Dean grunts, stretching his arms and simultaneously trying to make that damned teeny-tiny part of his spine snap back into its place. He isn't a spring chicken anymore; the dragging on days of labor affected him more than he'd like to admit, which fills him with a mixture of embarrassment and regret. There are people much older than him and in much worse shape - famished, wounded, ill - who worked equally hard. All the more reason for him not to complain.

The hunter has to admit that they all did better than he'd expected. The fence is strong and tall, watchtowers are reasonably placed and sturdy (though peculiarly ugly), the area around them cleared of trees and grubbed, salt plowed into soil. Barrels of crude oil and gasoline lie in long trenches near the lower course of the river, ready to be buried in sand or flooded in case of fire. There are three power generators. Apart from that, solar panels have proven pretty easy to come by when one knew where to look, so Dean doesn't have to worry about the dreaded darkness that would allow all kinds of creatures to sneak into the camp. They have six functional vehicles, including four off-roaders. The 'geek squad', as he liked to call two engineers, a wannabee chemist and a biotechnologist he saved from a factory surrounded by Croats has even managed to plan and start assembling a mini water purification plant. They are safe.

They are safe.

Dean leans against a warm, rough wall of a wooden cabin and slowly slumps onto a stack of ammo crates as the awareness washes over him. Damn it.

Engaged in trying to keep everyone alive and in line, he's almost forgotten how bad it is. He's almost forgotten about this cold, sinking feeling he's been living with for years now; almost getting used to it, like to a chip of metal embedded in bone that hurts only when one has time to remember about it. So this is how it's gonna be. Hideouts, dealing with refugees, scouting the area for survivors, digging in mud, looting, keeping guards, trying to survive on canned food and game (unless someone of his people knows how to grow crops, which he doubts). Trying to avoid the subject, trying to avoid disillusioning those who still believed it is temporary. Until the end.

Dry gravel grates under light, but sure steps. Dean lifts his gaze to see a can of beer held almost in front of his face.

"Thanks, Cas," he mutters before pressing the metal against his temple. It is colder than he expected, "Did Jeff get these refrigerators to work yet?"

"No. I chilled the beer in the river," the former angel plops onto the crates next to Dean with a second can in his hand. A pop followed by a fizz reminds the hunter to open his own beer. He can recognize a hint of musty sludge before it is washed away by cool, watery, slightly sweet beverage. The beer tastes only slightly better than the drops of river water he forgot to wipe from the lid of the can.

"Tastes like dog piss..." it is a conversation starter rather than a complaint. Castiel shrugs, then tilts his head back, squinting in the evening sun. Winchester follows his example. One could think that the moment was idyllic - a warm, sunny afternoon, a cabin in a forest, two guys sipping chilled beer after a long day of digging, sawing and hammering. No sound is coming from the rest of the camp apart from some hushed conversations, cans popping or bottles clinking. The people will probably be calm and satisfied for a while, enjoying the weather and resting, before they realize they don't know what to do next. Dean expects them to start coming and asking in about half an hour.

He knows he will welcome these questions. Another distractor. Another opportunity to add one bead to his rosary of small accomplishments; baby steps he's managed to take. Whenever the panic strikes, he will be able to brood about them, recall them one by one, recite them like a litany until he finally comes down enough to breathe without the pain filling his lungs with fire.

"Cas?" he sighs, ready to start planning next steps right away.

"Yes?"

"Looks like we're gonna have to arrange the camp today. This big clubhouse by the main lane... It'd make a good hospital. What'ya think?"

"I don't know, Dean," the ex-angel replies wearily, "You will need some kind of gathering hall to announce your will, but perhaps hospital is more important."

Dean snorts.

"To announce my will?"

"Govern the camp."

"Aren't we gonna have some democracy here?" Winchester challenges with no hint of humor.

"Democracy isn't effective during wars. This is war, Dean," Castiel states serenely; the hunter has an impression that this assessment of the situation brings peace to the fallen angel. War is something he knows best. Two sides, battlefront, clear intentions, clear orders. In a way it is less confusing and less grueling than the mess that made them stray for months.

"Besides," Cas adds with his gaze fixed on the can he has placed between his feet, "people have already accepted you as their leader. This is a natural reaction. In times of a crisis an individual starts to act and the rest acknowledges his authority. It has always been this way."

"Yeah. I guess you know these things," Winchester murmurs blankly, a bit confounded by Castiel's moony tone. The fallen angel continues:

"King Arthur, Charlemagne, Julius Caesar...they all had to square up to the situation, that's all."

"Woah, hold your horses. How did we get from choosing a barrack for a hospital to comparing me to king Arthur?"

There is no answer. Dean stands up with a grunt, then takes a look around while his friend finishes his beer. All the refugees have been sleeping in one large barrack or in tents since they had found the camp, because Dean wanted to avoid wasting time on assigning lodgings before they secured the area, but now it is high time to find a place to stay. The men have been sitting next to a cabin in the middle of the camp, so the hunter decides to check it out first. Ragged, gray planks that make the porch's floor and stairs squeak when he is running up the stairs and getting in, but otherwise the construction is quite sturdy. There is no mold or must inside; it looks like most of the furniture - a table, two chairs, a coat rack and a couple of shelves - can be salvaged.

"How about this one?" he calls out to Cas, who joins him after displaying his reluctance and general dejection with a loud, deep sigh. Dean wonders where the guy could have learned this passive aggression; the moment he takes time to ask himself that question the answer appears obvious.

"What about this one?" Cas grumbles.

"Fit for a king, huh?" Dean asks caustically, "It's in the middle of the camp, if I stay here I'll have the whole area within earshot."

Castiel bites his lips, leaning against the door jamb with his legs crossed and watching Dean explore the cramped cabin. Winchester slowly clears a rectangle of floor by kicking debris, dried leaves and rags out of it.

"You'll need to chose your side of the, uhm, bed area," he tries to call some semblance of smile onto his face, but he fails.

"What do you mean?" there is strange insincerity in Cas's voice; Dean can't tell whether it's alarm or outrage.

"You're staying with me, right?" the hunter asks, distressingly aware that his attempts not to let his insecurity show are futile. He feels dizzy when Cas's piercing, knowing look glosses over his face to rest on Dean's eyes, "Right?" the hunter repeats gutturally. He knows that if he had to utter more than one syllable, his voice would break.

After a chillingly long pause, the ex-angel pushes himself off the door jamb to straighten up.

"Yes, I am," he nods sadly "I'll bring our things from the tent."

He returns a couple of minutes later, carrying a backpack and two duffel bags, heavy with iron, steel and silver. Dean never had many clothes and after becoming human Castiel learned the same habit. Weapon is what they both really value.

The ex-angel lays the bags carefully on the dusty, squeaking floor near the door before approaching Dean, who has already gathered all the debris into one large pile. Cas puts his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"So this is it," he states blankly, "home."

"Home," Dean echoes with a bitter edge in his voice, "Damnit..."

A slight pressure of Cas's hand makes him turn slowly to face his friend; afraid that he'll meet Cas's keen, ruthful look Dean runs his hands down his face, trying to rub the dejection and sorrow away. He can't. When he feels a gentle tug and Castiel's other arm around him, he can't but sink into this embrace and press his forehead against Castiel's.

"Man, it could have been so good. So good..." he whispers.

"I know, Dean. I..." Cas's voice is caught in his throat; he pushes Dean away and gives Dean's arms one quick, reassuring squeeze before turning around to leave, "I'll bring the rest of the bags. It's getting dark."

"Yeah, right..." Dean's voice is flat and hoarse; the only thing that alleviates his shame is the certainty that Castiel will fall in with his game, pretending that he never saw Dean's moment of weakness, that nothing ever happened. Like he always does.

He is safe as long as he doesn't allow himself to look into Cas's eyes that always watch him with this unworldly devotion and sorrow; that always remind him that no matter how hard he tries, Castiel knows everything and understands everything. He will always understand.

"Yeah," Dean repeats blankly, "It's getting dark."