twisted into almost unrecognisable masks of horror.

'Not this time,' he'd mumble and struggle to stay awake, not knowing whether he was awake or whether it was merely part of the delirium. Not even knowing if he was speaking or if he just thought he was. And there he'd go again.

Finally, he did open his eyes. The light was bright. His skin was covered in a light sheen of cold sweat. One single sheet was draped across his chest. It was clean and white. Like snow.

'Dean? You awake? Want some water?'

Yes, I do, Dean thought. His throat was so dry that trying to speak hurt. Trying to do anything was difficult. When he tried to sit up, Bobby had to help him. His strength was gone. It was embarrassing to have Bobby hold the cup to his lips, but Dean allowed it. He was afraid that he'd drop the water himself.

He sipped slowly and looked around the room. How long had he been ill? His old friend interpreted his questioning glance correctly.

'You were out for five days. Castiel got the doctor. He shouldn't have bothered. The doctor took one look at you and said you had a fever. I could have told him that. Quack! Then he says, get this, that all we can do is wait,' Bobby resentfully related.

'Yellow?' he croaked. Bobby nodded. Dean didn't have much in the way of medical knowledge, but even he knew that yellow fever wasn't a joke. It was one of the most dangerous diseases out there. Dean groaned. He vaguely remembered something about it being caused by a mosquito bite.

Except it was winter. Mosquitoes and winter usually didn't mix well. Just his luck. Dean tried to get out of bed, ignoring Bobby's protests, and was amazed to discover that he could stand. His strength wasn't gone. It was feeble, but it was still there. Wobbly, he made his way to the kitchen.

Breakfast was in full swing. Everyone was surprised, but delighted to see Dean on his feet. Jessica attempted to get him to eat something. All he managed was to drink some milk. The rest of the morning, he sat on the porch, watching the others work.

The kids were awkward around him. Anna and Zachariah especially. Maybe because at seventeen and fifteen they were old enough to understand death. Or not understand it, exactly, but grasp it. They were fine around Jessica, having had a few days to become accustomed to her without Sam, without Grace. She seemed changed. Widowhood had made her harder.

When he wasn't busy with his chores, Joshua kept Dean company. The ten-year-old talked about the crosses his father had made in preparation of the funeral and Dean's heart clenched. He realised that he had hoped they had buried them already. Coward, he silently scolded. Still, he would gladly have slept through that.

In the afternoon, Dean pieced himself together and went to see Raphael. The doctor had also looked at the bodies. Poison had been his guess. Raphael succinctly explained how the doctor had come to that conclusion. There had been no marks on them. The poison had acted quickly, the doctor had estimated, and had resulted in asphyxia.

Choking wasn't painless, no matter how quick, Dean thought. He wasn't sure if he should believe the doctor. He wanted to believe him, but it didn't sound right. They had looked peaceful.

The doctor had informed them too that he had heard rumours about Gabriel. Apparently, he was on a gambling spree in Gustine; two towns over. Throwing around money. That sounded like Gabriel. That he was doing it after callously killing Sam and Grace was a minor detail.

Dean gritted his teeth and asked why they hadn't buried the bodies. With a frown, Raphael replied that they had waited for him. Most likely he didn't mean that they had planned to bury Dean with them if he had succumbed to his illness, but Dean liked to pretend that he had.

Shortly before dinner, they convened behind the barn. The two graves out there were John and Mary's. Dean saw that two more holes had been dug. One big. One small. That couldn't have been easy. The earth was hard.

Raphael, Michael and Bobby carried Sam's coffin. Jessica and Castiel carried Grace's. Dean felt inadequate because he wasn't strong enough to help. He forced himself to look while they awkwardly lowered the coffins into the ground. Anna started to cry. Her mother handed her a handkerchief, before starting to bawl too. Jessica's face was stony as she stared down at the polished wood. No emotion to be detected there.

Michael must have worked day and night on the coffins, Dean realised. He looked at Michael. The carpenter seemed tired. Looking around the little cemetery, Dean noticed that every face appeared tired. While Michael and Raphael filled the holes with black sand, Castiel returned with the crosses. There was some confusion over what cross should go where, which Dean didn't understand, because the carvings were pretty clear.

Grace Winchester

She was only four

She died before she was five

1904-1908

and

Sam Winchester.

1883-1908.

He had half expected Michael to whip out the Bible and shove his doctrine down their throats. Instead, there was none of that. No church official. No reading from the good book. Everyone stood around for a few minutes. Dean thought they were unsure of what to do, but when he saw Bobby's lips move he understood what they were doing. They were saying goodbye.

Anna was sobbing in her mother's arms. Michael had piously folded his hands and was unaware of his daughter's distress and the unrest developing amongst his sons. As usual, Raphael and Castiel were silent.

Unlike the others, Jessica wasn't pensive. Much like Dean, she was only praying for it to be over. What 'it' was; he couldn't say. The unorthodox funeral maybe. He focused on Sam's cross. Twenty five years. Dean liked how Michael hadn't added anything. First and last name. Date of birth. Date of death. That was it.

That was it for Sam. He had always been the nice one. The sensible one. He had taught Dean that it was alright to give a damn. At the grave of his brother, Dean took everything good he had ever felt and left it right there.

When he looked up, only Jessica was still standing next to him.

'Bobby went to bed. He stayed awake for five days straight,' she murmured. Dean nodded. It was better that way. Bobby would want to come with him.

During dinner, silence prevailed. Occasionally, someone was asked to pass the cabbage or meat and he or she would oblige quietly. Dean ate some unbuttered toast and a few potatoes without gravy. It wasn't until Michael's wife was putting the children to bed that Dean announced his intentions.

'I'm going after Gabriel,' he said. Par for the course, Raphael didn't say anything. Jessica barely responded either.

'Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you,' Michael quoted. Dean had been counting on this. Counting on Michael bringing his precious beliefs into this nightmare.

'You're god damn right I'm judging my brother's killer.'

'We don't know if Gabriel...' Jessica protested.

'Who else?' he snapped.

'For He said to Moses, I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion,' Michael softly whispered.

'Shut the fuck up, Michael! Mercy? I don't even...' Dean shouted, choked up.

Huffily, Michael disappeared upstairs. Jessica excused herself before Dean could say, 'Do you believe this shit?' Now he was alone with Raphael.

'When do you leave?' the other man asked.

'Before dawn.'

'Shouldn't Bobby go?'

Dean briefly considered the question before answering.

'No.'

Raphael might be correct. Maybe Bobby had a right to come, or at least to decide for himself, but Dean didn't want him to. Bobby was old. Too old to do what must be done. Dean got up from the table. Passing the screen door, he noticed that there was a light on in the stables. Horse boy, he thought wryly as he continued on his way.

In his bedroom, Dean collected the necessities. He would get the rest tomorrow. Slowly, he lit a cigarette. His hand shook. There were new, fresh sheets on the bed. White again, like snow. He settled against the pillow.

He tried. That red oak and the horses clustered around the bodies. He tried to forget it. Yet, it kept him awake.