[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Two
Title: For Love, For Glory
Author: bellanovaskies [shotgunsinlace]
Artist: unbearablebears
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural; Action/Adventure
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jessica, mentions of Charlie/Gilda, previous Dean/Lisa and one-sided Victor/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~84,000
Warnings: Violence, language, torture, racism, controversial political views, and sexual content.
Summary: It’s the 1940’s, the war is tearing Europe in half, and the Nazis have a plan to uncover an ancient weapon belonging to the Egyptian gods that can tip the scale in their favor. With the help of a librarian named Castiel, it’s up to Sam and Dean Winchester, respectively a professor of archaeology and treasure hunter, to get to the Lost City of Amun-Ra and stop the Third Reich from achieving world domination. But with a missing father, secret societies, and an unexpected romance, things get more than a little complicated in this race against time. Loosely based on the Indiana Jones franchise.
British airspace. Nine hours after departure.
Sam tries to shake Dean awake, and when that fails, he holds a bottle of alcohol under his nose. He’s still not sure what caused Dean to pass out, if it was panic or sheer exhaustion, but Sam is glad that he spent the entire flight in peace. He figures waking Dean up would be better once they land, but with the title of ‘little brother’ comes responsibilities, and some of them included making ‘big brother’s’ life a bit miserable, all in good fun.
When Dean does wake up, he threatens to throw Sam out the emergency exit.
Dover Military Airfield. Eleven hours after departure.
Sam is forced to jab his elbow into Dean’s ribs when his eyes start to wander. His brother’s interests are something he’s long come to accept, but he can’t risk Dean gallivanting with uniformed RAF soldiers, not when they are running on such a tight schedule.
“Dean, focus,” Sam says, bodily guiding Dean to their cab.
“I am focusing,” Dean says with a mischievous curl to his words, just as he throws his most charming smile in some nondescript direction.
Sam quickens his pace.
The boat that will take them to France is already waiting for them at the harbor, and it is just as dilapidated as the airplane they flew in on. It’s tiny and rusted, the word Achéron long faded into the yellowing finish of the starboard side.
Sam tries to reassure himself that it’s only a thirty-minute voyage to Calais.
Calais, France. Eleven hours and fifteen minutes after departure.
Sam returns his lunch to the Dover Channel, gripping the side of the boat and hurling with so much strength he fears he’ll chuck up his stomach lining in the process. Meanwhile, Dean rummages the canteen in order to get a glass of water and a lemon to ease Sam’s nausea.
“I’m not pregnant,” Sam grits, fixing Dean with a watery-eyed glare.
“You could have fooled me.” With that, Dean pushes his own handkerchief into Sam’s clammy hand.
Paris, France. Thirteen hours after departure.
Dean wonders why they couldn’t have stayed at a hotel for the night. His back aches, he’s hungry, and his feet hurt enough to make him limp until he drops himself onto the booth of their shared train cabin. It’s small and stuffy; the window’s ledges are lined with soot that speaks of weeks without seeing any kind of maintenance. The carpet is stained with what looks like grease and something else Dean won’t bother to identify.
“To think that they would arrange better transportation,” Sam mutters as he stashes his luggage in the overhead compartment. He’s tired, and Sam always gets cranky when he’s tired, just like a 5-year-old.
It’s a nine-hour train ride to Delémont, where they will meet the driver that will take them all the way to Munich. Neither of them are considerably happy about having to travel so long in a cabin that smells like damp dog.
“At least we can sleep all the way there,” Dean says. He double-checks the lock on the door and pulls down the roller shade, fastening it to the strap of his duffle bag when it refuses to stay down.
Sam hums his response.
There’s a spring that insists on burying itself into Dean’s back when he lies down and tries to make himself comfortable, and it takes him several minutes of tossing and turning before giving up. He considers sleeping on the floor, but the stains are looking back at him with a mocking singsong that threatens to give him the clap.
Unable to sleep off his fatigue, Dean turns to deal with his next urging problem: his rumbling stomach.
“We just bought those,” Sam says, from his place beside the window. He has John’s journal perched on his lap, now, seemingly attempting to decipher what it is they’re supposed to be looking for. “Leave at least half for later.”
“I’ll get something from the cart later.”
“Yeah, sure. Like you’ll sit there and stomach French food.”
“I’m hungry. I’m a warrior, and warriors need fuel,” Dean says, waving his hand around as if it would help his slow-minded brother understand just how serious a situation it is. “If I have a sandwich within reaching distance, then I’ll eat it. Carpe diem and all that jazz.”
With a triumphant chuckle, Dean pulls out the bundled snack and sits on the farthest edge of the booth, where the spring won’t dig into his ass. Cheese, ham, salami, mayo; it’s been squashed under the heavy layers of maps and books, but Dean doesn’t mind as long as it’s edible. The Swiss cheese is a little sour.
“So, what have you got?”
Sam frowns at the papers he has strewn over his lap, a pen pinched between his teeth as he leafs through the pages of John’s weathered journal. The gap between his eyes is furrowed in deep concentration, and the corners of his mouth are downturned into a pensive frown. Those are all telltale points of Sam having found nothing, but Dean had felt like asking anyway.
“Uh,” Sam starts, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. “Beside Tutankhamen’s tomb, I’ve got nothing.”
“Come on, there’s gotta be something. The Ark of the Covenant? Hell, I’ll even take the Holy Grail at this point.”
Blowing out a sigh, Sam taps his pen against his knee. “Unless the words ‘umm mawagir’ make any sense to you? Hamunaptra? That one I know; it’s in India, but-”
“Why would he be in Germany?” Dean says with a nod, wiping a glob of mayo from the corner of his mouth.
“Other than that, all we’ve got are doodles. It isn’t Egyptian or Sumerian; I’ve never seen these before.”
“You mean like hieroglyphs?”
“Not quite,” says Sam, squinting at the journal’s pages. “These don’t look like any logograms I’ve ever seen.”
Dean is stunned, and he finds Sam’s admission hard to believe.
Since he was a kid, Sam devoured any book that was given to him, regardless of the subject. When John began his adventuring after coming across several clay tablets of possible Norwegian origin in Canada, little Sammy took a special sort of interest in history. With John on the road, Dean could barely afford to keep food on the table, so he’d steal books from the local bookshops in order to keep Sam entertained. Since the age of seven, Sam had been reading up on pretty complicated subjects of archeology and ancient civilizations.
“Maybe you’re looking at it wrong.”
“They’re probably Celtic, though. Far older than anything the historical community has come across. Perfectly symmetric, so they can’t be random. There’s a pattern to them.”
A large piece of bread slowly makes its way down Dean’s gullet and he kicks himself for trying to take it dry. Coughing, he goes through his pack until he finds the complimentary bottle of wine they were given at customs and takes a swig directly from the bottle. Cringing at the bitter taste of it, he stuffs it back and longs for the burn of hard liquor back home. “I thought the French were supposed to be the connoisseurs of wine. This tastes like cow piss.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look up from the project in his hands. “You wouldn’t know class if it hit you in the face with a baseball bat.”
“Shut up.”
The train lurches forward, the sound of iron wheels grinding against the railroad tracks eclipsing its loud whistle. Everything inside the cabin creaks and groans, the compartment bars rattling against the bags Sam threw over them nearly twenty minutes ago.
Dean eventually lies down on the booth again, and tries to curl himself in a fashion that will keep him away from the insistent coil. He nearly falls off the booth while attempting to assume the fetal position, leaving the painful lump a few inches away from his hip. Flipping Sam off after he bursts out laughing, Dean sits up and settles with leaning against the window.
The sun is still out, so he’ll wait until it disappears beneath the horizon before trying to catch some decent sleep.
Develier, Switzerland. Twenty-one hours after departure.
“Are we there yet?”
“Shut up, Dean. I’m trying to sleep.”
Delémont, Switzerland. Twenty-two hours after departure.
Nestled between tall, green mountains, is the quaint city of Delémont, with its red roofs and soothing smell of pine. It’s an Eden in the middle of war-torn Europe, where people smile just because the weather is nice and the wine is good.
Sam and Dean stroll down the main square like a couple of starry-eyed tourists taking in the colorful sights of the main plaza, where flags and banners hang, flying their town’s ancient emblems. Castles and dragons, angels and saints, all of them painted in the glass windows of the weathered buildings. The streets are bustling with nighttime activity, music and food wafting out windows and through the air, serving as delectable invitations that are too good to turn down.
“I feel like I slept on top of the coal cart,” Dean says, paying for a glazed bread roll that is begging to be tasted. “My back is screaming bloody murder.”
Raising his pint of beer to toast Dean’s own, Sam takes a seat on the ledge of the town fountain. He can’t look away from the stone mermaid that stands at the middle, a jar poised over her shoulder as water falls in a steady stream from it and into the pool. It wouldn’t be as disturbing if she didn’t have fangs and claws, making it look more like a siren rather than a mermaid, but maybe that was the whole point of the fountain. Perhaps it was a political statement, or perhaps someone really liked fanged mermaids.
“Look at it this way, Munich is just a few hours away. You can call in and spend the entire day sleeping at the hotel.”
“Munich is nine hours away, Sam, nine does not qualify as a few.” Dean wipes the corner of his mouth, where sugar keeps accumulating with every bite he takes.
“It also leaves us with nine hours to get ready,” Sam says, smiling at a kid who waves at him from a distance. He waves back.
“Get to Munich, get in contact with Milton, do a quick reconnaissance, grab Dad, get out. We went through this like, what, ten times already? There’s nothing to get ready for. Nothing political going on, so why should we worry?”
Dean sounds exasperated, which is rich coming from the worrywart of the two, but Sam can’t help but list the amount of things that could go wrong. Their current plan of action sounds too easy, and Sam has been on enough expeditions to know things rarely go as planned. Situations can get messy in the blink of an eye, especially on enemy territory. “All I’m saying is we need a backup plan.”
“We have a backup plan. It’s called my military issue Browning Hi-Power, and it’s resting at the bottom of my duffel bag.” Dean beams at how ingenious he thinks he’s being. Sam can only roll his eyes. “If things get hairy, we shag ass out of there. Regroup closer to the Swiss-German border.”
“Really? How do you expect to get by border patrol?”
“The same way I always do, with a little Winchester magic. Don’t worry about your rep, Sam. No one cares when you’re in the middle of Europe fighting Nazis. No one at Harvard is going to know.” Finishing up his bread roll, Dean cleans his hands on his slacks and mutters under his breath when he leaves two hand stains behind.
“Not all Germans are Nazis, Dean,” Sam says with a snort, amused at seeing his brother fret over the syrupy blotches just over his thighs. “You’re going to make it worse if you keep rubbing it.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“Whatever. It’s three hours until our driver gets here, so, any plans?”
“Well,” Dean says, suddenly straightening up and current distress forgotten. He beams as he casts a look around, straightening out his suit jacket. “Three hours seems like more than enough for makin’ whoopee, don’t ya’ think?”
Sam’s face melts away into a scowl as he stands up, turning his back to Dean. “You are disgusting.” He goes up to the counter where they picked up their snacks to return their pint glasses, and wishes the clerk a good night before turning back to Dean. “Good luck finding anyone willing with those,” Sam says, gesturing towards Dean’s pants with a flourish.
Dean shrugs. “Not like they’re staying on. Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away from you and your gross existence,” Sam calls back, already halfway down the plaza, closer to the better-lit areas where a few shops are still open.
“Aw, come on. Don’t be a baby. You can’t possibly tell me you haven’t broken out the champagne with Jessica.” Dean has to jog to catch up with Sam.
“I’ll have you know that we both decided to wait until our wedding night; just like it’s supposed to be.”
Sam smirks when Dean suddenly stops walking, but then grimaces when he hears, “Wow, I gotta admit your level of prudishness always exceeds my expectations.” Sam opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it.
They walk in companionable silence, and it’s only after a few minutes that Sam realizes that Dean hadn’t been serious about seeing someone tonight. He takes a moment to wonder the reasons behind that, if Dean is still pining over a love gone wrong, before he hears his brother gasp loud enough to stop him in his tracks. “What is it?”
He turns around when he doesn’t get an answer, and spots Dean’s back disappearing through two wooden doors. Surprised, Sam looks around to see what prompted the sudden change, worrying that there might be trouble trailing after them, but what he sees actually makes me laugh out loud.
Jurassic Museum of Art and History
Rolling his eyes, Sam follows him inside.
Sam whistles at the collection of stained glass windows displayed behind velvet ropes, fascinated by some of the dates etched onto the plaques. Some of them date back to the early sixteenth century, and that alone was impressive.
From dolls to clocks, medieval armor and swords, even an early Ford model-it’s a quaint little museum that paints a picturesque history. A massive chandelier chimes whenever someone opens the front doors, the wind moving the glass spades and making the light dance across the exhibits. The floor is made of polished marble, and Sam thinks it’s all very baroque. On the left wall are nearly two dozen paintings, and lining the right one are clay statues of women, mermaids and angels.
“What the hell is this?” Dean cries out, standing at the middle of the floor, glancing around as if he’s looking for something.
“It’s a museum, Dean,” Sam explains, holding out both his hands in a calming gesture, making sure to speak slowly and clearly.
“It’s says Jurassic,” Dean says, as if Sam doesn’t understand his distress. “I’m not sure what you see, but I’ll tell you what I don’t see. Dinosaurs.”
“Dean,” says Sam, and hides his face behind his hand as he tries to stifle his laughter. “This is an art and history museum.”
“Then why the hell would it have ‘Jurassic’ on the name?!”
“Because Delémont is the capital of the Jura canton,” says a lady who walks up to them with a modest smile. Her hair is short and black, eyes blue and accent rich. She’s wearing a diamond necklace ostentatious enough to keep Dean’s eyes from going further south. “I’m Bela Talbot, and I’ll be your guide for the evening.”
Dean all but shoves Sam aside to shake hands with the woman whose face reminds Sam of the mermaid out in the fountain. She’s beautiful in an exotic kind of fashion, but maybe that’s her cockney accent pulling the illusion. Sam, for one, isn’t impressed. “We won’t be long, ma’am, I assure you. Don’t let us take up your time.”
“But we’ll be here for a couple of hours,” Dean quickly adds, lifting the offered hand and giving it a kiss. “Unlike my colleague, I’d love to see Switzerland’s most beautiful sights.”
“Charming,” Bela says, pulling a napkin out of her bosom and wiping the hand Dean kissed clean. “And what would be the names of you handsome Yanks?”
“Dean Smith, and this here is my associate Sam Wesson.”
Sam is relieved to hear that Dean has the mind to show some sort of semblance of common sense when faced with a woman of this caliber. Trust no one, and pretty guides with British accents are no exception.
“A pleasure,” she says, her words curling into an extravagant purr. “Now, do you believe in God, Mr. Smith?”
Dean does a double take at her question. “I’m… sorry?”
“Are you men of faith? If so, the window showcase would be a marvelous way to start our tour of the museum. Our vast collection dates back to 1500 AD, during the reign of the Tudors,” Bela says, calm and professional as she makes her way to the front of the exhibit, the tiny heels a clack-clack-clacking in a way that leaves Sam longing for home.
“I can’t say I’m much of a churchgoer,” Dean says, rapping his knuckles against a wooden stand that holds pamphlets for tourists. Tiny flags are printed on the corners, detailing the language it is translated to.
That much is true about Dean, Sam contemplates, and while he’s more inclined on taking a few things on faith - man of science or not - Dean was never that loyal a believer. Watching one’s mother die in a house fire, drunken brawls, a few broken bones, jail, and being homeless for the better part of ten years takes its toll on faith, and not only the kind that leads to God.
“The thing about faith, Misters, is that it can be an ironic little thing. When you least expect it, everything you know can and will change, leaving you standing on a platform with no possible escape, and then, then who or what will you turn to? In the end, the joke is on you,” Bela says, leaving them all waiting in a heavy silence.
Sam shuffles his feet, and tries to lessen the suddenly awkward moment.
“Well, what do you think?” she says then, raising her thin eyebrows. “Wrote that myself a few weeks ago. The curator says it’s a little too heavy for casual visitors, but I think it has just the right amount of ritzy.”
“Oh,” Sam somehow manages to laugh out, patting Dean on the shoulder as he continues to stare at one of the windows. “That’s, uh, that’s heavy all right.”
Bela looks disappointed, but her smile is back when she turns on her heels. “If churches aren’t your thing, then maybe contemporary art?”
Dean sets off behind her without hesitation, and all Sam can do is follow.
❖
They leave the museum shortly after, but not without Dean constantly complaining that they could have called it the Delemontian Museum of Art and History, because Jurassic is far too misleading for poor American tourists with little knowledge of the Swiss highlands. Bela sheds some of her professionalism in favor of referring to Dean as ‘you American pickle’.
After a short walk along a circular stone path that takes them underneath the Jurassic Arch, they arrive at the Wegner knife factory, where both Sam and Dean have a blast when introduced to the modern mechanics of weapons manufacturing. Even if Sam is more of a diplomat, he does enjoy the safety in pocketing a good weapon, and an authentic Swiss pocketknife does the deed. Hell, he is sure it could take him months until he figures out what everything hidden beneath the red glossy hilt does.
“Blade, screwdriver, corkscrew, can opener, tweezers, nail file, scissors, a-a toothpick - this is as spiffy as it’s going to get,” Dean says, marveling at the travel-size contraption. “I’m surprised it doesn’t shoot, or have a light on it. Can you imagine?”
Sam pockets his own model, safe and easy to access. “A bulb would do the trick, yeah.”
“I really hate to cut this short,” Bela says, wagging her finger in front of their faces to bring their attention back to her. “I recall you saying having in appointment in three hours?”
“What time is it?” Sam says, heading outside and trying to spot the clock tower that towers over the main plaza. The moon is high and the city is now quiet, with only a few stray dogs meandering about for scraps.
“Twenty minutes to midnight,” Bela says, pointing at the clock above the doorway no one had noticed.
“Shit, Sam, we gotta hurry.” Dean seems to have forgotten his manners, but Bela doesn’t mind as she waves Sam off when he offers a quiet apology for his brother’s language.
“I’ve heard worse, Mr. Wesson. If you like, I can give you a han-”
“No,” they both answer in unison.
The woman blinks up in a moment of confusion, scoffing at their rudeness. “Suit yourself, gentlemen. Have a safe trip, and auf wiedersehen.” With a final tip of her head, her short hair swaying coyly in the mountainside breeze, she walks off into the night.
Neither of them stays long enough to find out where exactly she went off to. It’s a fifteen minute walk to their pickup point, and they have to gather their luggage from the storage center.
Sam is relieved Bela gave up with a simple no, because it wouldn’t do for her to find out that they are both armed, yet were still going into the heart of the war with nothing but two fedoras as a shield.
“Last stretch of the trip,” Dean says eagerly, jogging all the way to the storage house with Sam just a few steps ahead. “I hope the hotel has down pillows.” And Sam can’t help but chuckle.
Bregenz, Germany. Twenty-nine hours after departure.
Ever since they entered Austria, having to take an alternate route after a deluge took out one of the main roads, Dean has been up and sharp. Sam has long since gone out like a light, snoring loud enough to annoy the driver, and grunting whenever they fell into a pothole and he ended up smacking his head against the glass.
It’s raining outside when Dean finally sees the sign that reads ‘Willkommen in Deutschland’.
Not a single tollbooth in sight. No soldiers guarding the border. Nothing but endless mountains and dark sky, briefly illuminated by bursts of lightning. Dean feels uneasy, like something is wrong, but he’s ready for anything that comes his way in such a confined space.
But the hours grow long and the road goes on with no traffic at all, just the quiet interrupted only by the car’s engine and the sound of his own thoughts.
Munich, Germany. Thirty-two hours after departure.
A rainstorm welcomes the day in somber tones of gray, reminding Sam of the movies he enjoys so much. The scene before him plays out like one, with armed German soldiers welcoming them with brilliant smiles and polite handshakes, their English thick and heavily accented. There is another car waiting for them, a black and white Rolls Royce that is probably worth more than his entire education.
But most importantly, there isn’t a swastika in sight; not that he’s been expecting to be greeted by any, since the trip is being funded by an American organization, but there is always that nagging thought in the back of the head.
Sam tries explaining it to Dean in the simplest and briefest of ways, hoping that no one comes out of the argument offended. Dean takes to it, blessedly enough, even if he looks tense and tightlipped in the welcoming committee’s presence.
“Still not letting my guard down,” Dean says, needlessly, considering that Dean rarely ever does.
“All I’m saying is don’t do or say anything stupid.”
“When have I ever done or said anything stupid, huh?” Dean holds up a hand at the look on Sam’s face. “Don’t answer that.”
“First thing tomorrow,” Sam says instead, looking through a notepad he purchased back in France, “we need to contact Mr. Rochester at the library.”
“Rochester? I thought you said Milton.”
“Rochester, apparently, is the middle man. You can only get to Milton through him. Bodyguard, I’m guessing.”
“Guessing Milton is some sort of big cheese around these parts,” Dean says, stepping aside as two other men move their luggage from one car to the other. “You know what, right now, I can’t bring myself to give a damn. You can talk to me about treasure and mysterious individuals after I’ve snored my way through the Blitz.”
Sam cringes as he opens the car door. “Dean.”
“What?”
“That’s what I meant by saying something stupid.”
Dean pretends to think about it, but shrugs and climbs inside. “I’m tired, man. Thirty hours on the road takes a toll on you. I say we stop at a gin mill, take a few swigs and then call a lights out. I can’t afford to fall asleep on the job.”
Luxury car or not, the interior is far less comfortable than the Ford they just drove in on. It smells of cigar and leather, and Dean was soaked from head to toe. Dean was right. He was tired, hungry and felt overall miserable. “I’m going to have to agree to that, yeah.”
“And sadly, I’m going to have to alter that,” the driver says.
Both Sam and Dean turn to the man, but it’s Dean who speaks. “If you think your sister is a creature from the deep when she wakes up in the morning, trust me, you don’t want to see me when I haven’t had my beauty sleep, pal.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester, but there’s been a change of plans.”
“How do you know our name?” Sam says, scooting forward in his seat to get a better look at the driver. “I thought that was confidential.”
“Sit back, and act casual, or you’ll blow my cover. I’m here on Rochester’s behalf.”
Sam does as he’s told, and gives Dean a firm nod.
The car pulls out into the main road, rain sloshing heavily against the windshield. No one says a word until the soldiers are out of view, but Sam catches Dean’s whimper when they drive by the entrance with a sign that reads The Ritz.
“There was a security breach a few hours ago. We intercepted a message from the German forces saying that you two would be arriving in a matter of hours,” the driver says, speeding up the car. There’s a collective harrumph when he takes a sharp turn, and the rolling valleys quickly morph into tall buildings and plenty of traffic.
Sam thinks about it, and he’s sure Dean has arrived to the same conclusion. “So this is definitely bigger than we thought.”
“I’m afraid so. We still don’t know who is behind this, or what they want, but Rochester fears they’re now one step ahead of us. If I drop you off at your hotel, God knows what will be awaiting you.”
“I told you!” Dean says, jabbing his finger into Sam’s arm. “I told you this was going to get hairy.” He sits back and sighs, taking off his wet hat to run a hand through his hair. “And not to be rude, but you sound like you should be a couple thousand miles away from this place.”
The driver snorts at that. “If anybody asks, I’m your Romanian driver named Aaron.”
“Is that even your real name?”
The driver looks at the rearview mirror for a brief moment, catches Dean’s eye and gives him a wink. “Just call me Aaron.”
Sam clears his throat. “Okay, so, uh, what’s the new plan? If there ever was one.”
“Rochester says you have something that’ll help our translator piece everything together; the sooner you can get to that, the better. Whatever these flat tires are after, it has to be big. They even have a team in Cairo by now.”
“Cairo?”
“That’s in Egypt,” Sam clarifies.
“No shit, Sam.”
“That certainly narrows it down, then,” Sam continues, his eyes focusing past the windshield. On the train, they had composed a list of possible artifacts John may have been after. Cairo rules out anything Celtic or Sumerian, but it does make the symbols in the journal far more enigmatic.
“Has there been any sign of John?” Dean says after a beat of tense silence.
“There’s been nothing on the air, no. I’m sorry.”
“He’s probably escaped by now - keeping a low profile. You know how he is,” Sam says, turning to offer Dean a reassuring smile. He knows Dean isn’t going to buy it, but he nods and turns to look out the window.
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Author: bellanovaskies [shotgunsinlace]
Artist: unbearablebears
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural; Action/Adventure
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jessica, mentions of Charlie/Gilda, previous Dean/Lisa and one-sided Victor/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~84,000
Warnings: Violence, language, torture, racism, controversial political views, and sexual content.
Summary: It’s the 1940’s, the war is tearing Europe in half, and the Nazis have a plan to uncover an ancient weapon belonging to the Egyptian gods that can tip the scale in their favor. With the help of a librarian named Castiel, it’s up to Sam and Dean Winchester, respectively a professor of archaeology and treasure hunter, to get to the Lost City of Amun-Ra and stop the Third Reich from achieving world domination. But with a missing father, secret societies, and an unexpected romance, things get more than a little complicated in this race against time. Loosely based on the Indiana Jones franchise.
British airspace. Nine hours after departure.
Sam tries to shake Dean awake, and when that fails, he holds a bottle of alcohol under his nose. He’s still not sure what caused Dean to pass out, if it was panic or sheer exhaustion, but Sam is glad that he spent the entire flight in peace. He figures waking Dean up would be better once they land, but with the title of ‘little brother’ comes responsibilities, and some of them included making ‘big brother’s’ life a bit miserable, all in good fun.
When Dean does wake up, he threatens to throw Sam out the emergency exit.
Dover Military Airfield. Eleven hours after departure.
Sam is forced to jab his elbow into Dean’s ribs when his eyes start to wander. His brother’s interests are something he’s long come to accept, but he can’t risk Dean gallivanting with uniformed RAF soldiers, not when they are running on such a tight schedule.
“Dean, focus,” Sam says, bodily guiding Dean to their cab.
“I am focusing,” Dean says with a mischievous curl to his words, just as he throws his most charming smile in some nondescript direction.
Sam quickens his pace.
The boat that will take them to France is already waiting for them at the harbor, and it is just as dilapidated as the airplane they flew in on. It’s tiny and rusted, the word Achéron long faded into the yellowing finish of the starboard side.
Sam tries to reassure himself that it’s only a thirty-minute voyage to Calais.
Calais, France. Eleven hours and fifteen minutes after departure.
Sam returns his lunch to the Dover Channel, gripping the side of the boat and hurling with so much strength he fears he’ll chuck up his stomach lining in the process. Meanwhile, Dean rummages the canteen in order to get a glass of water and a lemon to ease Sam’s nausea.
“I’m not pregnant,” Sam grits, fixing Dean with a watery-eyed glare.
“You could have fooled me.” With that, Dean pushes his own handkerchief into Sam’s clammy hand.
Paris, France. Thirteen hours after departure.
Dean wonders why they couldn’t have stayed at a hotel for the night. His back aches, he’s hungry, and his feet hurt enough to make him limp until he drops himself onto the booth of their shared train cabin. It’s small and stuffy; the window’s ledges are lined with soot that speaks of weeks without seeing any kind of maintenance. The carpet is stained with what looks like grease and something else Dean won’t bother to identify.
“To think that they would arrange better transportation,” Sam mutters as he stashes his luggage in the overhead compartment. He’s tired, and Sam always gets cranky when he’s tired, just like a 5-year-old.
It’s a nine-hour train ride to Delémont, where they will meet the driver that will take them all the way to Munich. Neither of them are considerably happy about having to travel so long in a cabin that smells like damp dog.
“At least we can sleep all the way there,” Dean says. He double-checks the lock on the door and pulls down the roller shade, fastening it to the strap of his duffle bag when it refuses to stay down.
Sam hums his response.
There’s a spring that insists on burying itself into Dean’s back when he lies down and tries to make himself comfortable, and it takes him several minutes of tossing and turning before giving up. He considers sleeping on the floor, but the stains are looking back at him with a mocking singsong that threatens to give him the clap.
Unable to sleep off his fatigue, Dean turns to deal with his next urging problem: his rumbling stomach.
“We just bought those,” Sam says, from his place beside the window. He has John’s journal perched on his lap, now, seemingly attempting to decipher what it is they’re supposed to be looking for. “Leave at least half for later.”
“I’ll get something from the cart later.”
“Yeah, sure. Like you’ll sit there and stomach French food.”
“I’m hungry. I’m a warrior, and warriors need fuel,” Dean says, waving his hand around as if it would help his slow-minded brother understand just how serious a situation it is. “If I have a sandwich within reaching distance, then I’ll eat it. Carpe diem and all that jazz.”
With a triumphant chuckle, Dean pulls out the bundled snack and sits on the farthest edge of the booth, where the spring won’t dig into his ass. Cheese, ham, salami, mayo; it’s been squashed under the heavy layers of maps and books, but Dean doesn’t mind as long as it’s edible. The Swiss cheese is a little sour.
“So, what have you got?”
Sam frowns at the papers he has strewn over his lap, a pen pinched between his teeth as he leafs through the pages of John’s weathered journal. The gap between his eyes is furrowed in deep concentration, and the corners of his mouth are downturned into a pensive frown. Those are all telltale points of Sam having found nothing, but Dean had felt like asking anyway.
“Uh,” Sam starts, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. “Beside Tutankhamen’s tomb, I’ve got nothing.”
“Come on, there’s gotta be something. The Ark of the Covenant? Hell, I’ll even take the Holy Grail at this point.”
Blowing out a sigh, Sam taps his pen against his knee. “Unless the words ‘umm mawagir’ make any sense to you? Hamunaptra? That one I know; it’s in India, but-”
“Why would he be in Germany?” Dean says with a nod, wiping a glob of mayo from the corner of his mouth.
“Other than that, all we’ve got are doodles. It isn’t Egyptian or Sumerian; I’ve never seen these before.”
“You mean like hieroglyphs?”
“Not quite,” says Sam, squinting at the journal’s pages. “These don’t look like any logograms I’ve ever seen.”
Dean is stunned, and he finds Sam’s admission hard to believe.
Since he was a kid, Sam devoured any book that was given to him, regardless of the subject. When John began his adventuring after coming across several clay tablets of possible Norwegian origin in Canada, little Sammy took a special sort of interest in history. With John on the road, Dean could barely afford to keep food on the table, so he’d steal books from the local bookshops in order to keep Sam entertained. Since the age of seven, Sam had been reading up on pretty complicated subjects of archeology and ancient civilizations.
“Maybe you’re looking at it wrong.”
“They’re probably Celtic, though. Far older than anything the historical community has come across. Perfectly symmetric, so they can’t be random. There’s a pattern to them.”
A large piece of bread slowly makes its way down Dean’s gullet and he kicks himself for trying to take it dry. Coughing, he goes through his pack until he finds the complimentary bottle of wine they were given at customs and takes a swig directly from the bottle. Cringing at the bitter taste of it, he stuffs it back and longs for the burn of hard liquor back home. “I thought the French were supposed to be the connoisseurs of wine. This tastes like cow piss.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look up from the project in his hands. “You wouldn’t know class if it hit you in the face with a baseball bat.”
“Shut up.”
The train lurches forward, the sound of iron wheels grinding against the railroad tracks eclipsing its loud whistle. Everything inside the cabin creaks and groans, the compartment bars rattling against the bags Sam threw over them nearly twenty minutes ago.
Dean eventually lies down on the booth again, and tries to curl himself in a fashion that will keep him away from the insistent coil. He nearly falls off the booth while attempting to assume the fetal position, leaving the painful lump a few inches away from his hip. Flipping Sam off after he bursts out laughing, Dean sits up and settles with leaning against the window.
The sun is still out, so he’ll wait until it disappears beneath the horizon before trying to catch some decent sleep.
Develier, Switzerland. Twenty-one hours after departure.
“Are we there yet?”
“Shut up, Dean. I’m trying to sleep.”
Delémont, Switzerland. Twenty-two hours after departure.
Nestled between tall, green mountains, is the quaint city of Delémont, with its red roofs and soothing smell of pine. It’s an Eden in the middle of war-torn Europe, where people smile just because the weather is nice and the wine is good.
Sam and Dean stroll down the main square like a couple of starry-eyed tourists taking in the colorful sights of the main plaza, where flags and banners hang, flying their town’s ancient emblems. Castles and dragons, angels and saints, all of them painted in the glass windows of the weathered buildings. The streets are bustling with nighttime activity, music and food wafting out windows and through the air, serving as delectable invitations that are too good to turn down.
“I feel like I slept on top of the coal cart,” Dean says, paying for a glazed bread roll that is begging to be tasted. “My back is screaming bloody murder.”
Raising his pint of beer to toast Dean’s own, Sam takes a seat on the ledge of the town fountain. He can’t look away from the stone mermaid that stands at the middle, a jar poised over her shoulder as water falls in a steady stream from it and into the pool. It wouldn’t be as disturbing if she didn’t have fangs and claws, making it look more like a siren rather than a mermaid, but maybe that was the whole point of the fountain. Perhaps it was a political statement, or perhaps someone really liked fanged mermaids.
“Look at it this way, Munich is just a few hours away. You can call in and spend the entire day sleeping at the hotel.”
“Munich is nine hours away, Sam, nine does not qualify as a few.” Dean wipes the corner of his mouth, where sugar keeps accumulating with every bite he takes.
“It also leaves us with nine hours to get ready,” Sam says, smiling at a kid who waves at him from a distance. He waves back.
“Get to Munich, get in contact with Milton, do a quick reconnaissance, grab Dad, get out. We went through this like, what, ten times already? There’s nothing to get ready for. Nothing political going on, so why should we worry?”
Dean sounds exasperated, which is rich coming from the worrywart of the two, but Sam can’t help but list the amount of things that could go wrong. Their current plan of action sounds too easy, and Sam has been on enough expeditions to know things rarely go as planned. Situations can get messy in the blink of an eye, especially on enemy territory. “All I’m saying is we need a backup plan.”
“We have a backup plan. It’s called my military issue Browning Hi-Power, and it’s resting at the bottom of my duffel bag.” Dean beams at how ingenious he thinks he’s being. Sam can only roll his eyes. “If things get hairy, we shag ass out of there. Regroup closer to the Swiss-German border.”
“Really? How do you expect to get by border patrol?”
“The same way I always do, with a little Winchester magic. Don’t worry about your rep, Sam. No one cares when you’re in the middle of Europe fighting Nazis. No one at Harvard is going to know.” Finishing up his bread roll, Dean cleans his hands on his slacks and mutters under his breath when he leaves two hand stains behind.
“Not all Germans are Nazis, Dean,” Sam says with a snort, amused at seeing his brother fret over the syrupy blotches just over his thighs. “You’re going to make it worse if you keep rubbing it.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“Whatever. It’s three hours until our driver gets here, so, any plans?”
“Well,” Dean says, suddenly straightening up and current distress forgotten. He beams as he casts a look around, straightening out his suit jacket. “Three hours seems like more than enough for makin’ whoopee, don’t ya’ think?”
Sam’s face melts away into a scowl as he stands up, turning his back to Dean. “You are disgusting.” He goes up to the counter where they picked up their snacks to return their pint glasses, and wishes the clerk a good night before turning back to Dean. “Good luck finding anyone willing with those,” Sam says, gesturing towards Dean’s pants with a flourish.
Dean shrugs. “Not like they’re staying on. Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away from you and your gross existence,” Sam calls back, already halfway down the plaza, closer to the better-lit areas where a few shops are still open.
“Aw, come on. Don’t be a baby. You can’t possibly tell me you haven’t broken out the champagne with Jessica.” Dean has to jog to catch up with Sam.
“I’ll have you know that we both decided to wait until our wedding night; just like it’s supposed to be.”
Sam smirks when Dean suddenly stops walking, but then grimaces when he hears, “Wow, I gotta admit your level of prudishness always exceeds my expectations.” Sam opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it.
They walk in companionable silence, and it’s only after a few minutes that Sam realizes that Dean hadn’t been serious about seeing someone tonight. He takes a moment to wonder the reasons behind that, if Dean is still pining over a love gone wrong, before he hears his brother gasp loud enough to stop him in his tracks. “What is it?”
He turns around when he doesn’t get an answer, and spots Dean’s back disappearing through two wooden doors. Surprised, Sam looks around to see what prompted the sudden change, worrying that there might be trouble trailing after them, but what he sees actually makes me laugh out loud.
Jurassic Museum of Art and History
Rolling his eyes, Sam follows him inside.
Sam whistles at the collection of stained glass windows displayed behind velvet ropes, fascinated by some of the dates etched onto the plaques. Some of them date back to the early sixteenth century, and that alone was impressive.
From dolls to clocks, medieval armor and swords, even an early Ford model-it’s a quaint little museum that paints a picturesque history. A massive chandelier chimes whenever someone opens the front doors, the wind moving the glass spades and making the light dance across the exhibits. The floor is made of polished marble, and Sam thinks it’s all very baroque. On the left wall are nearly two dozen paintings, and lining the right one are clay statues of women, mermaids and angels.
“What the hell is this?” Dean cries out, standing at the middle of the floor, glancing around as if he’s looking for something.
“It’s a museum, Dean,” Sam explains, holding out both his hands in a calming gesture, making sure to speak slowly and clearly.
“It’s says Jurassic,” Dean says, as if Sam doesn’t understand his distress. “I’m not sure what you see, but I’ll tell you what I don’t see. Dinosaurs.”
“Dean,” says Sam, and hides his face behind his hand as he tries to stifle his laughter. “This is an art and history museum.”
“Then why the hell would it have ‘Jurassic’ on the name?!”
“Because Delémont is the capital of the Jura canton,” says a lady who walks up to them with a modest smile. Her hair is short and black, eyes blue and accent rich. She’s wearing a diamond necklace ostentatious enough to keep Dean’s eyes from going further south. “I’m Bela Talbot, and I’ll be your guide for the evening.”
Dean all but shoves Sam aside to shake hands with the woman whose face reminds Sam of the mermaid out in the fountain. She’s beautiful in an exotic kind of fashion, but maybe that’s her cockney accent pulling the illusion. Sam, for one, isn’t impressed. “We won’t be long, ma’am, I assure you. Don’t let us take up your time.”
“But we’ll be here for a couple of hours,” Dean quickly adds, lifting the offered hand and giving it a kiss. “Unlike my colleague, I’d love to see Switzerland’s most beautiful sights.”
“Charming,” Bela says, pulling a napkin out of her bosom and wiping the hand Dean kissed clean. “And what would be the names of you handsome Yanks?”
“Dean Smith, and this here is my associate Sam Wesson.”
Sam is relieved to hear that Dean has the mind to show some sort of semblance of common sense when faced with a woman of this caliber. Trust no one, and pretty guides with British accents are no exception.
“A pleasure,” she says, her words curling into an extravagant purr. “Now, do you believe in God, Mr. Smith?”
Dean does a double take at her question. “I’m… sorry?”
“Are you men of faith? If so, the window showcase would be a marvelous way to start our tour of the museum. Our vast collection dates back to 1500 AD, during the reign of the Tudors,” Bela says, calm and professional as she makes her way to the front of the exhibit, the tiny heels a clack-clack-clacking in a way that leaves Sam longing for home.
“I can’t say I’m much of a churchgoer,” Dean says, rapping his knuckles against a wooden stand that holds pamphlets for tourists. Tiny flags are printed on the corners, detailing the language it is translated to.
That much is true about Dean, Sam contemplates, and while he’s more inclined on taking a few things on faith - man of science or not - Dean was never that loyal a believer. Watching one’s mother die in a house fire, drunken brawls, a few broken bones, jail, and being homeless for the better part of ten years takes its toll on faith, and not only the kind that leads to God.
“The thing about faith, Misters, is that it can be an ironic little thing. When you least expect it, everything you know can and will change, leaving you standing on a platform with no possible escape, and then, then who or what will you turn to? In the end, the joke is on you,” Bela says, leaving them all waiting in a heavy silence.
Sam shuffles his feet, and tries to lessen the suddenly awkward moment.
“Well, what do you think?” she says then, raising her thin eyebrows. “Wrote that myself a few weeks ago. The curator says it’s a little too heavy for casual visitors, but I think it has just the right amount of ritzy.”
“Oh,” Sam somehow manages to laugh out, patting Dean on the shoulder as he continues to stare at one of the windows. “That’s, uh, that’s heavy all right.”
Bela looks disappointed, but her smile is back when she turns on her heels. “If churches aren’t your thing, then maybe contemporary art?”
Dean sets off behind her without hesitation, and all Sam can do is follow.
❖
They leave the museum shortly after, but not without Dean constantly complaining that they could have called it the Delemontian Museum of Art and History, because Jurassic is far too misleading for poor American tourists with little knowledge of the Swiss highlands. Bela sheds some of her professionalism in favor of referring to Dean as ‘you American pickle’.
After a short walk along a circular stone path that takes them underneath the Jurassic Arch, they arrive at the Wegner knife factory, where both Sam and Dean have a blast when introduced to the modern mechanics of weapons manufacturing. Even if Sam is more of a diplomat, he does enjoy the safety in pocketing a good weapon, and an authentic Swiss pocketknife does the deed. Hell, he is sure it could take him months until he figures out what everything hidden beneath the red glossy hilt does.
“Blade, screwdriver, corkscrew, can opener, tweezers, nail file, scissors, a-a toothpick - this is as spiffy as it’s going to get,” Dean says, marveling at the travel-size contraption. “I’m surprised it doesn’t shoot, or have a light on it. Can you imagine?”
Sam pockets his own model, safe and easy to access. “A bulb would do the trick, yeah.”
“I really hate to cut this short,” Bela says, wagging her finger in front of their faces to bring their attention back to her. “I recall you saying having in appointment in three hours?”
“What time is it?” Sam says, heading outside and trying to spot the clock tower that towers over the main plaza. The moon is high and the city is now quiet, with only a few stray dogs meandering about for scraps.
“Twenty minutes to midnight,” Bela says, pointing at the clock above the doorway no one had noticed.
“Shit, Sam, we gotta hurry.” Dean seems to have forgotten his manners, but Bela doesn’t mind as she waves Sam off when he offers a quiet apology for his brother’s language.
“I’ve heard worse, Mr. Wesson. If you like, I can give you a han-”
“No,” they both answer in unison.
The woman blinks up in a moment of confusion, scoffing at their rudeness. “Suit yourself, gentlemen. Have a safe trip, and auf wiedersehen.” With a final tip of her head, her short hair swaying coyly in the mountainside breeze, she walks off into the night.
Neither of them stays long enough to find out where exactly she went off to. It’s a fifteen minute walk to their pickup point, and they have to gather their luggage from the storage center.
Sam is relieved Bela gave up with a simple no, because it wouldn’t do for her to find out that they are both armed, yet were still going into the heart of the war with nothing but two fedoras as a shield.
“Last stretch of the trip,” Dean says eagerly, jogging all the way to the storage house with Sam just a few steps ahead. “I hope the hotel has down pillows.” And Sam can’t help but chuckle.
Bregenz, Germany. Twenty-nine hours after departure.
Ever since they entered Austria, having to take an alternate route after a deluge took out one of the main roads, Dean has been up and sharp. Sam has long since gone out like a light, snoring loud enough to annoy the driver, and grunting whenever they fell into a pothole and he ended up smacking his head against the glass.
It’s raining outside when Dean finally sees the sign that reads ‘Willkommen in Deutschland’.
Not a single tollbooth in sight. No soldiers guarding the border. Nothing but endless mountains and dark sky, briefly illuminated by bursts of lightning. Dean feels uneasy, like something is wrong, but he’s ready for anything that comes his way in such a confined space.
But the hours grow long and the road goes on with no traffic at all, just the quiet interrupted only by the car’s engine and the sound of his own thoughts.
Munich, Germany. Thirty-two hours after departure.
A rainstorm welcomes the day in somber tones of gray, reminding Sam of the movies he enjoys so much. The scene before him plays out like one, with armed German soldiers welcoming them with brilliant smiles and polite handshakes, their English thick and heavily accented. There is another car waiting for them, a black and white Rolls Royce that is probably worth more than his entire education.
But most importantly, there isn’t a swastika in sight; not that he’s been expecting to be greeted by any, since the trip is being funded by an American organization, but there is always that nagging thought in the back of the head.
Sam tries explaining it to Dean in the simplest and briefest of ways, hoping that no one comes out of the argument offended. Dean takes to it, blessedly enough, even if he looks tense and tightlipped in the welcoming committee’s presence.
“Still not letting my guard down,” Dean says, needlessly, considering that Dean rarely ever does.
“All I’m saying is don’t do or say anything stupid.”
“When have I ever done or said anything stupid, huh?” Dean holds up a hand at the look on Sam’s face. “Don’t answer that.”
“First thing tomorrow,” Sam says instead, looking through a notepad he purchased back in France, “we need to contact Mr. Rochester at the library.”
“Rochester? I thought you said Milton.”
“Rochester, apparently, is the middle man. You can only get to Milton through him. Bodyguard, I’m guessing.”
“Guessing Milton is some sort of big cheese around these parts,” Dean says, stepping aside as two other men move their luggage from one car to the other. “You know what, right now, I can’t bring myself to give a damn. You can talk to me about treasure and mysterious individuals after I’ve snored my way through the Blitz.”
Sam cringes as he opens the car door. “Dean.”
“What?”
“That’s what I meant by saying something stupid.”
Dean pretends to think about it, but shrugs and climbs inside. “I’m tired, man. Thirty hours on the road takes a toll on you. I say we stop at a gin mill, take a few swigs and then call a lights out. I can’t afford to fall asleep on the job.”
Luxury car or not, the interior is far less comfortable than the Ford they just drove in on. It smells of cigar and leather, and Dean was soaked from head to toe. Dean was right. He was tired, hungry and felt overall miserable. “I’m going to have to agree to that, yeah.”
“And sadly, I’m going to have to alter that,” the driver says.
Both Sam and Dean turn to the man, but it’s Dean who speaks. “If you think your sister is a creature from the deep when she wakes up in the morning, trust me, you don’t want to see me when I haven’t had my beauty sleep, pal.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester, but there’s been a change of plans.”
“How do you know our name?” Sam says, scooting forward in his seat to get a better look at the driver. “I thought that was confidential.”
“Sit back, and act casual, or you’ll blow my cover. I’m here on Rochester’s behalf.”
Sam does as he’s told, and gives Dean a firm nod.
The car pulls out into the main road, rain sloshing heavily against the windshield. No one says a word until the soldiers are out of view, but Sam catches Dean’s whimper when they drive by the entrance with a sign that reads The Ritz.
“There was a security breach a few hours ago. We intercepted a message from the German forces saying that you two would be arriving in a matter of hours,” the driver says, speeding up the car. There’s a collective harrumph when he takes a sharp turn, and the rolling valleys quickly morph into tall buildings and plenty of traffic.
Sam thinks about it, and he’s sure Dean has arrived to the same conclusion. “So this is definitely bigger than we thought.”
“I’m afraid so. We still don’t know who is behind this, or what they want, but Rochester fears they’re now one step ahead of us. If I drop you off at your hotel, God knows what will be awaiting you.”
“I told you!” Dean says, jabbing his finger into Sam’s arm. “I told you this was going to get hairy.” He sits back and sighs, taking off his wet hat to run a hand through his hair. “And not to be rude, but you sound like you should be a couple thousand miles away from this place.”
The driver snorts at that. “If anybody asks, I’m your Romanian driver named Aaron.”
“Is that even your real name?”
The driver looks at the rearview mirror for a brief moment, catches Dean’s eye and gives him a wink. “Just call me Aaron.”
Sam clears his throat. “Okay, so, uh, what’s the new plan? If there ever was one.”
“Rochester says you have something that’ll help our translator piece everything together; the sooner you can get to that, the better. Whatever these flat tires are after, it has to be big. They even have a team in Cairo by now.”
“Cairo?”
“That’s in Egypt,” Sam clarifies.
“No shit, Sam.”
“That certainly narrows it down, then,” Sam continues, his eyes focusing past the windshield. On the train, they had composed a list of possible artifacts John may have been after. Cairo rules out anything Celtic or Sumerian, but it does make the symbols in the journal far more enigmatic.
“Has there been any sign of John?” Dean says after a beat of tense silence.
“There’s been nothing on the air, no. I’m sorry.”
“He’s probably escaped by now - keeping a low profile. You know how he is,” Sam says, turning to offer Dean a reassuring smile. He knows Dean isn’t going to buy it, but he nods and turns to look out the window.
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