[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Ten
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.
For all of the nights John had spent hunched over a book at his desk, muttering in Latin and other long dead languages, Dean had never spared archaeology a second thought. Too difficult, and too fancy despite having to get your hands dirty every now and then. It wasn’t a career Dean wanted for himself, but then again, he was just a child, and all he wanted to do was ride his bike through the streets of Lawrence, Kansas once the school bell rang.
Dean became interested in Ancient Egypt at the age of fifteen, one cloudy afternoon in April, when the university had hosted an exhibit on the Rosetta Stone. It was the hieroglyphs that had captured his attention. The discs and the hawks, the elaborate headdresses and pompous jewelry, all of which Dean found himself longing to draw, had he the skill.
It became a casual hobby, later in life, a guilty pleasure he’d entertain whenever he would pick up a book for Sam to read from the local library. By then, Dean was old enough to wink at the librarian and get an extension on his borrowed book.
There was still no jail cell to lock him away, and no alcohol to hinder his path. There was still Dad to put food on the table, to help him and Sam study for their exams.
Life had still been simple.
Long years of facing the harshness of world helped Dean push on to the point where he could no longer remember where it had all gone wrong. He hit rock bottom and crawled through the muck, stripped of his dignity and left bare out in the cold. But Sam had been there to give him a hand, a spark of hope.
Dean became a citizen, rather unpleasant and still labeled a ruffian, but he no longer had to pick pockets for a bite to eat. Sam gave him a job, gave him purpose, a finish line in a series of bumps and potholes.
And now there’s this.
There isn’t much Dean can do aside from sit on the grassy ground, breath knocked out of him from the exhilaration and power of the crossing, and cry into his knees.
Dean has now bared witness to Paradise, and it’s far more remarkable than he had ever imagined throughout his life.
He remembers Sunday morning service with Mary tenderly holding his hand, a choir lifting praise and worship as Reverend Daniels read from the Good Book. Eden, the celestial plains - those are just cheap knock-offs of a much rarer wonder.
Dean sobs.
Sam stands behind him, his awe not enough to dampen his need to be protective as his hand grips Dean’s shoulder. Maybe Sam needs stability. Maybe his knees are weak, too. He’s probably still reeling from the power.
On the opposite side of Sam, Castiel is on his knees before falling back onto an ungraceful sprawl. His glasses are lopsided, cracked, but he doesn’t seem to give a damn. His cheeks are rosy.
For a long period of time, there is nothing to say, and nothing to possibly do.
The City of Amun-Ra is an architectural wonder unlike anything Dean has ever seen.
The outer walls are at least three feet thick, extending five hundred feet to each side; and since the approach to the city’s center is sloped - much like a hillside - and several parts of the pyramid-like structure rise from one another, tier on tier; the appearance of the whole resembles a theatre.
Over the stone and marble arches hangs a variety of greenery, flowers and moss.
The entire city is nothing but a garden painted in hues of green, blue, red, and gold.
Dean thinks of a wedding cake, one that is thousands of years old and built by the greatest mathematicians and architects of the era.
All around the center tower are private niches shaded in fabrics and thick trees, the entrances to huts that gleam in the sunlight.
The structures maintain the basic Arabian architectural type, but ingrained in walls are images of half men and half beasts. There is a Pegasus, a troll, a wildcat, a tree, and many other depictions belonging to equally ancient civilizations.
The air smells faintly of vanilla.
When Dean finally manages to turn his eyes away from the city revealing itself before him, growing grander and vaster as the sun continues to glide along its untouched planes, it’s to look up at Sam, who mumbles something he doesn’t catch.
“This is impossible,” Castiel says. His voice is tiny as it shakes. “This… cannot possibly exist.”
Dean huffs, and allows his hand to slide across the grass and grab onto Castiel’s. He gives his fingers a light squeeze. “At this point, I don’t think anything is impossible.”
Castiel gives him a smile that warms Dean’s fingertips. “Correct me if I’m wrong but, doesn’t this resemble the Hanging Gardens of Babylon?”
It does, Dean’s mind supplies, and he’s surprised to find that the knowledge is still there, despite his ability to function like a healthy person again. “Actually, the gardens were never located in Babylon,” Dean says, smirking shyly. “Nineveh would be a more accurate location.”
Sam snorts somewhere to his left.
The moment of peaceful wonderment is ruined by the reminder that the three of them aren’t alone, and that Eckhart and his cohorts have tagged along through inter-dimensional portals. But Dean breathes serenity, because he remembers Ma’at’s promise. Here, within the City of Amun-Ra, they are safe.
“Well done,” Eckhart calls out from somewhere within the mass of bewildered soldiers. “My God, this is...this is wunderbar.”
Bela, too, takes a step forward, with a hand pressed to her chest and the other to her mouth. Her sparkling eyes don’t turn away from the reeds that sway in the light wind.
A pond rests at the base of the center monument.
Dean pushes himself to his feet, swats Sam away when he moves in to help him. “I’m fine.” Sam looks doubtful, but steps back regardless. He moves over to help Castiel up, however.
“I’m not sure what I was expecting but…” Sam’s chuckle is nearly hysterical, and he’s unable to finish his sentence. He shakes his head in Dean’s direction, grin nearly splitting his face in half. “Our names are in the history books, Dean.”
“You two are set for life,” Castiel adds, stepping closer to the brothers, and leaning heavily against Dean’s side. Dean imagines for a moment that they’re going to kiss, but Sam clears his throat before either of them can think further into it.
“You’re coming too, sweet cheeks,” Dean says, just in case anyone gets any ideas. Hand now on Castiel’s arm, his thumb caresses the worn thread of his shirt. “The three of us? We’re one hell of a team.” Humming with delight, Castiel gives him a smile worth a million bucks.
“First, we gotta survive whatever’s waiting for us,” Sam says, scratching at the beard that’s beginning to grow dark. He looks towards the city gates, where Eckhart is convening with Victor, Bela, and the rest of their camp. “And find a way to keep them from getting their hands on it.”
Dean gives him a nod, but his lips twitch upward. He doesn’t know the future per se, but he somehow anticipates what’s waiting for them, and he knows how to get to it and what it can do. The thoughts are muddled, hazy, but Dean can still sift through them with enough effort.
Castiel is looking at him, curiosity sprinkling the thoughtful frown. “What is it?”
Sam, too, turns towards him. “Dean?”
“Give me a second, will ya?” Taking his hat from Sam’s head, Dean shakes off the sand that it’s accumulated during the transition from desert to city, and puts it on. “I got it all under control.”
Patting Sam and Castiel’s backs, Dean works out the kinks in his shoulders, stretches his arms and legs, and swaggers towards Eckhart and company. He feels confident, unstoppable, because he knows what he has to do.
Sort of.
“Ich komme in Frieden!” Dean calls out, hands above his head to show he’s not armed. He thinks he’s hilarious, even when the group of people turns to him with murder on their faces. “We got you here, didn’t we? A simple ‘thank you’ would do.” Dean is mildly put off by the sound of cocking guns, all of them trained on him. He keeps his hands where they are. “Trigger-happy sons of bitches.”
A still-baffled Eckhart walks up to Dean, his gaze turning tight and untrusting. “The ankh?”
“Obliterated,” Dean says. “Consumed for the power needed to open the gate.” He shrugs. “A shame, too. Can you imagine how much that could have won you in the market?”
Looking unconvinced, but unwilling to argue, Eckhart lifts his chin. “And the artifact?”
“What artifact?”
“What artifact?” comes Victor’s mocking voice. He emerges from the quiet yet alert crowd, dabbing a handkerchief to his brow and temples. “The one we’ve come to collect, Winchester.”
Dean knows very well what they’re talking about, the problem lies in explaining to them how the artifact is, not what. He only has half a plan formulated, one that guarantees to wipe this specific troupe off the face of the planet, but he’s yet to figure out how to escape safely. Especially Castiel, who seems to be the center of the big bang.
“Oh, that one. Gentleman, I have some good news, and some bad news.”
Bela has now joined Eckhart and Victor’s sides, and behind Dean, he can sense Sam and Castiel doing the same. Everyone is hovering on his words, and the scent of power hums beneath Dean’s skin.
“Well?” Bela says, moving her hands in a gesture for him to speak. “The good news?”
And what a better thing to say than the God honest truth?
“I know where the artifact is, and who can unlock it.” Dean doesn’t have to look to know that Castiel’s back has stiffened.
“Excellent,” Eckhart says. He claps his hands, but stops mid-clap when Dean holds up a hand.
“The bad news, well, it’s bad for a reason.”
The tension is near palpable.
“Quit stalling, Dean,” Bela quips.
Taking a deep and calming intake of breath, Dean huffs it out. “There is a good chance that none of us will make it out alive.”
The sound of gurgling water is what interrupts the ominous silence, filling the stifling air with rushing sound that offers tranquility despite the doomed stench.
Finally putting down his arms when they begin to ache, Dean slips them into his pockets, and walks away towards the stone mural of a lion. The source of the water is a fountain, and rivulets trace the lion’s contours until they gather at the base. There are reeds in the tiny pool.
Dean extends his hand, wetting the tips of his fingers with the cool water. The city itself is an oasis only for the worthy, and that alone adds to the peril he knows will eventually be unleashed.
The silent trance breaks when the guns are lowered, and Dean smirks. Here, in this foreign place, his word is law.
“If you don’t believe in the gods,” Dean begins, and his voice sounds strange even to himself, “then it’s time to scrounge up those last miserable bits of faith in that measly soul of yours.”
Dean, too, has become a believer. Or rather, he’s now aware of their existence within the otherworldly realms. Demons, angels, the flayed, and the dead - it’s all well and truly real, but Dean doesn’t fear it. And neither will it have authority over him.
“So,” he says, turning to the dumbstruck group of soldiers, commanders, and civilians alike. “I say we call it a day; drink, be merry, and come tomorrow, we’ll head off into the temple and face mummies, scarabs, curses, and anything that may or may not give you the clap, yeah?”
When no one answers, Dean harrumphs. “Great. I’m calling dibs on the Pharaoh’s Suite.”
“Wait, hold on just a minute,” Victor says. Even while speaking to Dean, his eyes are fixed on the onyx monument depicting Anubis. “How do you expect us to believe you?”
Dean scratches at his beard. “I haven’t lied to you. We’re here, now, safe for the time being.”
The accusation is just for show, something to let Eckhart’s soldiers feel better about taking blind orders from the treasure hunter who took a trip into the Nile for three days.
Eckhart barks out an order, and after a series of confused looks, his men disperse with grateful mumbles.
“Dean?” Sam sneaks up behind him, looking exhausted and sick. “What’s going on?”
“We’re taking a break.” Eckhart answers for him. “There is peace before every great battle. My men need to recover, rest for today.” And without another word, he gestures with his head for Victor to follow him.
Dean watches them go, taking the road on the left of the central garden monument. He sags when they are way out of sight, and the strength to keep up his bravado fails him at long last. He’s tired, his body aches, and his knees still seize up every once in a while.
Turning to Sam and Castiel, both of which look like crap, he lets go of a tired chuckle. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m ready to hit the hay for a few weeks.”
Unlike Sam, who rolls his eyes and slinks away in the opposite direction of the Germans, Castiel gifts him with a jaded smile. “Let’s go find the Pharaoh’s Suite.”
❖
Dean blacks out the moment he rests his head on a pillow, and Castiel isn’t that far behind.
Sam snorts at the two heaps of sheets on opposite sides of the room. Never mind that it’s still sunup, and the light seeps into the room at the far back through the door, but the rectangle of light doesn’t reach either of their beds. It does shine a light on Sam’s, which is why he would rather wait until the sun moves across the sky to call it a night. A day, whatever.
With a fierce yawn he can feel tugging at his eyes, Sam steps outside for a while longer. His inner explorer beckons him to poke and prod; to assuage that sense of curious wonder.
The City of Amun-Ra is both unbelievable and unknowable to man, even while walking across its luscious gardens. Nothing Sam has heard of throughout his career can really compare. It may not be made of gold, although he is certain several carvings are decorated with it, its stone and brick walls shine with a light of their own. Ancient and majestic, Sam can’t begin to wonder the prestige such a discovery will attribute to his title.
The branch of road Dean chose (and navigated like he’d been here before) lead them to a small building that is ornately decorated with ivory, onyx, and gold. It’s similar to the brothel back in Cairo, only the drapes here are made of luxurious satin.
Two stone hawks guard the entrance of their lodge.
Inside, the building is divided into five rooms. In one of the rooms are three beds. Sam had expected for Dean to move the beds into the other empty rooms for the sake of privacy, but fatigue won over and rendered him unconscious until further notice. Sam doesn’t really mind. He’s just happy at the thought of being able to sleep on a mattress and pillow stuffed with Egyptian feathers, instead of a slab of rock, as he had been expecting.
Dean and Castiel’s snores fade into the background when Sam heads out onto the grassy road, the cool blades of grass feeling blessedly good against his bare, hot feet.
Sam walks.
All of the other cubic residences are closed and lifeless, their windows shut as if they’ve been long abandoned. Sand covers the entrances and red paint is streaked above the wooden beam. It’s almost as if the three of them had been meant to take the one they did, with its welcoming scent of homeliness.
House after house, they line the street on either side. A palm tree stands in front of every other lawn. The place is eerie, empty, and Sam vaguely wonders if he’ll be able to sleep after all.
Beneath a canopy of flowers is a wooden bench that’s miraculously intact after so many centuries. The gardens that breathe and expand all around him sway in a tranquil rhythm that forces him to sit down, his tiredness finally getting the best of him.
His mind is in turmoil, and his heart is confused about whether it should feel heavy with dread or light with relief. The things Sam saw during the transition, or the crossing, are inexplicable and far too infinite to innumerate, not to mention impossible to remember. There had been truth and lies; there had been the universe. Beneath Sam’s feet had been the surface of the moon, and in his hands the sticky warmth of honey.
Dean had moved through the light like it was his to wield. He looked at home, but he also didn’t look like himself. Of all that Sam fears as a repercussion of this expedition, is that Dean comes out changed. He has little to no idea what he’d be able to do with himself if the man that walks by his side is no longer his brother.
The crossing had done its fair share of whispery change in his being. Sam had felt his mother’s touch on his cheek, her lips on his temple. He had smelled Jessica’s hair. Sam had sunk into the feeling of unstoppable success. Glory; Sam had tasted it on his tongue, and it had scared him half to death.
His soul feels like it’s carrying lead.
“After a trip like that, even the cruelest of us are doing some soul-searching,” Bela says, coming into view after rounding a marble column. Her long hair is done up in a bun, and underneath her left arm she carries a satchel. “Not that you’d ever hurt a fly.”
Sam tenses, but makes no further movement. His eyes are heavy, and no doubt his movements would be sluggish if he tries to put up a fight. Instead, he scoots over on the bench.
With an appreciative nod, Bela sits beside him and hands him the satchel.
“What’s in it?”
“Lunch.” Sighing, she crosses one leg over the other, bending it over the knee. “Doesn’t seem like much, but it should be enough for the three of you.”
Sam’s snort is derisive. “If it’s Eckhart’s hospitality, we’re not interested.” He hands her the deerskin satchel back, but drops it onto his lap when he sees the frown on her face.
“Courtesy of me, you lug nut. We’re in the city. Do you think Eckhart gives a damn about your basic human needs?” Bela chuckles, and tucks a stray, dark blonde lock that’s come loose from the bun behind her ear. “All that matters to him now is Mr. Blue Eyes.”
“I figured.” Sam opens the satchel, and between a bundle of bread and jars of jelly, he spots a chocolate bar that is probably worth a small fortune in the other world’s economy. He should fear poisoning, but Dean’s promise of no harm coming to them rings true in his ears.
Bela stays at his side, calmly taking in her surroundings while he prepares himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The bread is hard, but he couldn’t care less, and makes one for Dean as well. Sam doesn’t know if Castiel would like one, so he leaves the third bread roll untouched.
“The company is roasting a pig tonight,” she says, humming when Sam takes his first bite. “If any of you manages to sneak between huts unnoticed, I’ll reward you with dinner and a bottle of wine.”
Sam’s mouth waters around the bread in his mouth. He’s known hunger back in the day, when all he and Dean had had was a can of soup for the two of them. He shouldn’t belittle the piece of bread in his hand for the pig that he may never see. There’s also the question on how edible said pig would be, considering they must have dragged it in from the previous world.
Looking down at his jelly-coated fingers, Sam asks, “Why are you doing this?”
Bela’s smile is flirtatious, but the black circles beneath her eyes dampen the effect. She’s just as tired as the rest of them. “What if I say that, even if all evidence points in the opposite direction…I’m actually human?”
The corner of Sam’s lips twitch at that. “Then why throw in your lot with them?”
She folds her arms in front of her stomach, her expression somber yet resolute. Sam doesn’t know what it is exactly, but there’s something in her eyes, in the shape her mouth takes, that speaks of fierceness and courage.
“The world’s an ugly place, Sam. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of.”
“You’re a Nazi.”
“You are prideful.”
Sam scoffs. “You can’t really compare one thing to another.”
“Why not? A sin’s a sin. There’s no bigger or smaller; it’s all relative depending on our views and morals.” Her voice is calm, only a hint of a lilt underlying them with humor. “We all have our reasons to do what we do. And then at night we pray for redemption. If you believe in God, that is.”
Sucking his fingers clean, Sam feels an uncomfortable lump of bread lodged in his throat. He shifts on the bench, and slips the jars back into the satchel. “I know it’s probably personal but…” He looks away when her silver blue eyes turn to him. “What’s your reason?”
“You’re probably thinking that it better be a good one if I’m in this mess,” she says, and stands up. “Since you’re nice, I’ll tell you.”
The smile Bela wears is small and sad. It makes her features look fragile under the morning sun, and she makes herself look smaller by wrapping her arms around her midriff. Sam can already hear her wretched words before she speaks them; a forlorn melody that narrates a tortured past.
“By the end of this damn journey, all I want to do is sleep in silks, rolling naked in money.”
Sam can feel his face morph into half a dozen expressions in a matter of seconds. He settles for deadpan, despite the warmth in his cheeks. He should have seen that coming.
Bela’s laughter chimes as she walks away, waving a hand above her head. “Be sure to send your brother tonight. I’ll save you three some pig.”
Rolling his eyes, Sam slings the satchel’s strap over his head, and sees that it’s in a much better condition than the one he’d made out of scraps last night.
The sun has moved across the sky far quicker than Sam had expected, and there’s relief in the thought that he may be able to get to bed without worrying about being blinded while he sleeps. The sun is far too bright here, but what else could be expected of the city dedicated to a sun god?
Sam leaves the bench shortly after, looking for one of the springs he had spotted along the way to their lodgings. He finds it quickly, by a statue of Isis, and the water is cold enough to make him recoil in surprise once he touches it. It is pure bliss as he places his cupped hands to his lips, and the water refreshes his parched mouth. He regrets that he doesn’t have his canteen with him.
He doesn’t mind the coolness as the water soaks his chin, neck, and the upper part of his chest. Sam longs for the baths back at the brothel. It feels like ages ago since he had slept in a comfortable bed, had the most excellent curry and felt safe shutting his eyes for hours on end. He thinks about Portia and Charlie, and by extension he thinks about Balthazar and Aaron.
The journey has been long and excruciatingly difficult, but Sam can’t recall a trip in which he’s met such a variety of people. He won’t be forgetting about them anytime soon.
On his trek back to the house, Sam slows his stride when something darts out of the corner of his eye. It’s slow moving, but regardless of that, the shadow is gone by the time he looks in its direction.
He comes to a full stop.
The area is devoid of structures, consisting only of rolling flat gardens and the occasional pond. There is nothing to cast a shadow, and Sam’s skin breaks into gooseflesh.
He walks in the direction of the shadow until he reaches the corner of the main temple, but sees nothing there. In the distance, the city’s walls cast darkness where sand meets grass, but nothing vaguely humanoid roams about. Outside the walls there’s nothing but dune after towering dune of sand where Luxor should be.
It’s viscerally wrong.
And then there it is again, just a flash to his right, a smoky sort of darkness that walks on limbs. Excruciatingly tall, but once Sam turns, it’s no longer there.
“Hello?” he says, wiping his hands against his pants when they begin to sweat. “Anyone there?”
Sam takes the corner.
He finds himself at the entrance of the square temple, where the hanging greenery fills the air with the sweet aroma of perfume. The flowers are all closed, but they’re still alive. Almost as if they’re hiding, Sam thinks to himself, before immediately standing back when he notices it.
When they had entered the city, in front of the temple there had been a pedestal. Sam remembers it clearly, because the onyx statue of Anubis is not something one easily forgets; especially when it towers well over forty feet over one’s head.
Now, the pedestal is there, but the statue is not.
Sam’s mind conjures a dozen images of Anubis walking the green oasis of Amun-Ra, and his stomach twists so painfully he could return his sandwich right then.
A magnetic force pulls Sam towards the temple however, and Sam tries reminding himself of Dean’s words. No harm will come to them here, and therefore there’s nothing to be afraid of. But despite the calming words his big brother repeated over and over again, Sam still fears.
Nevertheless, fear is incompetent, for Sam is already standing at the temple’s entrance, his hands gripping the stone frame of a door.
Fear gives way to curiosity, and curiosity paves the way to awe, because within the stone and brick walls of a long-dormant temple, there are riches to rival the treasures of the world.
Sam stumbles inside, fatigue and drowsiness forgotten as he skids along golden floors, and gem encrusted sarcophagi. The find becomes bigger, the monetary value too great to decipher just yet, and Sam goes from thinking they’re set for life, to thinking that his children’s grandchildren will be enjoying this blessing decades from now.
Hieroglyphs decorate the walls, some painted in rich tones of blue and red. Hawks, jackals, lions, ibises, lotus flowers… There are temples and cities, maps, books - all of them encoded into the walls untouched by time.
The back of Sam’s eyes sting with unshed tears, with unbridled joy and rapture.
He stops for a moment, uncertain when he sees Dean standing in front of an endless corridor. It truly is endless, for the closer Sam gets to him, the longer it seems until it eventually fades into darkness. There’s more gold, more gems, more jars of ivory and gold. The value of the temple is immeasurable.
❖
“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean says before Sam could ask. He’s restless. Static reverberates underneath his skin, keeping him awake. His body still aches, but it’s only dull sensations in his joints.
Sam comes to stand beside him, looking down the endless corridor. His kid-like eyes are wide and dewy, and Dean can’t help the smile that forms. He hasn’t seen that look on Sam’s face since the last time Dean had brought him a book when they were kids, or around the time Sam met Jessica. Everyone lives for these brief moments, tiny milestones in an otherwise long and sometimes purposeless life.
Dean lets him have the moment.
“The statue at the entrance is missing,” Sam says, after a moment of silence spent admiring the void. “You haven’t seen any humanoid jackals walking around here, have you?”
Dean shuffles his feet, but doesn’t give him an answer. It’s better not to talk about the things that walk in the dark, or in this case, the light. Sam needs his rest, and haunting him with tales of demons doesn’t seem like a wise thing to do.
“You should go sleep, Sammy.”
Frowning, Sam turns to look at his brother. “I was going to, but then-”
“We have nineteen hours before we get to walk down this thing,” Dean explains, angling his chin to gesture the endless corridor. “It’s gonna be a hell of a long walk.” His heels are already dreading it.
“Is it safe?”
Dean blinks, returns Sam’s stare. “That’s new.”
Grimacing, Sam shrugs. “Doesn’t smell like anything,” he says, holding out a hand. “Can’t really feel anything either. It’s strange. Like it isn’t really there.”
Dean squints, and flexes his fingers in anticipation. Sweet little Sammy, always so smart. “That’s because it isn’t. Step into it now and it’ll go on eternally.”
Sam is quiet for a long time, worrying his bottom lip. “This is where Cas comes in.”
“Figured it out, huh?”
“Everything comes in threes.”
Dean nods his head, lifting his arms to cross them in front of his chest. His head is throbbing, most likely a migraine caused by over-thinking and exhaustion. “Only the first part. Cas is the conduit but he’s also a key like the two of us.”
Sam makes a face that shows he thinks this reeks of suspicion. “You never said if it was safe or not.”
The accusation makes Dean grit his teeth. The one thing he wants out of the entire ordeal is the only thing he can’t have. Ma’at promised him safety within the city, but on the other side of the corridor lies nothing but uncertainty and death. “You heard what I told Eckhart. That goes for all of us.”
“Then we’re all gonna die,” Sam says, but his tone is droll. “Kind of fitting, once you think about it.”
Dean rolls his eyes, shuffles his feet again. He needs to run. “And you’re okay with this?”
“Yeah, sure? I mean, distant land, other realm, buried among riches and mummified remains - it’s every archaeologist’s dream.”
“That’s real funny, Sam.” At Sam’s shrug, Dean fumes. “What about Jess? What about your future? Don’t tell me you’re okay to just kick the bucket in here.”
“Dean-”
“I can get you back.”
They both go quiet, staring in opposite directions.
Dean’s heart aches, the edges of disappointment coming undone within him. He can almost hear John’s voice whispering harshly into his ear.
“I can get you back, Sam.”
Sam huffs like a bull, and Dean knows that he’s angry. “Then get us back. All of us. Screw the mission, screw everything. If we can get out of here safe, then-”
“You’ve done your part.”
“And so have you, Dean.”
“I can’t, okay? I can’t stand aside and let those assholes win.”
“This isn’t your war.”
“Yes, it is!” Dean shouts, scathing. His jaw aches from clenching, hands moving along his side, suddenly unsure of where to put them. “I bailed. I ran away when I should have been fighting. Kids are dying, Sam. Kids are standing in the frontlines because I was too much of a wuss.”
“This isn’t your fault! How can that possibly be your fault? People are gonna die, whether or not you pick up a gun.”
Running a hand over his mouth, Dean shakes his head. “You should have seen Dad’s face when I said I wasn’t enlisting.”
“Dad didn’t enlist either. Why should you?”
“Because Dad has a role to play. You have a role to play, still, Sam. People…people need you, in school, in-in society and stuff. You know, morale building. Pillars of the community.” Dean hisses out a harsh breath. “People like you shouldn’t be waddling in the mud. Shouldn’t be dead.”
Sam’s hands are clenched into fists by his side, and for a moment Dean flinches, thinking he’s going to get punched.
“You’re important. You matter, you asshole,” Sam grits out, shoving Dean’s shoulders and making him stumble back. “I wouldn’t be me without you, Dean. We wouldn’t be here without you, and you know what? Maybe we aren’t in the frontlines but we’re here, taking on this battle headfirst. And we’re going to fight it together. Me, you, and Cas.”
“Sam…” Heaven knows that he’s tired, in every possible way.
“You have a future, and don’t pretend like you don’t. I see it. Hell, we all see it. You’re not alone, you’re not worthless, you’re not scum-” Sam’s words raise in volume as he carries on, “you’re…you’re…dammit, you’re a Winchester.”
By the time the tirade is over, Dean is slumped over, hands on his knees, trying really hard not to laugh, but his shoulders are already quaking. He really doesn’t want to cheapen the moment, but then he hears Sam’s choked sniggering, and barks out a laugh.
A floodgate of hysterics opens then, sending both brothers into a fit of giggles and guffaws that has them both clutching at their sides. Sam has to lean against a pillar, tears streaming down his cheeks and having to look away from Dean to keep himself from laughing any louder.
Dean rests his head against a wall, stomping his foot as he scrambles for anything to calm him down. His chest and lungs begin to hurt, but the rest of his bodily aches disappear in the bout of uncontrollable laughter.
“I’m a Winchester?” Dean chokes out, before chortling around the fist he’s pressing to his mouth. “Really? Is that all you got, Mr. Harvard Erudite?”
They laugh on until eventually their madness dies down to manageable hiccups and the sporadic titters. Sam now leans against Dean’s side, arm slung over his shoulder, giant that he is.
Dean feels light on his feet despite the fatigue, and the outburst has helped calm down his nerves. He feels okay, even with the calamity that dangles over his head. He’s at peace.
“Bela brought us this,” Sam says, like he’s suddenly remembered himself.
Dean hums, and nearly collapses at the sight of food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he is until Sam waved a jar of peanut butter inches from his face. “What’s the catch?”
Sam gives him an already prepared sandwich, and Dean sends a blessing towards whatever god is listening. “Guess she felt sorry for us.”
“I feel sorry for us, too,” Dean says, or at least, he hopes that’s what it sounds like around a mouthful of glorious peanut butter and jelly. Swallowing a mouthful, he says “I also would have liked a steak.”
“If you’re feeling up to it, she said she’ll smuggle us some roasted pig tonight.”
Dean hums, swiping a finger along the bottom of the bread roll to prevent a glob of jelly from falling to the ground. “You do know she probably wants something in return, right?”
“Nothing’s ever free,” Sam says, as if reciting from an old book. “Still, an hour ago we didn’t have food in our stomachs.”
Finishing up, Dean points to the satchel. “Anything more?”
“Last one’s for Cas.”
Dean grumbles, but nods.
“You’re gonna stay here long?” Sam says, pointedly looking towards the exit. “Sun’s moving, and I’d like to catch some sleep.”
Thirsty now, Dean shakes his head. “I’m gonna poke around, see if I can find any loopholes that won’t get us fricasseed by the end of tomorrow.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but Sam is frowning again, more tired than anything, but it’s still a frown. “I’ll be fine, Sam.”
Sam lingers for a few more moments before nodding and heading towards the exit. “The springs are safe to drink. Water’s surprisingly cold.”
Dean lifts his hand and salutes, and with a scoff, Sam steps outside.
The temple dips into silence, like a flame blown out, dropping the room into darkness. Laughter still echoes in Dean’s mind, and it’s the only comfort the void of despair that is this temple offers. The stench of death is strong, acrid, and Dean can feel the joy seeping out of him like pus from an infected wound.
The corridor before him is not very different from the corridor he ran through a matter of days - or was it centuries - ago.
Too tired to stand any longer, Dean considers following Sam into their hut, but he’s far past the point of being able to move.
Rather than walking, Dean rests his back against a column and slides to the floor. The stone is cool through his clothes, and at least he’s far away from the punishing sun. He makes sure to keep his eyes on the corridor, to stare upon the roving shadows at the very depths, and not fall asleep. He fears that they will drag him inside if he does.
Maybe it would be easier if they did, but… You matter.
Dean snorts at Sam’s impromptu speech.
He can somehow see what Sam means by fighting to the end, even while Dean would rather fight alone, without risking Sam’s wellbeing. A future; that escapes Dean. What future is there for a guard dog? They just get put down when they’ve grown old and weary and can no longer do their job. But hell, Dean’s not even a guard dog; he’s a rabid mutt trying to moonlight as one.
Dean is just an outlaw, a rascal who pretends to be someone with a respectful job. His place is in the birdcage, bearing stripes and gambling for cigarettes. He doesn’t have nifty diplomas, or a fine lady friend to come home to.
But he did fix his automobile all by himself, and created a system to play films at home. He did manage to finish that crossword puzzle once, but he’s sure Sam had filled out some words while Dean was in the bathroom. Dean connected the puzzle pieces, Dean found Coptos and weathered the pits of Hell with nothing but the clothes on his back.
So maybe he isn’t worthless, even if he doesn’t have the means to start a family and achieve the American Dream. He has Sammy, and Jess, both of which are swell folks and love everything that simply exists. Sammy, who would probably hug Eckhart and forgive his transgressions against the human race; Jessica, who would storm in her heels and whip every other scoundrel into place with a few choice words, all the while tending to the neighbor’s kid’s scraped knee. It’s only obvious that they would love Dean.
Darkness creeps along Dean’s vision, and as much as he fights it, he falls asleep.
❖
It’s early afternoon when Castiel finds him, slumped on the floor in a very uncomfortable-looking position, with his forehead drenched in sweat. His eyebrows are knitted tightly together, his expression unpleasant.
Dean snores, rather loudly as well, so Castiel avoids disturbing him. Instead, he makes a quick run back to their hut.
Careful not to wake Sam, he grabs a pillow, a sheet, and a canteen. Sam had told him about the spring with the cold water while Castiel ate his sandwich, so he stops by to get a drink, and to fill up his canteen.
Once back in the temple, Castiel gently rearranges Dean onto the pillow. The floor may be cold, but Dean is burning up with a fever, so he refrains from tucking him in. Ripping off a piece of the sheet, Castiel wets it with the water, and places it over Dean’s forehead.
Scooting back, Castiel sits on the floor, taking the spot Dean previously occupied. He yawns, still tired even after sleeping for a few hours.
Sam hadn’t said much when Castiel had woken up, only that he’d brought him something to eat courtesy of Bela, before falling into bed and snoring the moment his head touched the pillow. The day feels surreal, time passing slowly, but the clock is still ticking. Castiel’s role is fast approaching, but he doesn’t know what exactly it is. Although, he’s sure Dean does know.
The corridor in front of him stretches on for miles and miles, and Castiel has to look away, bothered by its fathomless depth. Dean had been sitting here, staring into the abyss, and Castiel is left to wonder if it’s because of that vacuum that has been ripped open within Dean’s mind.
“What do you see?” Castiel whispers, looking over Dean’s fitful sleep. He places a hand over Dean’s ankle, and softly squeezes it.
Resigned to the quiet, Castiel shuts his eyes, and begins to hum.
❖
Dean treads between asleep and awake; soft musical notes bringing him above a cloud of darkness, but exhaustion pulls him back under. He swings back and forth, from imageless nightmares to soothing sunlight, but his eyelids push shut. Sleep is better, revitalizing, it will stall everything a little bit longer.
The sound of a crash makes Dean blink his eyes open, then shut, and then open again, focusing them on the dark ceiling of the temple. Dust motes swirl overhead, catching light and dancing as makeshift fairies. Beautiful, until they cause Dean to sneeze.
Whatever is causing the shuffling noise stops, and Dean pushes himself up onto his elbows, rubbing his at his gritty eyes. His back is killing him, his coccyx hurts where it grinds against the stone floor, and he feels ill. He’s shivering in the heat, and his skin feels clammy.
“You’re finally awake,” Castiel says, and Dean lays back down in relief.
He watches Castiel move around, grab the canteen and place it down beside his head. Dean only just notices that his head is cushioned, and he figures Castiel must have moved him. A blessing, because he doesn’t want to think about the stiff muscles sleeping against a column would have produced.
“You have a fever,” he continues. Uncapping the canteen, he hands it over to Dean. “Here.”
Not wanting to sit up just yet, Dean holds it over his chest. “How long have I been out?”
Castiel looks in the direction of the exit, and squints. “Four, five hours, maybe. It’s almost sunset.”
Unable to mourn to the loss of what were perhaps his last hours, Dean sits up with a groan. He’s rested, even if drowsiness makes his movements sluggish. Pushing the canteen’s strap aside, he takes a swig, washing down the foul taste in his mouth. Even his throat feels scratchy, and he worries that he may have caught a bug. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Dean drinks like a man stranded in the desert, like what he is, and is left gasping for air when he returns the canteen to Castiel. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The inside of the temple is slowly darkening, disorienting Dean enough that it’s difficult to tell what was yesterday and what is today. Time and space displacement-or it could be the fever causing him to hallucinate the sudden wave of fear.
Blackness wraps wicked tendrils around his legs, rendering him incapable to move. The air grows thick, heavy, causing his ears to pop and filling them with maddening buzzing meant to disturb. It’s cold all over. He trembles on the floor, arms wrapped around himself.
Dean is facing an abysmal void, heaving, sentient, and it’s sucking him in. There is no air, no hope, nothing.
There is nothing.
Mind over matter, Dean reaches out for Castiel, blindly grabbing the front of his shirt. He tries to say something, anything, but bless Castiel’s soul for understanding his inability to speak right now.
Wordlessly, Castiel pulls him into a protective embrace.
Dean holds on to reality by a string, desperately trying to use Castiel’s arms as an anchor. Here he can be weak, if only for a little while. Castiel won’t judge him for it.
His brain feels like it is burning, his shoulder and jaw ache, his chest spasms and constricts and it feels like the beginning of a heart attack. Dean can’t help the whimper, or the shaking.
When the episode subsides, Dean shivers, and doesn’t mention the wet patch that now stains the front of Castiel’s shirt. Neither of them do. Time slinks by, unmarked and terrible.
“Perhaps it will do you some good to take a walk,” Castiel says. His voice is a soothing whisper in Dean’s ear. “Stretch your legs, and get out in the open.”
Dean hums in agreement, but doesn’t move yet. He’s past the point of decorum, and so he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s nuzzling Castiel’s chest. He smells of fresh water and early blooms, but he also carries a hint of earthy musk that thrills Dean to the point of leaning upward, and pressing a kiss to the sweaty column of his neck.
Castiel huffs out a chuckle, hooks his fingers underneath Dean’s jaw and angles his face upward. Holding his eyes, Castiel presses a short kiss to his mouth. “Feeling better?”
Dean nods, shutting his eyes. He feels peace, calm settling deep into his bones. “Bela promised us some pig.”
“Are you hungry?” The last word comes out as a soft growl, and Dean gasps when Castiel lightly scrapes his teeth against Dean’s shoulder.
“I’m always hungry,” he tries to joke, but his words quiver with arousal. “Fuck.”
Castiel kisses him again, this time hard and deep, drawing Dean’s tongue into his mouth to suck on it. Dean holds the side of Castiel’s face, pulling him closer, carding his fingers through dark hair that feels feathery soft.
A different sort of madness takes over, and Dean is ready to surrender to it. He’s ready to claim, to give, to take, to pant into Castiel’s mouth.
Hot and wet, Dean pushes their mouths closer together, allowing no room for breath or spit to escape. Dean only pulls away, biting his lower lip, when Castiel cups his stirring erection without preamble.
Time speeds up again, everything melting away into hues of gold and red. Castiel touches him without restraint, his fingers confident and experienced as they knead Dean’s skin, teasing and soothing.
Dean gives up control, too tired after the unexpected breakdown to move much. Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t mind.
He’s maneuvered to sit between Castiel’s legs, and Dean grins. The position amuses him, even if it will make it hard for them to kiss. Dean does Castiel the favor of undoing his fly, but he seems preoccupied with something else.
Castiel mouth and hands move in tandem along the expanse of Dean’s body, bunching up the dirty shirt, too much in a hurry to properly unbutton it.
His touch is warm as it slides over tired muscles and sore ribs, and Dean melts under the blissful attention. Thumbs flick at his nipples, but only briefly before open palms slowly caress in a slow, downward swipe. Fingers tug playfully at the trail of hair under Dean’s navel, causing a laugh to bubble in his chest.
Meanwhile, Castiel’s lips are pressing to the space behind his ear. Stubble tickles the sensitive skin there, making Dean squirm, but Castiel holds fast. He mouths at Dean’s earlobe, hot breath puffing, muted groans sounding wrecked as he cants his hips underneath him.
Castiel kisses his neck, sucks a bruise just above Dean’s shoulder, before pulling out a hand from under Dean’s shirt.
Dean’s hands fist Castiel’s pants over his thighs when his hand wraps around Dean’s neck, gently caressing it. A surge of pleasure lights Dean’s gut, causing him to moan, and Castiel kisses him in the awkward position with fierce determination.
“Cas…”
Castiel shushes him with a hand down his pants.
Stars have never looked brighter or more colorful behind Dean’s closed eyes.
Dean’s back arches, thighs quivering and toes curling inside his boots. He moves to the rhythm of Castiel’s hand, each gentle stroke and wicked twist, and his heels helplessly slide across the temple floor as he tries to rein himself in. Useless, because Castiel is moving the hand angling his neck to hold onto Dean’s chest, keeping him in place.
“Please, Cas… I…” His words give way to an unbidden groan when Castiel concedes the unspoken request.
He’s too wound up, Castiel poking and twisting the right gears since the moment he first walked into that library in Munich. Castiel is a force of nature, relentless and powerful. Solid as stone, and able to weather any tempest that lashes his way.
Castiel is a force to be reckoned with, and he’s also everything Dean needs.
A particularly well-performed twist has Dean climaxing with a tight groan, body strung tight and stiff around the cocoon of Castiel’s arms and legs. Too long; it has been too long since Dean has even sniffed satisfaction like the kind that’s currently weighing down in his bones. It’s delight, ecstasy in its purest form.
“Fuck, Cas… fuck.”
Castiel chuckles, mouth still moving against the grain of Dean’s stubble. “How coherent of you.” The son of a bitch nuzzles the side of Dean’s face, and Dean struggles with the overpowering urge to kiss him senseless.
The best of it all is that Castiel doesn’t let go. He holds Dean safely against his chest, rubbing his nose and pressing his mouth to whatever bit of clothed and unclothed skin he can reach.
“I wish I could coddle you,” Castiel says, continuing his loving strokes. “Hold your hand, maybe. Drink coffee in front of a fireplace, sharing a blanket, a hundred miles away from war and pain.” His breathing hitches, his hold tightens. He’s quiet for a long moment, and Dean holds his breath. “I want to be with you.”
Dean closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Castiel’s cheek. “Sap,” he says, but his words are soft.
“You love it.”
And it’s the goddamned truth. “Hell, yeah, I do. I could be here all day.” Castiel hums, but Dean shakes his head. “I’m serious, Cas. I’d be happy to sit here and adore the fuck out of ya’.” He doesn’t open his eyes, because a whole new wave of pain manifests in his chest.
Desperate words of desperate men looking down the barrel of a shotgun.
Doesn’t make them any less true, however. Castiel is a freaking heaven-sent miracle, and Dean isn’t stupid enough to let him walk away. Here and now, Dean doesn’t even have to ask if Castiel is with him, if he’s willing to walk into the belly of the beast by his side, because he knows he’ll say yes. Castiel Milton will look him dead in the eye and explicitly agree to take on the gods themselves.
“I need you,” Dean says. Those aren’t the words he had meant to say, but it’s as close as they are ever going to get. “Christ, I… I need you, man.”
Castiel kisses him, gentle and deep, and nods as he pulls away. “Until the end,” he says, assuaging all of Dean’s unspoken doubts.
▲ previous chapter || chapter ten || continuation ▲
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.
For all of the nights John had spent hunched over a book at his desk, muttering in Latin and other long dead languages, Dean had never spared archaeology a second thought. Too difficult, and too fancy despite having to get your hands dirty every now and then. It wasn’t a career Dean wanted for himself, but then again, he was just a child, and all he wanted to do was ride his bike through the streets of Lawrence, Kansas once the school bell rang.
Dean became interested in Ancient Egypt at the age of fifteen, one cloudy afternoon in April, when the university had hosted an exhibit on the Rosetta Stone. It was the hieroglyphs that had captured his attention. The discs and the hawks, the elaborate headdresses and pompous jewelry, all of which Dean found himself longing to draw, had he the skill.
It became a casual hobby, later in life, a guilty pleasure he’d entertain whenever he would pick up a book for Sam to read from the local library. By then, Dean was old enough to wink at the librarian and get an extension on his borrowed book.
There was still no jail cell to lock him away, and no alcohol to hinder his path. There was still Dad to put food on the table, to help him and Sam study for their exams.
Life had still been simple.
Long years of facing the harshness of world helped Dean push on to the point where he could no longer remember where it had all gone wrong. He hit rock bottom and crawled through the muck, stripped of his dignity and left bare out in the cold. But Sam had been there to give him a hand, a spark of hope.
Dean became a citizen, rather unpleasant and still labeled a ruffian, but he no longer had to pick pockets for a bite to eat. Sam gave him a job, gave him purpose, a finish line in a series of bumps and potholes.
And now there’s this.
There isn’t much Dean can do aside from sit on the grassy ground, breath knocked out of him from the exhilaration and power of the crossing, and cry into his knees.
Dean has now bared witness to Paradise, and it’s far more remarkable than he had ever imagined throughout his life.
He remembers Sunday morning service with Mary tenderly holding his hand, a choir lifting praise and worship as Reverend Daniels read from the Good Book. Eden, the celestial plains - those are just cheap knock-offs of a much rarer wonder.
Dean sobs.
Sam stands behind him, his awe not enough to dampen his need to be protective as his hand grips Dean’s shoulder. Maybe Sam needs stability. Maybe his knees are weak, too. He’s probably still reeling from the power.
On the opposite side of Sam, Castiel is on his knees before falling back onto an ungraceful sprawl. His glasses are lopsided, cracked, but he doesn’t seem to give a damn. His cheeks are rosy.
For a long period of time, there is nothing to say, and nothing to possibly do.
The City of Amun-Ra is an architectural wonder unlike anything Dean has ever seen.
The outer walls are at least three feet thick, extending five hundred feet to each side; and since the approach to the city’s center is sloped - much like a hillside - and several parts of the pyramid-like structure rise from one another, tier on tier; the appearance of the whole resembles a theatre.
Over the stone and marble arches hangs a variety of greenery, flowers and moss.
The entire city is nothing but a garden painted in hues of green, blue, red, and gold.
Dean thinks of a wedding cake, one that is thousands of years old and built by the greatest mathematicians and architects of the era.
All around the center tower are private niches shaded in fabrics and thick trees, the entrances to huts that gleam in the sunlight.
The structures maintain the basic Arabian architectural type, but ingrained in walls are images of half men and half beasts. There is a Pegasus, a troll, a wildcat, a tree, and many other depictions belonging to equally ancient civilizations.
The air smells faintly of vanilla.
When Dean finally manages to turn his eyes away from the city revealing itself before him, growing grander and vaster as the sun continues to glide along its untouched planes, it’s to look up at Sam, who mumbles something he doesn’t catch.
“This is impossible,” Castiel says. His voice is tiny as it shakes. “This… cannot possibly exist.”
Dean huffs, and allows his hand to slide across the grass and grab onto Castiel’s. He gives his fingers a light squeeze. “At this point, I don’t think anything is impossible.”
Castiel gives him a smile that warms Dean’s fingertips. “Correct me if I’m wrong but, doesn’t this resemble the Hanging Gardens of Babylon?”
It does, Dean’s mind supplies, and he’s surprised to find that the knowledge is still there, despite his ability to function like a healthy person again. “Actually, the gardens were never located in Babylon,” Dean says, smirking shyly. “Nineveh would be a more accurate location.”
Sam snorts somewhere to his left.
The moment of peaceful wonderment is ruined by the reminder that the three of them aren’t alone, and that Eckhart and his cohorts have tagged along through inter-dimensional portals. But Dean breathes serenity, because he remembers Ma’at’s promise. Here, within the City of Amun-Ra, they are safe.
“Well done,” Eckhart calls out from somewhere within the mass of bewildered soldiers. “My God, this is...this is wunderbar.”
Bela, too, takes a step forward, with a hand pressed to her chest and the other to her mouth. Her sparkling eyes don’t turn away from the reeds that sway in the light wind.
A pond rests at the base of the center monument.
Dean pushes himself to his feet, swats Sam away when he moves in to help him. “I’m fine.” Sam looks doubtful, but steps back regardless. He moves over to help Castiel up, however.
“I’m not sure what I was expecting but…” Sam’s chuckle is nearly hysterical, and he’s unable to finish his sentence. He shakes his head in Dean’s direction, grin nearly splitting his face in half. “Our names are in the history books, Dean.”
“You two are set for life,” Castiel adds, stepping closer to the brothers, and leaning heavily against Dean’s side. Dean imagines for a moment that they’re going to kiss, but Sam clears his throat before either of them can think further into it.
“You’re coming too, sweet cheeks,” Dean says, just in case anyone gets any ideas. Hand now on Castiel’s arm, his thumb caresses the worn thread of his shirt. “The three of us? We’re one hell of a team.” Humming with delight, Castiel gives him a smile worth a million bucks.
“First, we gotta survive whatever’s waiting for us,” Sam says, scratching at the beard that’s beginning to grow dark. He looks towards the city gates, where Eckhart is convening with Victor, Bela, and the rest of their camp. “And find a way to keep them from getting their hands on it.”
Dean gives him a nod, but his lips twitch upward. He doesn’t know the future per se, but he somehow anticipates what’s waiting for them, and he knows how to get to it and what it can do. The thoughts are muddled, hazy, but Dean can still sift through them with enough effort.
Castiel is looking at him, curiosity sprinkling the thoughtful frown. “What is it?”
Sam, too, turns towards him. “Dean?”
“Give me a second, will ya?” Taking his hat from Sam’s head, Dean shakes off the sand that it’s accumulated during the transition from desert to city, and puts it on. “I got it all under control.”
Patting Sam and Castiel’s backs, Dean works out the kinks in his shoulders, stretches his arms and legs, and swaggers towards Eckhart and company. He feels confident, unstoppable, because he knows what he has to do.
Sort of.
“Ich komme in Frieden!” Dean calls out, hands above his head to show he’s not armed. He thinks he’s hilarious, even when the group of people turns to him with murder on their faces. “We got you here, didn’t we? A simple ‘thank you’ would do.” Dean is mildly put off by the sound of cocking guns, all of them trained on him. He keeps his hands where they are. “Trigger-happy sons of bitches.”
A still-baffled Eckhart walks up to Dean, his gaze turning tight and untrusting. “The ankh?”
“Obliterated,” Dean says. “Consumed for the power needed to open the gate.” He shrugs. “A shame, too. Can you imagine how much that could have won you in the market?”
Looking unconvinced, but unwilling to argue, Eckhart lifts his chin. “And the artifact?”
“What artifact?”
“What artifact?” comes Victor’s mocking voice. He emerges from the quiet yet alert crowd, dabbing a handkerchief to his brow and temples. “The one we’ve come to collect, Winchester.”
Dean knows very well what they’re talking about, the problem lies in explaining to them how the artifact is, not what. He only has half a plan formulated, one that guarantees to wipe this specific troupe off the face of the planet, but he’s yet to figure out how to escape safely. Especially Castiel, who seems to be the center of the big bang.
“Oh, that one. Gentleman, I have some good news, and some bad news.”
Bela has now joined Eckhart and Victor’s sides, and behind Dean, he can sense Sam and Castiel doing the same. Everyone is hovering on his words, and the scent of power hums beneath Dean’s skin.
“Well?” Bela says, moving her hands in a gesture for him to speak. “The good news?”
And what a better thing to say than the God honest truth?
“I know where the artifact is, and who can unlock it.” Dean doesn’t have to look to know that Castiel’s back has stiffened.
“Excellent,” Eckhart says. He claps his hands, but stops mid-clap when Dean holds up a hand.
“The bad news, well, it’s bad for a reason.”
The tension is near palpable.
“Quit stalling, Dean,” Bela quips.
Taking a deep and calming intake of breath, Dean huffs it out. “There is a good chance that none of us will make it out alive.”
The sound of gurgling water is what interrupts the ominous silence, filling the stifling air with rushing sound that offers tranquility despite the doomed stench.
Finally putting down his arms when they begin to ache, Dean slips them into his pockets, and walks away towards the stone mural of a lion. The source of the water is a fountain, and rivulets trace the lion’s contours until they gather at the base. There are reeds in the tiny pool.
Dean extends his hand, wetting the tips of his fingers with the cool water. The city itself is an oasis only for the worthy, and that alone adds to the peril he knows will eventually be unleashed.
The silent trance breaks when the guns are lowered, and Dean smirks. Here, in this foreign place, his word is law.
“If you don’t believe in the gods,” Dean begins, and his voice sounds strange even to himself, “then it’s time to scrounge up those last miserable bits of faith in that measly soul of yours.”
Dean, too, has become a believer. Or rather, he’s now aware of their existence within the otherworldly realms. Demons, angels, the flayed, and the dead - it’s all well and truly real, but Dean doesn’t fear it. And neither will it have authority over him.
“So,” he says, turning to the dumbstruck group of soldiers, commanders, and civilians alike. “I say we call it a day; drink, be merry, and come tomorrow, we’ll head off into the temple and face mummies, scarabs, curses, and anything that may or may not give you the clap, yeah?”
When no one answers, Dean harrumphs. “Great. I’m calling dibs on the Pharaoh’s Suite.”
“Wait, hold on just a minute,” Victor says. Even while speaking to Dean, his eyes are fixed on the onyx monument depicting Anubis. “How do you expect us to believe you?”
Dean scratches at his beard. “I haven’t lied to you. We’re here, now, safe for the time being.”
The accusation is just for show, something to let Eckhart’s soldiers feel better about taking blind orders from the treasure hunter who took a trip into the Nile for three days.
Eckhart barks out an order, and after a series of confused looks, his men disperse with grateful mumbles.
“Dean?” Sam sneaks up behind him, looking exhausted and sick. “What’s going on?”
“We’re taking a break.” Eckhart answers for him. “There is peace before every great battle. My men need to recover, rest for today.” And without another word, he gestures with his head for Victor to follow him.
Dean watches them go, taking the road on the left of the central garden monument. He sags when they are way out of sight, and the strength to keep up his bravado fails him at long last. He’s tired, his body aches, and his knees still seize up every once in a while.
Turning to Sam and Castiel, both of which look like crap, he lets go of a tired chuckle. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m ready to hit the hay for a few weeks.”
Unlike Sam, who rolls his eyes and slinks away in the opposite direction of the Germans, Castiel gifts him with a jaded smile. “Let’s go find the Pharaoh’s Suite.”
❖
Dean blacks out the moment he rests his head on a pillow, and Castiel isn’t that far behind.
Sam snorts at the two heaps of sheets on opposite sides of the room. Never mind that it’s still sunup, and the light seeps into the room at the far back through the door, but the rectangle of light doesn’t reach either of their beds. It does shine a light on Sam’s, which is why he would rather wait until the sun moves across the sky to call it a night. A day, whatever.
With a fierce yawn he can feel tugging at his eyes, Sam steps outside for a while longer. His inner explorer beckons him to poke and prod; to assuage that sense of curious wonder.
The City of Amun-Ra is both unbelievable and unknowable to man, even while walking across its luscious gardens. Nothing Sam has heard of throughout his career can really compare. It may not be made of gold, although he is certain several carvings are decorated with it, its stone and brick walls shine with a light of their own. Ancient and majestic, Sam can’t begin to wonder the prestige such a discovery will attribute to his title.
The branch of road Dean chose (and navigated like he’d been here before) lead them to a small building that is ornately decorated with ivory, onyx, and gold. It’s similar to the brothel back in Cairo, only the drapes here are made of luxurious satin.
Two stone hawks guard the entrance of their lodge.
Inside, the building is divided into five rooms. In one of the rooms are three beds. Sam had expected for Dean to move the beds into the other empty rooms for the sake of privacy, but fatigue won over and rendered him unconscious until further notice. Sam doesn’t really mind. He’s just happy at the thought of being able to sleep on a mattress and pillow stuffed with Egyptian feathers, instead of a slab of rock, as he had been expecting.
Dean and Castiel’s snores fade into the background when Sam heads out onto the grassy road, the cool blades of grass feeling blessedly good against his bare, hot feet.
Sam walks.
All of the other cubic residences are closed and lifeless, their windows shut as if they’ve been long abandoned. Sand covers the entrances and red paint is streaked above the wooden beam. It’s almost as if the three of them had been meant to take the one they did, with its welcoming scent of homeliness.
House after house, they line the street on either side. A palm tree stands in front of every other lawn. The place is eerie, empty, and Sam vaguely wonders if he’ll be able to sleep after all.
Beneath a canopy of flowers is a wooden bench that’s miraculously intact after so many centuries. The gardens that breathe and expand all around him sway in a tranquil rhythm that forces him to sit down, his tiredness finally getting the best of him.
His mind is in turmoil, and his heart is confused about whether it should feel heavy with dread or light with relief. The things Sam saw during the transition, or the crossing, are inexplicable and far too infinite to innumerate, not to mention impossible to remember. There had been truth and lies; there had been the universe. Beneath Sam’s feet had been the surface of the moon, and in his hands the sticky warmth of honey.
Dean had moved through the light like it was his to wield. He looked at home, but he also didn’t look like himself. Of all that Sam fears as a repercussion of this expedition, is that Dean comes out changed. He has little to no idea what he’d be able to do with himself if the man that walks by his side is no longer his brother.
The crossing had done its fair share of whispery change in his being. Sam had felt his mother’s touch on his cheek, her lips on his temple. He had smelled Jessica’s hair. Sam had sunk into the feeling of unstoppable success. Glory; Sam had tasted it on his tongue, and it had scared him half to death.
His soul feels like it’s carrying lead.
“After a trip like that, even the cruelest of us are doing some soul-searching,” Bela says, coming into view after rounding a marble column. Her long hair is done up in a bun, and underneath her left arm she carries a satchel. “Not that you’d ever hurt a fly.”
Sam tenses, but makes no further movement. His eyes are heavy, and no doubt his movements would be sluggish if he tries to put up a fight. Instead, he scoots over on the bench.
With an appreciative nod, Bela sits beside him and hands him the satchel.
“What’s in it?”
“Lunch.” Sighing, she crosses one leg over the other, bending it over the knee. “Doesn’t seem like much, but it should be enough for the three of you.”
Sam’s snort is derisive. “If it’s Eckhart’s hospitality, we’re not interested.” He hands her the deerskin satchel back, but drops it onto his lap when he sees the frown on her face.
“Courtesy of me, you lug nut. We’re in the city. Do you think Eckhart gives a damn about your basic human needs?” Bela chuckles, and tucks a stray, dark blonde lock that’s come loose from the bun behind her ear. “All that matters to him now is Mr. Blue Eyes.”
“I figured.” Sam opens the satchel, and between a bundle of bread and jars of jelly, he spots a chocolate bar that is probably worth a small fortune in the other world’s economy. He should fear poisoning, but Dean’s promise of no harm coming to them rings true in his ears.
Bela stays at his side, calmly taking in her surroundings while he prepares himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The bread is hard, but he couldn’t care less, and makes one for Dean as well. Sam doesn’t know if Castiel would like one, so he leaves the third bread roll untouched.
“The company is roasting a pig tonight,” she says, humming when Sam takes his first bite. “If any of you manages to sneak between huts unnoticed, I’ll reward you with dinner and a bottle of wine.”
Sam’s mouth waters around the bread in his mouth. He’s known hunger back in the day, when all he and Dean had had was a can of soup for the two of them. He shouldn’t belittle the piece of bread in his hand for the pig that he may never see. There’s also the question on how edible said pig would be, considering they must have dragged it in from the previous world.
Looking down at his jelly-coated fingers, Sam asks, “Why are you doing this?”
Bela’s smile is flirtatious, but the black circles beneath her eyes dampen the effect. She’s just as tired as the rest of them. “What if I say that, even if all evidence points in the opposite direction…I’m actually human?”
The corner of Sam’s lips twitch at that. “Then why throw in your lot with them?”
She folds her arms in front of her stomach, her expression somber yet resolute. Sam doesn’t know what it is exactly, but there’s something in her eyes, in the shape her mouth takes, that speaks of fierceness and courage.
“The world’s an ugly place, Sam. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of.”
“You’re a Nazi.”
“You are prideful.”
Sam scoffs. “You can’t really compare one thing to another.”
“Why not? A sin’s a sin. There’s no bigger or smaller; it’s all relative depending on our views and morals.” Her voice is calm, only a hint of a lilt underlying them with humor. “We all have our reasons to do what we do. And then at night we pray for redemption. If you believe in God, that is.”
Sucking his fingers clean, Sam feels an uncomfortable lump of bread lodged in his throat. He shifts on the bench, and slips the jars back into the satchel. “I know it’s probably personal but…” He looks away when her silver blue eyes turn to him. “What’s your reason?”
“You’re probably thinking that it better be a good one if I’m in this mess,” she says, and stands up. “Since you’re nice, I’ll tell you.”
The smile Bela wears is small and sad. It makes her features look fragile under the morning sun, and she makes herself look smaller by wrapping her arms around her midriff. Sam can already hear her wretched words before she speaks them; a forlorn melody that narrates a tortured past.
“By the end of this damn journey, all I want to do is sleep in silks, rolling naked in money.”
Sam can feel his face morph into half a dozen expressions in a matter of seconds. He settles for deadpan, despite the warmth in his cheeks. He should have seen that coming.
Bela’s laughter chimes as she walks away, waving a hand above her head. “Be sure to send your brother tonight. I’ll save you three some pig.”
Rolling his eyes, Sam slings the satchel’s strap over his head, and sees that it’s in a much better condition than the one he’d made out of scraps last night.
The sun has moved across the sky far quicker than Sam had expected, and there’s relief in the thought that he may be able to get to bed without worrying about being blinded while he sleeps. The sun is far too bright here, but what else could be expected of the city dedicated to a sun god?
Sam leaves the bench shortly after, looking for one of the springs he had spotted along the way to their lodgings. He finds it quickly, by a statue of Isis, and the water is cold enough to make him recoil in surprise once he touches it. It is pure bliss as he places his cupped hands to his lips, and the water refreshes his parched mouth. He regrets that he doesn’t have his canteen with him.
He doesn’t mind the coolness as the water soaks his chin, neck, and the upper part of his chest. Sam longs for the baths back at the brothel. It feels like ages ago since he had slept in a comfortable bed, had the most excellent curry and felt safe shutting his eyes for hours on end. He thinks about Portia and Charlie, and by extension he thinks about Balthazar and Aaron.
The journey has been long and excruciatingly difficult, but Sam can’t recall a trip in which he’s met such a variety of people. He won’t be forgetting about them anytime soon.
On his trek back to the house, Sam slows his stride when something darts out of the corner of his eye. It’s slow moving, but regardless of that, the shadow is gone by the time he looks in its direction.
He comes to a full stop.
The area is devoid of structures, consisting only of rolling flat gardens and the occasional pond. There is nothing to cast a shadow, and Sam’s skin breaks into gooseflesh.
He walks in the direction of the shadow until he reaches the corner of the main temple, but sees nothing there. In the distance, the city’s walls cast darkness where sand meets grass, but nothing vaguely humanoid roams about. Outside the walls there’s nothing but dune after towering dune of sand where Luxor should be.
It’s viscerally wrong.
And then there it is again, just a flash to his right, a smoky sort of darkness that walks on limbs. Excruciatingly tall, but once Sam turns, it’s no longer there.
“Hello?” he says, wiping his hands against his pants when they begin to sweat. “Anyone there?”
Sam takes the corner.
He finds himself at the entrance of the square temple, where the hanging greenery fills the air with the sweet aroma of perfume. The flowers are all closed, but they’re still alive. Almost as if they’re hiding, Sam thinks to himself, before immediately standing back when he notices it.
When they had entered the city, in front of the temple there had been a pedestal. Sam remembers it clearly, because the onyx statue of Anubis is not something one easily forgets; especially when it towers well over forty feet over one’s head.
Now, the pedestal is there, but the statue is not.
Sam’s mind conjures a dozen images of Anubis walking the green oasis of Amun-Ra, and his stomach twists so painfully he could return his sandwich right then.
A magnetic force pulls Sam towards the temple however, and Sam tries reminding himself of Dean’s words. No harm will come to them here, and therefore there’s nothing to be afraid of. But despite the calming words his big brother repeated over and over again, Sam still fears.
Nevertheless, fear is incompetent, for Sam is already standing at the temple’s entrance, his hands gripping the stone frame of a door.
Fear gives way to curiosity, and curiosity paves the way to awe, because within the stone and brick walls of a long-dormant temple, there are riches to rival the treasures of the world.
Sam stumbles inside, fatigue and drowsiness forgotten as he skids along golden floors, and gem encrusted sarcophagi. The find becomes bigger, the monetary value too great to decipher just yet, and Sam goes from thinking they’re set for life, to thinking that his children’s grandchildren will be enjoying this blessing decades from now.
Hieroglyphs decorate the walls, some painted in rich tones of blue and red. Hawks, jackals, lions, ibises, lotus flowers… There are temples and cities, maps, books - all of them encoded into the walls untouched by time.
The back of Sam’s eyes sting with unshed tears, with unbridled joy and rapture.
He stops for a moment, uncertain when he sees Dean standing in front of an endless corridor. It truly is endless, for the closer Sam gets to him, the longer it seems until it eventually fades into darkness. There’s more gold, more gems, more jars of ivory and gold. The value of the temple is immeasurable.
❖
“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean says before Sam could ask. He’s restless. Static reverberates underneath his skin, keeping him awake. His body still aches, but it’s only dull sensations in his joints.
Sam comes to stand beside him, looking down the endless corridor. His kid-like eyes are wide and dewy, and Dean can’t help the smile that forms. He hasn’t seen that look on Sam’s face since the last time Dean had brought him a book when they were kids, or around the time Sam met Jessica. Everyone lives for these brief moments, tiny milestones in an otherwise long and sometimes purposeless life.
Dean lets him have the moment.
“The statue at the entrance is missing,” Sam says, after a moment of silence spent admiring the void. “You haven’t seen any humanoid jackals walking around here, have you?”
Dean shuffles his feet, but doesn’t give him an answer. It’s better not to talk about the things that walk in the dark, or in this case, the light. Sam needs his rest, and haunting him with tales of demons doesn’t seem like a wise thing to do.
“You should go sleep, Sammy.”
Frowning, Sam turns to look at his brother. “I was going to, but then-”
“We have nineteen hours before we get to walk down this thing,” Dean explains, angling his chin to gesture the endless corridor. “It’s gonna be a hell of a long walk.” His heels are already dreading it.
“Is it safe?”
Dean blinks, returns Sam’s stare. “That’s new.”
Grimacing, Sam shrugs. “Doesn’t smell like anything,” he says, holding out a hand. “Can’t really feel anything either. It’s strange. Like it isn’t really there.”
Dean squints, and flexes his fingers in anticipation. Sweet little Sammy, always so smart. “That’s because it isn’t. Step into it now and it’ll go on eternally.”
Sam is quiet for a long time, worrying his bottom lip. “This is where Cas comes in.”
“Figured it out, huh?”
“Everything comes in threes.”
Dean nods his head, lifting his arms to cross them in front of his chest. His head is throbbing, most likely a migraine caused by over-thinking and exhaustion. “Only the first part. Cas is the conduit but he’s also a key like the two of us.”
Sam makes a face that shows he thinks this reeks of suspicion. “You never said if it was safe or not.”
The accusation makes Dean grit his teeth. The one thing he wants out of the entire ordeal is the only thing he can’t have. Ma’at promised him safety within the city, but on the other side of the corridor lies nothing but uncertainty and death. “You heard what I told Eckhart. That goes for all of us.”
“Then we’re all gonna die,” Sam says, but his tone is droll. “Kind of fitting, once you think about it.”
Dean rolls his eyes, shuffles his feet again. He needs to run. “And you’re okay with this?”
“Yeah, sure? I mean, distant land, other realm, buried among riches and mummified remains - it’s every archaeologist’s dream.”
“That’s real funny, Sam.” At Sam’s shrug, Dean fumes. “What about Jess? What about your future? Don’t tell me you’re okay to just kick the bucket in here.”
“Dean-”
“I can get you back.”
They both go quiet, staring in opposite directions.
Dean’s heart aches, the edges of disappointment coming undone within him. He can almost hear John’s voice whispering harshly into his ear.
“I can get you back, Sam.”
Sam huffs like a bull, and Dean knows that he’s angry. “Then get us back. All of us. Screw the mission, screw everything. If we can get out of here safe, then-”
“You’ve done your part.”
“And so have you, Dean.”
“I can’t, okay? I can’t stand aside and let those assholes win.”
“This isn’t your war.”
“Yes, it is!” Dean shouts, scathing. His jaw aches from clenching, hands moving along his side, suddenly unsure of where to put them. “I bailed. I ran away when I should have been fighting. Kids are dying, Sam. Kids are standing in the frontlines because I was too much of a wuss.”
“This isn’t your fault! How can that possibly be your fault? People are gonna die, whether or not you pick up a gun.”
Running a hand over his mouth, Dean shakes his head. “You should have seen Dad’s face when I said I wasn’t enlisting.”
“Dad didn’t enlist either. Why should you?”
“Because Dad has a role to play. You have a role to play, still, Sam. People…people need you, in school, in-in society and stuff. You know, morale building. Pillars of the community.” Dean hisses out a harsh breath. “People like you shouldn’t be waddling in the mud. Shouldn’t be dead.”
Sam’s hands are clenched into fists by his side, and for a moment Dean flinches, thinking he’s going to get punched.
“You’re important. You matter, you asshole,” Sam grits out, shoving Dean’s shoulders and making him stumble back. “I wouldn’t be me without you, Dean. We wouldn’t be here without you, and you know what? Maybe we aren’t in the frontlines but we’re here, taking on this battle headfirst. And we’re going to fight it together. Me, you, and Cas.”
“Sam…” Heaven knows that he’s tired, in every possible way.
“You have a future, and don’t pretend like you don’t. I see it. Hell, we all see it. You’re not alone, you’re not worthless, you’re not scum-” Sam’s words raise in volume as he carries on, “you’re…you’re…dammit, you’re a Winchester.”
By the time the tirade is over, Dean is slumped over, hands on his knees, trying really hard not to laugh, but his shoulders are already quaking. He really doesn’t want to cheapen the moment, but then he hears Sam’s choked sniggering, and barks out a laugh.
A floodgate of hysterics opens then, sending both brothers into a fit of giggles and guffaws that has them both clutching at their sides. Sam has to lean against a pillar, tears streaming down his cheeks and having to look away from Dean to keep himself from laughing any louder.
Dean rests his head against a wall, stomping his foot as he scrambles for anything to calm him down. His chest and lungs begin to hurt, but the rest of his bodily aches disappear in the bout of uncontrollable laughter.
“I’m a Winchester?” Dean chokes out, before chortling around the fist he’s pressing to his mouth. “Really? Is that all you got, Mr. Harvard Erudite?”
They laugh on until eventually their madness dies down to manageable hiccups and the sporadic titters. Sam now leans against Dean’s side, arm slung over his shoulder, giant that he is.
Dean feels light on his feet despite the fatigue, and the outburst has helped calm down his nerves. He feels okay, even with the calamity that dangles over his head. He’s at peace.
“Bela brought us this,” Sam says, like he’s suddenly remembered himself.
Dean hums, and nearly collapses at the sight of food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he is until Sam waved a jar of peanut butter inches from his face. “What’s the catch?”
Sam gives him an already prepared sandwich, and Dean sends a blessing towards whatever god is listening. “Guess she felt sorry for us.”
“I feel sorry for us, too,” Dean says, or at least, he hopes that’s what it sounds like around a mouthful of glorious peanut butter and jelly. Swallowing a mouthful, he says “I also would have liked a steak.”
“If you’re feeling up to it, she said she’ll smuggle us some roasted pig tonight.”
Dean hums, swiping a finger along the bottom of the bread roll to prevent a glob of jelly from falling to the ground. “You do know she probably wants something in return, right?”
“Nothing’s ever free,” Sam says, as if reciting from an old book. “Still, an hour ago we didn’t have food in our stomachs.”
Finishing up, Dean points to the satchel. “Anything more?”
“Last one’s for Cas.”
Dean grumbles, but nods.
“You’re gonna stay here long?” Sam says, pointedly looking towards the exit. “Sun’s moving, and I’d like to catch some sleep.”
Thirsty now, Dean shakes his head. “I’m gonna poke around, see if I can find any loopholes that won’t get us fricasseed by the end of tomorrow.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but Sam is frowning again, more tired than anything, but it’s still a frown. “I’ll be fine, Sam.”
Sam lingers for a few more moments before nodding and heading towards the exit. “The springs are safe to drink. Water’s surprisingly cold.”
Dean lifts his hand and salutes, and with a scoff, Sam steps outside.
The temple dips into silence, like a flame blown out, dropping the room into darkness. Laughter still echoes in Dean’s mind, and it’s the only comfort the void of despair that is this temple offers. The stench of death is strong, acrid, and Dean can feel the joy seeping out of him like pus from an infected wound.
The corridor before him is not very different from the corridor he ran through a matter of days - or was it centuries - ago.
Too tired to stand any longer, Dean considers following Sam into their hut, but he’s far past the point of being able to move.
Rather than walking, Dean rests his back against a column and slides to the floor. The stone is cool through his clothes, and at least he’s far away from the punishing sun. He makes sure to keep his eyes on the corridor, to stare upon the roving shadows at the very depths, and not fall asleep. He fears that they will drag him inside if he does.
Maybe it would be easier if they did, but… You matter.
Dean snorts at Sam’s impromptu speech.
He can somehow see what Sam means by fighting to the end, even while Dean would rather fight alone, without risking Sam’s wellbeing. A future; that escapes Dean. What future is there for a guard dog? They just get put down when they’ve grown old and weary and can no longer do their job. But hell, Dean’s not even a guard dog; he’s a rabid mutt trying to moonlight as one.
Dean is just an outlaw, a rascal who pretends to be someone with a respectful job. His place is in the birdcage, bearing stripes and gambling for cigarettes. He doesn’t have nifty diplomas, or a fine lady friend to come home to.
But he did fix his automobile all by himself, and created a system to play films at home. He did manage to finish that crossword puzzle once, but he’s sure Sam had filled out some words while Dean was in the bathroom. Dean connected the puzzle pieces, Dean found Coptos and weathered the pits of Hell with nothing but the clothes on his back.
So maybe he isn’t worthless, even if he doesn’t have the means to start a family and achieve the American Dream. He has Sammy, and Jess, both of which are swell folks and love everything that simply exists. Sammy, who would probably hug Eckhart and forgive his transgressions against the human race; Jessica, who would storm in her heels and whip every other scoundrel into place with a few choice words, all the while tending to the neighbor’s kid’s scraped knee. It’s only obvious that they would love Dean.
Darkness creeps along Dean’s vision, and as much as he fights it, he falls asleep.
❖
It’s early afternoon when Castiel finds him, slumped on the floor in a very uncomfortable-looking position, with his forehead drenched in sweat. His eyebrows are knitted tightly together, his expression unpleasant.
Dean snores, rather loudly as well, so Castiel avoids disturbing him. Instead, he makes a quick run back to their hut.
Careful not to wake Sam, he grabs a pillow, a sheet, and a canteen. Sam had told him about the spring with the cold water while Castiel ate his sandwich, so he stops by to get a drink, and to fill up his canteen.
Once back in the temple, Castiel gently rearranges Dean onto the pillow. The floor may be cold, but Dean is burning up with a fever, so he refrains from tucking him in. Ripping off a piece of the sheet, Castiel wets it with the water, and places it over Dean’s forehead.
Scooting back, Castiel sits on the floor, taking the spot Dean previously occupied. He yawns, still tired even after sleeping for a few hours.
Sam hadn’t said much when Castiel had woken up, only that he’d brought him something to eat courtesy of Bela, before falling into bed and snoring the moment his head touched the pillow. The day feels surreal, time passing slowly, but the clock is still ticking. Castiel’s role is fast approaching, but he doesn’t know what exactly it is. Although, he’s sure Dean does know.
The corridor in front of him stretches on for miles and miles, and Castiel has to look away, bothered by its fathomless depth. Dean had been sitting here, staring into the abyss, and Castiel is left to wonder if it’s because of that vacuum that has been ripped open within Dean’s mind.
“What do you see?” Castiel whispers, looking over Dean’s fitful sleep. He places a hand over Dean’s ankle, and softly squeezes it.
Resigned to the quiet, Castiel shuts his eyes, and begins to hum.
❖
Dean treads between asleep and awake; soft musical notes bringing him above a cloud of darkness, but exhaustion pulls him back under. He swings back and forth, from imageless nightmares to soothing sunlight, but his eyelids push shut. Sleep is better, revitalizing, it will stall everything a little bit longer.
The sound of a crash makes Dean blink his eyes open, then shut, and then open again, focusing them on the dark ceiling of the temple. Dust motes swirl overhead, catching light and dancing as makeshift fairies. Beautiful, until they cause Dean to sneeze.
Whatever is causing the shuffling noise stops, and Dean pushes himself up onto his elbows, rubbing his at his gritty eyes. His back is killing him, his coccyx hurts where it grinds against the stone floor, and he feels ill. He’s shivering in the heat, and his skin feels clammy.
“You’re finally awake,” Castiel says, and Dean lays back down in relief.
He watches Castiel move around, grab the canteen and place it down beside his head. Dean only just notices that his head is cushioned, and he figures Castiel must have moved him. A blessing, because he doesn’t want to think about the stiff muscles sleeping against a column would have produced.
“You have a fever,” he continues. Uncapping the canteen, he hands it over to Dean. “Here.”
Not wanting to sit up just yet, Dean holds it over his chest. “How long have I been out?”
Castiel looks in the direction of the exit, and squints. “Four, five hours, maybe. It’s almost sunset.”
Unable to mourn to the loss of what were perhaps his last hours, Dean sits up with a groan. He’s rested, even if drowsiness makes his movements sluggish. Pushing the canteen’s strap aside, he takes a swig, washing down the foul taste in his mouth. Even his throat feels scratchy, and he worries that he may have caught a bug. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Dean drinks like a man stranded in the desert, like what he is, and is left gasping for air when he returns the canteen to Castiel. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The inside of the temple is slowly darkening, disorienting Dean enough that it’s difficult to tell what was yesterday and what is today. Time and space displacement-or it could be the fever causing him to hallucinate the sudden wave of fear.
Blackness wraps wicked tendrils around his legs, rendering him incapable to move. The air grows thick, heavy, causing his ears to pop and filling them with maddening buzzing meant to disturb. It’s cold all over. He trembles on the floor, arms wrapped around himself.
Dean is facing an abysmal void, heaving, sentient, and it’s sucking him in. There is no air, no hope, nothing.
There is nothing.
Mind over matter, Dean reaches out for Castiel, blindly grabbing the front of his shirt. He tries to say something, anything, but bless Castiel’s soul for understanding his inability to speak right now.
Wordlessly, Castiel pulls him into a protective embrace.
Dean holds on to reality by a string, desperately trying to use Castiel’s arms as an anchor. Here he can be weak, if only for a little while. Castiel won’t judge him for it.
His brain feels like it is burning, his shoulder and jaw ache, his chest spasms and constricts and it feels like the beginning of a heart attack. Dean can’t help the whimper, or the shaking.
When the episode subsides, Dean shivers, and doesn’t mention the wet patch that now stains the front of Castiel’s shirt. Neither of them do. Time slinks by, unmarked and terrible.
“Perhaps it will do you some good to take a walk,” Castiel says. His voice is a soothing whisper in Dean’s ear. “Stretch your legs, and get out in the open.”
Dean hums in agreement, but doesn’t move yet. He’s past the point of decorum, and so he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s nuzzling Castiel’s chest. He smells of fresh water and early blooms, but he also carries a hint of earthy musk that thrills Dean to the point of leaning upward, and pressing a kiss to the sweaty column of his neck.
Castiel huffs out a chuckle, hooks his fingers underneath Dean’s jaw and angles his face upward. Holding his eyes, Castiel presses a short kiss to his mouth. “Feeling better?”
Dean nods, shutting his eyes. He feels peace, calm settling deep into his bones. “Bela promised us some pig.”
“Are you hungry?” The last word comes out as a soft growl, and Dean gasps when Castiel lightly scrapes his teeth against Dean’s shoulder.
“I’m always hungry,” he tries to joke, but his words quiver with arousal. “Fuck.”
Castiel kisses him again, this time hard and deep, drawing Dean’s tongue into his mouth to suck on it. Dean holds the side of Castiel’s face, pulling him closer, carding his fingers through dark hair that feels feathery soft.
A different sort of madness takes over, and Dean is ready to surrender to it. He’s ready to claim, to give, to take, to pant into Castiel’s mouth.
Hot and wet, Dean pushes their mouths closer together, allowing no room for breath or spit to escape. Dean only pulls away, biting his lower lip, when Castiel cups his stirring erection without preamble.
Time speeds up again, everything melting away into hues of gold and red. Castiel touches him without restraint, his fingers confident and experienced as they knead Dean’s skin, teasing and soothing.
Dean gives up control, too tired after the unexpected breakdown to move much. Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t mind.
He’s maneuvered to sit between Castiel’s legs, and Dean grins. The position amuses him, even if it will make it hard for them to kiss. Dean does Castiel the favor of undoing his fly, but he seems preoccupied with something else.
Castiel mouth and hands move in tandem along the expanse of Dean’s body, bunching up the dirty shirt, too much in a hurry to properly unbutton it.
His touch is warm as it slides over tired muscles and sore ribs, and Dean melts under the blissful attention. Thumbs flick at his nipples, but only briefly before open palms slowly caress in a slow, downward swipe. Fingers tug playfully at the trail of hair under Dean’s navel, causing a laugh to bubble in his chest.
Meanwhile, Castiel’s lips are pressing to the space behind his ear. Stubble tickles the sensitive skin there, making Dean squirm, but Castiel holds fast. He mouths at Dean’s earlobe, hot breath puffing, muted groans sounding wrecked as he cants his hips underneath him.
Castiel kisses his neck, sucks a bruise just above Dean’s shoulder, before pulling out a hand from under Dean’s shirt.
Dean’s hands fist Castiel’s pants over his thighs when his hand wraps around Dean’s neck, gently caressing it. A surge of pleasure lights Dean’s gut, causing him to moan, and Castiel kisses him in the awkward position with fierce determination.
“Cas…”
Castiel shushes him with a hand down his pants.
Stars have never looked brighter or more colorful behind Dean’s closed eyes.
Dean’s back arches, thighs quivering and toes curling inside his boots. He moves to the rhythm of Castiel’s hand, each gentle stroke and wicked twist, and his heels helplessly slide across the temple floor as he tries to rein himself in. Useless, because Castiel is moving the hand angling his neck to hold onto Dean’s chest, keeping him in place.
“Please, Cas… I…” His words give way to an unbidden groan when Castiel concedes the unspoken request.
He’s too wound up, Castiel poking and twisting the right gears since the moment he first walked into that library in Munich. Castiel is a force of nature, relentless and powerful. Solid as stone, and able to weather any tempest that lashes his way.
Castiel is a force to be reckoned with, and he’s also everything Dean needs.
A particularly well-performed twist has Dean climaxing with a tight groan, body strung tight and stiff around the cocoon of Castiel’s arms and legs. Too long; it has been too long since Dean has even sniffed satisfaction like the kind that’s currently weighing down in his bones. It’s delight, ecstasy in its purest form.
“Fuck, Cas… fuck.”
Castiel chuckles, mouth still moving against the grain of Dean’s stubble. “How coherent of you.” The son of a bitch nuzzles the side of Dean’s face, and Dean struggles with the overpowering urge to kiss him senseless.
The best of it all is that Castiel doesn’t let go. He holds Dean safely against his chest, rubbing his nose and pressing his mouth to whatever bit of clothed and unclothed skin he can reach.
“I wish I could coddle you,” Castiel says, continuing his loving strokes. “Hold your hand, maybe. Drink coffee in front of a fireplace, sharing a blanket, a hundred miles away from war and pain.” His breathing hitches, his hold tightens. He’s quiet for a long moment, and Dean holds his breath. “I want to be with you.”
Dean closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Castiel’s cheek. “Sap,” he says, but his words are soft.
“You love it.”
And it’s the goddamned truth. “Hell, yeah, I do. I could be here all day.” Castiel hums, but Dean shakes his head. “I’m serious, Cas. I’d be happy to sit here and adore the fuck out of ya’.” He doesn’t open his eyes, because a whole new wave of pain manifests in his chest.
Desperate words of desperate men looking down the barrel of a shotgun.
Doesn’t make them any less true, however. Castiel is a freaking heaven-sent miracle, and Dean isn’t stupid enough to let him walk away. Here and now, Dean doesn’t even have to ask if Castiel is with him, if he’s willing to walk into the belly of the beast by his side, because he knows he’ll say yes. Castiel Milton will look him dead in the eye and explicitly agree to take on the gods themselves.
“I need you,” Dean says. Those aren’t the words he had meant to say, but it’s as close as they are ever going to get. “Christ, I… I need you, man.”
Castiel kisses him, gentle and deep, and nods as he pulls away. “Until the end,” he says, assuaging all of Dean’s unspoken doubts.
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