[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Eleven
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.
Dean stands before the yawning opening of the hallway and waits for the rest of the company to prepare for their journey. What awaits them just beyond the threshold puts fear in his guts and sweat in his palms, but they have come too far to back out now. It’s time to take the first step into the final stretch of their journey, and he’s ready to face whatever cataclysm stands at the very end.
Armed with torches, canteens, guns, and plenty of ammunition, the soldiers stand at attention, listening to the barking of words meant to boost their morale. Eckhart marches in front of them, fist to his chest, passionately broadening on the importance this moment holds. This is their trench, he says, this is their battle.
He culminates the speech with a boisterous Sieg Heil.
Sam stands to Dean’s right, looking uncomfortable at the display, but making himself look like a tolerant human being. To Dean’s left is Castiel, looking impassive, closed off to the potential chaos he’s about to face. Dean won’t waste his time asking how they’re holding up, because both his companions will simply nod and say they’re ready for anything. Neither will ask about the outcome of the mission.
Sam, however, mutters a prayer, and Dean is certain he hears Jessica’s name in the hushed words.
Eckhart joins them shortly after, head held high and defiant to the dangers down the hall. Victor stands behind him, too close to Castiel for Dean’s peace of mind. Bela is there as well, looking far too pale. “Lead the way, Herr Winchester.”
Dean takes a deep breath to still himself, to calm his nerves, and then nods with determination. No sense in hesitating. It’s far better to simply get things over with. Wordlessly, he crosses into the stone hallway.
The sunlight that fills the temple with hues of orange and gold seems muter here, just two steps in. Gray eats away at the plain walls, black bleeds through the cracks and holes in the ancient bricks. The transition is so quick that it causes Dean to falter in his step, putting him on high alert, searching for any kind of sound. He listens for the slither and the hiss, or the creak and the groan.
The company is quiet where it follows behind them, but their weariness is nearly tangible, and their agitated breaths call out in symphony, disturbing the deathly silence.
There isn’t a scarab in the rapidly growing darkness, not a statue in sight. There is no end, only the gaping black void as far as Dean’s eyes can see. His mind is eerily blank, quiet after the incessant whispers he’s been hearing since emerging from the river.
Dean’s fingers grip and release the gun holstered to his side; it’s useless, but it gives him an outlet. Tension coils beneath his skin where it stretches too thin in the presence of an all-consuming power. There’s something here, although no one may be able to see it.
Minutes stretch into hours, not all that different from Dean’s journey through that Hell.
They stop at one point, when the darkness becomes impenetrable, to light the torches. Sam and Castiel both take one.
One more hour and the erratic breathing has subsided. Hushed chuckles and murmurs whiff up from behind. Victor even begins to hum.
Sam and Castiel both send Dean the same look, one of doubt and confusion. Dean shakes his head. “Don’t let your guard down,” he says, feeling sour. This is exactly what the forces want, to catch them unaware. Let them walk for hours, days even, and when they’re too tired to react, too jaded to care, it’ll come in and exterminate the threat.
It’s only a matter of time.
The corridor goes on, unchanging.
What signifies the difference is an itch beneath Dean’s chin, one that refuses to go away no matter how much he scratches at it. Unnoticed, he too had slipped into an unthreatened state of mind, and the itch snaps him out of it, making him notice the hum behind his ears.
Subtle in the company’s chatter, it carries itself through an undercurrent, like white noise. So far, only he has noticed it, and he alerts Sam and Castiel of it by clearing his throat. Their reaction isn’t pronounced, just a twitch of the lip or an eyebrow, and Dean knows the both of them are paying close attention.
Eckhart, too, hears the sound Dean makes. He knows this much when they meet eyes, but Dean looks away, and says nothing.
The hum becomes a low rumble the rest still fail to recognize, but Dean and those beside him have quickened their stride.
The boom comes when they’ve broken into a run.
There’s no place to run to, Dean reminds himself, but they can’t stay behind. Running did him well the last time; maybe he can outrun it again.
The thundering of boots nearly overshadows the rumble, and the grinding of stone against stone. A crackle like electricity overpowers all of the sounds.
As far as Dean knows, neither Castiel nor Sam look back in their frantic escape. They all push on until they’re heaving, until Castiel’s step falters, and Dean is pulling him by the wrist. Still they run, through the dark corridor that falls pitch black after the sound of a resounding boom.
Dean turns around, bracing himself when Castiel’s speeding body collides with his. “Sammy!” he calls out. After a few horrifying seconds of silence, Sam answers.
“I’m here! I’m here.”
There’s nothing to see, but Dean feels Sam’s hand land on the back of his head, and then slip downward until he’s gripping his shoulder.
“Anyone else?” Dean asks, letting his hand drop when Castiel straightens away from him.
“Present,” Bela says, somewhere off to his right.
“As am I.”
“And me.”
Those two come from Eckhart and Victor respectively.
No one else answers.
“What on Earth just happened?” The question comes from Bela, but the final words are drowned out by the same sound of crackling electricity.
Deathly still, they all listen to the sound intensify, followed by bloodcurdling screams and sickening sound of crunching.
Bela gasps when the noise reaches its peak; the sound of someone scrambling against stone, a gurgled cry. A furious litany of German, followed by agonized wails and horrified screeching.
Dean feels Sam’s hand tighten over his shoulder, and Castiel is now clinging to his shirt. Both are quiet. All of them fall silent when the chaos comes to an end, for the exception of Bela, who lets out a barely audible sob.
Steadying himself once again, Dean pats down the front of his shirt. Inside his breast pocket he finds his lighter. The flame is measly in the black pit they stand in, but it’s something.
“We need a torch,” Dean says, realizing that the ones they came in with have now vanished. Presumably dropped in their frantic race. His voice sounds deafeningly loud.
He hears the ripping of fabric, and a bundle is shoved into his hand. “Where are you going to find a stick in here? There’s nothing.” Bela’s voice, in turn, is small.
“I don’t think we’re in the same place,” Dean explains, turning in place to catch a better glimpse of the room around him. “This is a chamber.”
“Hopefully not for torturing,” Sam says, trying to sound amused, but only succeeding to make himself sound like he’s ten again. “I don’t like this.”
“None of us do,” Eckhart says. He flicks on his own lighter. “What now?”
Dean walks around the room with both Sam and Castiel in tow. There’s nothing to aid their plan, but he does hear a crunch beneath his boot. Upon close inspection, he sees that it’s the carcass of a scarab. “We keep going,” he says, wanting to get as far from the bloodshed as possible.
“Where to?” This time it’s Castiel asking, calm and collected despite the shaking hands.
“I don’t know. We just keep moving.”
They walk, this time hurriedly, although clumsy. It’s quieter now, with only six sets of footsteps thumping across the stone floor.
The flames are useless against the vast darkness, and Eckhart eventually gives up on keeping his lighter aflame. Dean leads them all with nothing but his tiny light.
Castiel is holding his hand, and Dean figures that he probably feels safer doing so in the dark. The absence of a mob of self-righteous Nazis ready to get hostile may be a good reason as well.
Dean focuses on the gentle weight of him in his hand, the occasional squeeze of fingers. It’s one of the two reasons that keep him going.
It isn’t long before Dean is slowing his stride, having come face to face with what looks like a wall. But the impenetrable surface is the least of Dean’s worries. On both sides of them are statues, stoic and made of stone, but Dean can perceive their breathing. Those things are very much alive, and he isn’t the only one that knows this.
Sam and Castiel both groan in unison, huddling closer to Dean, as if he has a way to make those things stop.
As expected, the rest of the group doesn’t say a single word.
That is, until Bela screams.
Dean keeps still, even when Sam, Castiel, and the others turn towards Bela. He has no need to look in order to know what’s going on.
“Winchester!” Victor bellows, most likely for an explanation.
He waits still, until Bela’s voice retreats into the darkness, dragged away by clawed paws. Now, only ragged breaths and unbidden whimpers fill the vacuum of the room.
“Leverage,” Dean finally says. “She’ll be safer than we’ll be when we get into the next chamber.”
“Leverage for what?” comes Sam’s shaky voice, and Dean instinctively presses closer to his side.
“To make sure we see this through to the end.”
“Why wouldn’t we?” Eckhart asks, his voice as steely as ever.
Dean smiles, although he’s sure no one can see it. “Don’t fight them.”
Before any other question can be asked, Dean’s lighter blows out, and he doesn’t get the chance to hear it hit the floor.
Claws as cold as ice bury themselves into his shoulder, yanking him away from the closeness of the group. The sound of a struggle echoes across the stone walls; grunts, and enraged and panicked outbursts of German and English.
Dean tries to catch his heel on something, to give him the momentum he needs to rip away from the force dragging him across the chamber. “Sam!” He can hear his brother putting up a fight.
“Dean!” he calls out, but the rest of his words sound faint, too far off to decipher.
“Sammy? Sam!” Frantic, Dean’s effort to break free multiplies as he lashes out. But throwing an arm over his head to claw the face off whatever is toying with them yields no result, as he’s only met with smooth and cold stone. “Shit.”
There really is no use in trying to fight these things, he knows it, said so himself, but the visceral need to protect Sam is overriding all sense of logical thinking. That is, until Dean notices that he hasn’t heard a peep out of Castiel. His blood runs cold.
“Cas?”
No reply comes.
“Cas?! Ca-motherfucker!” Riding out his rage, Dean fights harder, twisting his body into impossible way to be held, but the stone creature hold fast, their fingers digging so hard into Dean’s muscle that he cries out with pain.
Hopeless. Dean is hopeless, unable to do a damn thing. He should have fought harder, gone against the knowledge in his head, tried to make a run for it - so much he could have done rather than surrendering to the inevitable. He’s done it before. He and Sam have both done it before: spit in the face of fate and make it out alive. But he’s let his guard down. Dean’s let the anger and the self-loathing get a hold of him; became lethargic.
When Dean comes to again, head lolling and knees weak, he’s inside another chamber, one that isn’t a chamber at all. He’s standing in a cave that’s dimly illuminated by pools of blue water, narrow in width but endless in length. The rocky ceiling is low enough to be nearly suffocating. A steady drip-drip-drip of water is close to driving him mad.
He can’t move his limbs, or his back, and that frightens him for a moment before realizing that he’s still being held by the same creature that dragged him in here.
His neck hurts, and it’s while stretching it that Dean spots Sam all the way across the room, slumped forward, held up only by another of the creatures. A jackal is what Dean sees, made of polished black stone and gold accents. It all makes a sickening kind of sense.
“Sam,” Dean says, his voice but a dry croak. He has no idea how long he’s been out, but he’s thirsty, hungry. “Sam.”
“I wouldn’t worry about him,” Eckhart says.
Dean turns towards his voice, and sees him in the same position as the rest of them. He looks calm, determined, and Dean reluctantly admires his self-discipline. His shirt is torn in places, and he’s bleeding from his side, but he remains stock still.
Behind Eckhart, slumped, and in no better state than Sam, is Victor.
“You look pretty calm for a guy who’s lost his entire battalion in this little endeavor,” Dean says, tasting blood in his mouth. He spits it out.
Eckhart harrumphs. “My men knew the dangers, but they were driven by something greater than the promise of fame and riches.”
“Lot of good that did them.”
Nodding his head, stiffly, Eckhart concedes. “The Thule Society will honor their deaths.”
Dean narrows his eyes at the stone pedestal before them. “The what?”
“The Thule Society,” Eckhart says again, and chuckles. “Or did you think that the Men of Letters are the only keepers of the occult?”
Sagging against the stone jackal holding him, Dean sighs. He wonders why he never thought of it before. “Is John alive?”
Eckhart finally graces him with a look. “This is the first time you’ve asked about your father.”
“Well, is he?”
There’s a moment of silence before Eckhart replies. “I fear I do not know.”
The answer doesn’t surprise him. “Son of a bitch.”
“If you fear that we are holding him hostage, we are not. The contents of that letter were authentic, down to your grandfather’s signature.”
It’s Dean’s turn to give Eckhart a steady stare, mostly because that doesn’t make a lick of sense. “Then what…? I don’t get it.”
“The Thule Society and the Men of Letters have been working under a precarious truce, Herr Winchester. We both intended to find this artifact, although for different reasons, I’ll have you know.”
Dean mulls over the information, piecing all those stray thoughts regarding the letter and the journal together. The reason why none of it ever made sense is simply because none of them considered the possibility that these two organizations have been working together since the start. All this time, it has been nothing other than an elaborate scheme to get their hands on the artifact.
“If we are to get technical,” Eckhart says, “my company took far better care of your little triad than your precious organization.” He sounds smug. “It was your father who was supposed to be here, along with you and your brother. But he was adamant on not getting you involved. Look at what that got him. He’s missing, and now you and your brother must face this alone.”
Dean fumes.
“With the help of the librarian, that is,” Eckhart continues. “I must admit, I never expected for this to all fit together so perfectly. The Father, the Mother, and the Shooting Star. A slightly unorthodox trio, but it seems that the gods aren’t fastidious over who plays the roles.”
Dean doesn’t dignify him with a reply.
“I can’t blame you for being upset, Dean. You three have been abandoned by the very people who have placed you here in the first place. But it does serve to put things in perspective. Who is good, and who is evil?”
“You tortured Castiel, you threw me into a river for three days, and had I not gotten back when I did, you would’ve thrown my brother in.”
“All necessary evils.”
Indignation makes Dean struggle against the stony hold. “You torture people just because, you kill them because they’re different, you abuse your power and pretend to play God, and buddy, that makes you the evilest fucking scum to ever walk this planet.”
“What is more important to you?” Eckhart asks, looking Dean in the eye. “Your family or the world?”
“Don’t play that fucking card,” Dean spits. Despite Eckhart placing a persuasive argument, Dean isn’t buying it. “You still led us all into the slaughter.”
Silence rings deep and hollow, only the echo of Eckhart’s slow and charming smile remains. “Oh, no, mein freund. You led them here yourself.” Canting his head to the side, Eckhart sighs. “Remember that when you are taking your last breath, that it was you who brought little Sam and Herr Milton into the belly of the beast.”
A sense of searing rage lights up Dean’s gut, wickedly twisting it and lashing out with blindingly pure hatred.
He desperately clings to the hope that it’s a lie, but Dean knows, the truth of it marked in his bones, that Eckhart is right. All of this is his fault. He should have prevented Sam from making the trip, should have made Castiel stay in Munich. There is so much he could have done differently, but he didn’t. He went along, and near the end he gave up.
Dean chose incorrectly, and now they all face the consequences of his actions.
He refrains from yelling out in anger, instead he groans out his frustration, and heaves frantic breaths of air. Closing his eyes, Dean focuses on the dripping water. Anger will only cloud his judgment, and he needs to approach what comes next with a clear mind. Not that he remembers what is to come.
The sound of distant footsteps robs Dean’s attention.
“Like I said, your brother? I wouldn’t worry too much about him.”
Dean no longer has to ask what Eckhart means when he sees Castiel walk into the cave, two jackals flanking him. He wants to weep with relief, but the blank look on Castiel’s face is cause for alarm. There’s no fear, no worry; just cold, hard grit.
Trying to call out, Dean’s voice fails him. He does notice that Sam is awake now, staring at him with too-big eyes and a sad frown. Dean looks back to Castiel, and can’t decide which sight is more devastating.
“Cas? Hey! Cas, over here,” Dean manages to say, trying to catch his attention. “Don’t ignore me, man. You’re hurting my feelings.”
Castiel reacts to that by blinking, as if waking from a trance. Dean can see his chest shudder, his fingers flexing.
“You okay?”
Castiel turns his head towards Dean, blinking with confusion. “Dean?”
“The one and only.”
Dean watches him glance around the room, and give a nod in Sam’s direction.
“What’s going on?” Castiel says, refusing to move any more than he already has. Dean doesn’t blame him, not with those two beasts looming behind him.
“Stuck in a sticky situation,” Victor says.
Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. He half expected him to be dead already, and the idea had filled him with great joy. “Thanks for the input.”
The familiar sound of rumbling fills the tenebrous cave, making the ground beneath their feet quake and tremble. The sound of grinding stone puts Dean on edge, frantically searching the floor for any sign of flesh eating bugs. What happens next is unexpected.
Blue light erupts from the top of the stone pedestal, blinding in its first appearance, but dimming to something bearable in just the tick of a second. It twinkles like a star, softly spinning in place as it expands and contracts, as if stretching itself into something substantial. Within its light is the dim outline of an object, and Dean strains to see the artifact they’ve been searching for all this time, but it proves impossible to make out.
The amulet that hangs around Dean’s neck scorches his chest.
Dean is feeling overwhelmed by it. Part of him expected to find nothing, or maybe just a plain old stone tablet. When speaking of an artifact, no one ever really thinks about light.
“What is it?” Eckhart says, his calm façade finally failing him. “Well?”
No one answers him, too rapt to care.
“I want to see it,” he continues. “Release me right this instant, you useless piece of rock.”
Eckhart continues his arguing, but Dean’s eyes are still fixed on the light. It pulses with a sense of familiarity, something primal and intimate that reminds Dean of a certain touch. Not entirely Castiel’s, but something like it. It holds the sense of security that had kept Dean running through the floor of the Nile, instead of collapsing and giving into the serpents.
He’s snapped out of his reverie when the corner of his eye catches a glimpse of Eckhart, quickly walking across the cave to the pedestal.
Dean blinks, thrown off as to how that’s possible, since the jackal is still standing in its spot. Its arms are at its side now, as if it had simply let Eckhart go. Tentatively, Dean twists his upper body, but his own guard hasn’t moved an inch.
The two that flank Castiel aren’t even touching him.
A sense of déjà vu floods Dean’s mind, but he can’t put a finger on it. Something that he’s supposed to know but has forgotten. He scours through his head, searching for anything, but the only thing he knows is that Eckhart shouldn’t be approaching the stone pedestal.
“Eckhart, don’t touch it,” Dean says, hoping he sounds urgent enough.
Eckhart doesn’t listen.
“You aren’t meant for it,” he pushes on, struggling once more against the stone hands. “If you touch it, you’re gonna die, and nothing you did will be worth anything! Goddammit, man!”
Still, Dean’s warning falls on deaf ears.
Deep down, Dean has always known that this would be Eckhart’s end. He had seen it when he stood before Anubis, but the memory wisps away like smoke. Dean had seen everybody’s death, but those too escape him like misty dreams.
Dean clenches his jaw when Eckhart ascends the spiral steps of the pedestal, hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the light. The man is entranced, grinning from ear to ear as he approaches the very top.
Eckhart lowers his hands, ready to take the artifact, and Dean can see his mouth moving, speaking words no one will ever know. He chuckles, eyes glistening, and it all comes to an abrupt culmination the moment his hands land within the glowing light.
Dean nearly vomits at the scream, one unlike anything he has heard before.
The sizzle, the stench of burnt flesh makes Sam retch, and Dean heave.
The hellish noise continues, and the consummation of a human body will forever haunt Dean’s waking moments. A wet plop makes him gag again, his nose running, and eyes stinging with inhuman terror.
At the sound of clattering, Dean looks up, just in time to see Eckhart’s skeleton rattle and clack onto the ground with absolute finality.
Only the drip-drop-drip of water fills the cave, along with Sam’s sickened groans.
Dean is left trembling on the spot. There is no terror, just eerie blankness and the feeling of acceptance.
His eyes land on Castiel, who hasn’t moved an inch. Only, his eyes are wider than Dean has ever seen them, and his hands clench and unclench by his side. He looks absolutely terrified, and the instant he leans back just an inch, the jackals at his back step closer.
The understanding of what will happen next hits Dean hard. “No! Don’t you fucking dare!” He fights with renewed vigor, violent distress helping him twist and bend enough for the jackal to put up a struggle. But he doesn’t budge, it’s not possible.
Dean’s delivered them to their doom, and now he’ll have to stomach it.
“Fucking-hell, Cas! Don’t let them! Don’t you fucking let them!”
Castiel turns frantic eyes to him, but then, he finally realizes what will happen, and it only serves to sicken Dean far more.
“You don’t have to go through with this! We’ll find a way back, Cas, come on. Come on, man!” Dean thrashes, cold hollowness rendering him helpless. “Cas, please, don’t do it. Please.”
Castiel turns back towards the pedestal, his eyes softening in its glow.
“Cas,” and this time it’s Sam who calls him. “We’ll get Bela, find a way to get out of here. Go down swingin’ if we have to.” Sam too is struggling to get loose. “You don’t have to go through with this.”
“Aren’t I the conduit?” Castiel says, voice hushed. “It wouldn’t hurt me if I’m meant for it.”
“Dammit, Cas,” Dean hisses. He’s stopped his thrashing, and the only thing that keeps him from falling to his knees is the sentient statue holding him. “Don’t you get it? It’s over. Eckhart’s dead, there’s no reason to take it. It’s safe.”
“I’m sorry, Dean.” He sounds distant, dreamlike as he takes his first steps forward. “You should hear it.”
“Cas-”
“I can wield it. Stop the war.”
“Castiel!”
“We can win.”
“You stupid sonuvabitch,” Dean whispers to himself. This isn’t much different from facing a tank head-on. “Don’t you dare leave me alone. Don’t you dare.”
Castiel is well out of hearing range, mounting the first steps towards the glowing light. He’s bruised and bloody, his hair a wreck, and Dean longs to at least tend to his wounds before he leaves. There’s nothing he can do now. Nothing.
Sam is still trying to convince him, shouting out words that Dean can’t decipher. He’s too far gone with anger and grief.
“Would you look at him go?”
Dean’s head snaps up, but not to look at Castiel. His blood scorches in his veins at the sound of Victor and his sickly tender voice. As if Castiel was his, as if he is proud to see him walking up to certain death.
“You should have gone instead,” Dean snarls through his teeth.
Victor chuckles. “I know what would have happened if I did. May I remind you that the angel was under my wing for nearly a week? The things we discussed…”
His words taste like filth in Dean’s mouth. Dean lets himself focus on Sam’s pleas.
Castiel already stands at the top of the pedestal, looking down at the artifact that pulses the closer his hands get. His touch is hesitant, pulling away when he gets too close, the light too bright. There’s peace on his features, and Sam eventually falls quiet. They all do.
They wait.
Dean wants to crawl out of his skin.
But nothing happens when Castiel finally wraps his hand over the artifact, within the light. All remains calm, his body doesn’t combust, and a slow smile crawls across his mouth.
And it’s a smile Dean wishes to have never witnessed.
Twisted and wrong in its gentleness, Dean instantly knows that Castiel has fulfilled his part as the conduit, but whatever needed to use him, has no intention of leaving.
Flexing his hands in front of his face, Castiel sighs, looking deeply satisfied with his achievement. The light before him has vanished, and in its place stands what looks like an ivory lotus.
The stone guardians finally release Dean, Sam, and Victor.
Castiel places a hand to his chest, looks himself over with a sense of wonder and appreciation. His movements are positively alien; Dean failing to find another way to explain it. His eyes are wide, face blank when he turns to look across the cave.
Dean startles when Sam grabs his arm, shaking him out of his stupor.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Victor says, but there’s no fight left in Dean to retort. “His glory will suffer no fool who refuses to bow before him.”
Head bowed, Victor kneels over the damp cave floor.
Dean stumbles half a step away, face contorted into an emotion of confused fury. Lord help him, because all he wants to do is leave his boot print across Victor’s face. Sam pulls him away, however, with a hint of urgency.
Castiel saunters down the spiral staircase, his gait whimsical yet supercilious. He deposits the lotus into his shirt pocket, and tucks his hands behind his back. Discreet smile in place, Castiel crosses the distance between the pedestal and the area where they’re currently huddled.
He stops mere inches from Victor, who inclines himself further.
Opening his mouth, the words that come are unlike anything Dean has ever heard. A distant twinge inside of him tells Dean that it’s the same language from the journal’s runes, but it makes it no less awesome. This creature is satisfied at the sight of being worshipped, and Dean feels violently ill once more.
Castiel’s fingers land atop of Victor’s head, perhaps as a blessing, before falling away. He turns to Dean and Sam then, and the fear is nearly paralyzing.
Friend, lover, whatever-Dean isn’t bowing to anyone or anything. He’s had enough of sick games and crafty manipulations.
“Dean,” Castiel says, in the tenderest fashion Dean has ever heard. It makes his hair stand on end. “I want to thank you for bringing me this far, my friend. You as well, Sam.” Sam’s hand tightens on Dean’s bicep.
“For centuries I have awaited this moment,” Castiel’s voice resembles melted gold. “Had it not been for the two of you…I would have been trapped for several more.” There’s amusement in his words, a hint of companionship Dean knows they haven’t earned.
“Glad to have helped,” Dean says, trying hard not to sound sarcastic. “Can we have Cas back?”
Blue eyes blink, confused. He looks down at his hands, flexes his longer fingers. “This man’s blood is special. The blood of kings flows through him.” He meets Dean’s eyes. “Who else if not him?”
The implications slide home, leaving Dean breathless. “You can’t.”
Castiel offers a condescending smile, but as he stretches out his hand to touch Dean’s cheek, Dean pulls away. Smile falling, he lets his hand come away. “Fret not, for you have had him, and I shall have you.”
“Just who the fuck do you think you are?”
Castiel opens his mouth to retort, but stops at mid-breath. His lifts his head, as if listening for something, and grins once he finds what he’s looking for.
He takes a step back when the floor begins to shake.
“I am Set,” he announces, voice soft with tenderness. “And I have come to claim my throne.”
Beside Dean, Sam hisses out a horrified “Shit”.
“Only those worthy will survive my armies,” Castiel continues, turning away towards the pedestal. “I bid you the luck of the gods, the blessing of Ra, and the wisdom of Thoth. If you live, come to me and ascend as the holy triad. If you don’t….do send Anubis my kindest regards. He and I have much to talk about.”
Dean takes one agitated step forward, but Sam pulls him back. “Dean, don’t. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“I don’t give a shit. I want that asshole out of him right-” Dean’s words die at mid-sentence, because one look around him guarantees that he’s no longer in the same cave as before. Castiel is gone.
❖
Sam whips around at the sudden feeling of being watched.
He’s still clinging to Dean’s sleeve, fearing for both their lives before the monster wearing Castiel’s face. Of all artifacts, of all gods, the idea of Set, god of chaos, being at ground zero had never crossed Sam’s mind.
But that fear is second in place, now that they are elsewhere, with Victor slowly uncoiling himself from the groveling position. They aren’t alone, and the darkness that surrounds him is moving in mass, like a poked anthill.
“Dean, snap out of it,” he says, shaking him still. The situation is about to get far worse than it already is, and Sam can’t risk having Dean indisposed at such a crucial time. “You heard him, it’s possible to make it out alive.”
“What then, huh, Sam? What happens when he tries to make us ‘ascend’?” Dean pulls out of Sam’s grasp, hands on his knees. He looks sick.
“You accept the miracle,” Victor says, trying to make himself sound important.
“We’ll make it up as we go, okay?” Sam offers instead, making Dean face him rather than punch Victor.
The unsheathing of blades forces Sam to shut his eyes for just a moment, if only to imagine that he is elsewhere. He can’t say what rests within the animated darkness, only that whatever it is wants them dead. It intends to test them, push them past the point of breaking, and if they succeed, only more pain and suffering ensures in the afterlife.
“What are those things?” Victor says.
“Hopefully? Your demise,” Dean says. Humor aside, he’s drawing out his gun, and Sam follows suit.
There isn’t much to see, but the barking and snarling is enough to give it away. Sam catches glimpses, tiny flashes of gold in a wall of black, a glint of silver blades.
He and Dean stand back to back, guns trained at their surroundings, but nothing in particular. They know they’re surrounded, and Sam is willing to bet that they’re outnumbered. A total of five handguns won’t be enough take down an entire legion of sentient darkness.
“This is bad,” Sam grumbles. He hears Dean’s grunt of agreement right behind him.
A gunshot goes off, startling him out of the anxious suspense.
Victor, losing his nerve, is firing at random.
“What the hell is he doing?” Dean shouts over the growing hum.
Sam cocks his gun when he makes up his mind about pulling Victor back, but the advancing of the mass begins just then, riled up by Victor’s gunfire.
He isn’t at all surprised when he realizes that the army is composed solely of the same guards that had held him and Dean captive in the previous room. The only difference being that rather than having skin made of stone, only their faces are made of the shiny onyx material; some of them even carry ceremonial crowns. The rest of their body, adorned with golden bracelets and shendyts, is decrepit and rotting. It smells of putrefaction.
“Are those…mummies?” Sam didn’t intend to voice the question aloud, because it is far too ridiculous an idea.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Dean says. “Army of the undead. Why’d I ever expect otherwise?”
“You think bullets will put them down?”
Dean snorts. “Fat chance, but what other choice do we have?”
Sam’s back melds to Dean’s when the army closes in. “Dean, if you die, I’ll find you and kick your ass.”
“Likewise, Sammy. Likewise.”
Sam tries to think a dozen thoughts a second, looking for a way to survive the swarm of beings surrounding them. The objective isn’t to kill them. Like Set mentioned, it’s to survive. And they can’t die if they aren’t hit.
The cave walls are sheer and unblemished, there is no elevated platform for them to climb up on, and Sam only has half a round of bullets left. Chances of survival are slim.
He’s startled when Dean’s gun goes off twice in a row, and instinct has him turning around to see what’s going on. Sam’s gut clenches when his brother lunges forward, towards the two humanoid jackals who have just hit the floor. But instead of diving headfirst into the mob, as Sam expected, Dean grabs their scythes and quickly retreats.
Sam catches the bronze weapon when Dean throws it to him.
Trust Dean to do something reckless like that, but now they’re both armed. Sam can’t help but smirk.
“What about me?” Victor snaps, face turning stormy. “I’m part of this too!”
“Shoot for the leg,” Dean instructs him. “It probably won’t kill it, but it’ll give you enough time to grab its scythe.”
One can also trust Dean to be honest when it counts. Sam would spend time admiring the goodness that lies deep within his brother, not letting a man go down without a fight, but a jackal charges at him.
Sam meets it half way across the floor, ducking at just the right moment to slice the scythe against its knees. The guard collapses, Sam pins it, and drives the rusted blade through its throat. He doesn’t pull away until the head rolls to its side, detached from its body.
Sam quickly steps back to regroup, just as Dean whistles. “Color me impressed.”
“Okay, so, head,” Sam says, heaving like a bull. Adrenaline is finally pumping him up, making him feel like he can take on the entire army by himself. “Save your ammo until you really need it.” The information is more for Victor than for Dean.
Dean goes in again, taking out two more jackals and picking up an extra scythe. He spins them by his side, looking smug. Sam rolls his eyes and mutters, “Show off.”
They come in groups of two while the others linger in the background, barking and trilling, waiting for their turn. The hum grows louder, its sole existence is to distract them, drive them crazy, but Sam and Dean are both too sharp to care. The noise gets pushed to the back of their minds.
Dean picks them off easily with a smooth sense of hack and slash that carries the smallest hint of skill. It’s impressive to watch, and Sam finds himself thinking that maybe Dean has done this before. Not to an army of mummies, but Sam remembers Dean’s stories of encountering grave robbers hell-bent on putting him six feet under. Dean has experience.
That’s not to say that Sam can’t hold his own.
Now, they come in threes.
Sam keeps a tempo in his head, a beat of step, hit, step, step, hack, kick, slice. It flows like second nature, his muscles moving in tandem to a perfect rhythm he’s surprised he can even perform.
Three down, forty-three seconds.
There’s muck on his face and shirt, the smell of rot worsening so close to his nose, but all of that doesn’t matter. He’s on a roll, he hasn’t been hit, and he’s beginning to feel like they will be able to get through this.
He turns to look at Dean, show off how well he’s doing, only to see his brother neck deep in jackals. But he’s still going, face also smeared with gunk and ancient fluids. Sam slowly fights his way to him.
In a brief moment of respite, Sam looks for Victor, but he’s nowhere to be seen. His gunshots, despite being advised to save the bullets, have ceased.
The mummified guardians are coming in groups of five now, and it’s getting harder to keep up. Sam’s muscles ache regardless of the adrenaline rush that keeps him going, and his movements are beginning to slow down. He pushes himself to keep going, to not be swallowed by the swarm, but it’s becoming harder and harder to keep fighting.
Sam searches above the heads of the jackals for any sight of Dean. Sam eventually finds him, holding Victor by the neck.
He looks away before his brother can even finish lifting his blade.
❖
Through his eyes he can see a path illuminated by pale blue light in an otherwise dark cavern. He can hear the drip-drop-drip of water, and smell the faint scent of flowers.
Far too long; for far too long has he been locked away within a plane of absence, with nothing but the weak hum of existence pulsing in the endless beyond. The human realm, however tiny and insignificant, has its moments. It delivers to primal senses, allowing him to taste, smell, see, hear, and touch things he would otherwise not pay attention to. This universe is incomprehensible in its tiny state of being.
Within him, the human fights. Arduously at first, spitting words that have little meaning. Time has calmed him, and only small hiccups remain, broken and sad. Placing a hand to his chest, Set calls to Castiel with genuine pity. The human’s soul recoils.
“Your kind was once great,” Set says, running a hand across the stubble on his jaw. “You were once giants, and the slaves feared you.” Going through the memories and thoughts of his conduit, he frowns. “And now you’re just a keeper of words. Not a single ounce of that magnificence remains. Only human.”
Castiel steps further back into his mind.
“Don’t be shy, little one. What we’re about to do will benefit all of us.” Set stands before a solid wall, runs his finger in the pattern of a hawk, a beast, an ankh, and lastly, a circle.
The wall opens into a valley, long rolling and dry with age. Browned blades of grass sway to and fro, caressing the flowers with soothing whispers. A permanently setting sun lingers over the horizon, bathing the endless expanse in gold.
“Brother!” Set calls out, hands spread out in a welcoming gesture. “Where are you?”
Nothing but the grass stirs.
“Will you forsake me once more?” Lowering his arms, Set sighs. “I only wish to see you.”
“The last time you said that, my wife was still recovering the pieces of my corpse from the river.”
Set turns, eyes wide and smile wider at the sight of his brother.
Clad in regal black robes, Osiris lifts his head. “Your banishment is eternal.” Dark eyes narrow dangerously. “Why are you here?”
“Simply to see you,” Set says, and inches forward to place a hand over his brother’s shoulder. Osiris pulls away before there is any contact. “You don’t believe me.”
“You possess a human who had no knowledge of your venture, condemn his loved ones to death, and now you stand before me weaving lies,” Osiris says, tone smooth and thunderous.
Castiel’s soul stirs.
“My possession is just.”
“Your possession is cruel and childish.” Osiris turns on his heels, robes flowing with the crisp breeze. He keeps his hands clasped in front of him. “Your intentions useless, for the age of the gods have long come to end. Horus no longer holds the throne, none of us do. We simply play our parts in this new world.”
Set’s face twists into a scowl. “You lie.”
“Ask the human.”
Set pushes in rather than asking, cards through the thoughts and memories that aren’t his own. Amidst the fictitious stories and human fears, he finds knowledge of events. Set sees the barbaric nature of humanity, so similar to the times in which Osiris had taught them the wills of life. The regression fills him with ire. The gods themselves granted humanity so much, for what?
“And you allowed this?” he bellows, before taking a step back. The anger, although present, isn’t entirely his own. “Osiris!”
“Among the realms and all of the worlds, these humans have adopted the idea of ‘free will’, and there is no way to stop them. In fact, as you can see, they have rendered us obsolete with their thoughts alone. They truly are a race to be admired, despite their faults.”
The brothers walk across the fields, until an ibis taps the ground. They are now within the walls of a vast cavern, the sounds of a skirmish bleeding through the stones. Set recognizes this place as Osiris’ throne room.
Along the left wall sits Isis and Horus, and on the right sits Thoth and Ma’at.
Above the stone throne, towering high above all of them, sits Anubis, with his mighty feet on either side of Osiris’ throne.
Head held high, Set pays them no heed, even when their lifeless eyes descend upon him.
“You may rejoin us, brother,” Osiris says, lifting the hem of his robes as he ascends to his seat. “But an existence here will be no better than the void.”
“We can retake our place,” Set reasons, stopping when a weighing scale materializes before him. “Rally our forces.”
“So you may be crowned rightful king?” The melodious voice comes from Isis, but she doesn’t move. Not her mouth, or eyes-nothing. She’s as good as dead, sitting on the stone bench of the throne room.
“Clearly anything is better than this,” Set says, gesturing towards the lifeless room.
“You may choose between staying with us, or returning to the void,” Osiris says, his word final.
“How come you’re still sentient, brother? How come Anubis sits above you?”
Osiris tips his head to the side, nodding slowly. “There is still balance within the universe. The human realm may be free, but the afterlife still belongs to us. We are the keepers.”
“I want to be a keeper as well.” Within his head, the human tells him to ‘act like a god and stop whining’.
Set hisses in anger when Osiris chuckles, knowing very well that he’s heard the exchange.
“Brother-”
“Choose, or I shall choose for you,” Osiris says, coolly. “Either way you shall release the human.”
Castiel twists inside of him, thrashing out like a caged animal.
Set digs his nails into the palm of his hands. “He’ll die,” he spits out with manic glee.
“Then so be it, but you will ride him no longer.”
“No.”
“Set…”
“I said no!”
Heaving an impatient sigh, Osiris nods. “Very well,” and snaps his fingers.
❖
When Castiel comes to, he falls to his knees with exhaustion. His body aches and groans, pitifully exhausted once Set is locked away somewhere within him. He can feel it, that powerful force that pushes and pulls with tremendous strength.
Castiel wheezes, hand clutching his stomach as he pushes himself up on his feet. The urge to vomit is overwhelming.
“Castiel,” Osiris says, and his voice booms far fiercer than what he had heard filtered through Set. It sounds like bells and the crunching of broken glass.
“Um,” is all he can say. He looks around to the stone gods, all of them long-dead but still present. The whole ordeal is terrifying.
“I must inform you that my brother’s words are law in the matters of abandoning his conduit,” he continues, tapping a staff that seems to have appeared from thin air. “You voluntarily took him in.”
Looking down at his feet, Castiel slowly exhales. The lack of knowledge regarding the artifact will perhaps be of little importance. Even if the information regarding its origins had been withheld, Castiel had walked up that pedestal, and took the ivory lotus of his own volition. Dean had even told him the stakes in a fit of power-induced madness.
“I understand,” Castiel says. He clenches his fists by his side. “I will fully accept the consequences of my actions.”
Inside of him, Set feels insulted. A particularly hard snap has Castiel gagging, but he sucks it up, swallows the bile forming at the bottom of his throat.
Osiris’ stare is steady, as cold as the stone deities witnessing the events. His thumb caresses the golden staff, the ankh at the very top slowly spinning and reflecting the light from the blue pools.
He sits back, crosses his legs in a very Dean-like manner. Castiel’s chest aches at the thought.
Osiris clears his throat. “As judge, it is my duty to decide whether or not your souls are worthy of paradise.” Castiel’s stomach trembles at what he’s insinuating; the thought made certain when Osiris nods his head. “Death is inevitable. I can only deliver just judgment.”
A thunderous voice speaks in a language that hurts Castiel’s ears, so much that he has to clap his palms over them to block it out. Fear, dread, and finality suddenly fills Castiel’s soul-and within, Set laughs.
Osiris’ pleasant demeanor shifts into something stoic and impassive. The air itself feels charged, heavy, mournful. Something has changed, and before Castiel can wonder what, he’s already certain as to what it is. Emptiness and misery manifests within his heart.
This time, he falls to his knees with nothing but grief.
“Castiel Milton, it is now your onus to serve as advocate to both souls, as well as your own.”
Arms wrapped around his middle, Castiel heaves desperately for air. Sam and Dean are dead, and now he must serve as their lawyer. The notion is appalling.
The staff hits the ground like a gavel, prompting him to look up.
“You will present one deed, just one, for each,” Osiris says, and with a wave of his hand, a woman appears.
Unlike the other gods, she isn’t made of stone. Her skin is the color of olives, her hair dark and thick where it rests over her shoulders. She’s dressed in silk, and her bare feet make no sound as she crosses a blue puddle. On her head, pinned by a gold circlet, are three ostrich feathers.
Castiel watches her through teary eyes, as she plucks the rich feathers and places them over one side of the scale.
She then takes a step back, with her hands at her sides.
Easing back onto his calves, Castiel tells Set to shut up.
One deed.
One deed for Sam and another for Dean; one that will grant them entrance into the land of rest. It’s a hard thing to do for someone who has only known the Winchesters for a handful of weeks.
Castiel thinks.
He thinks back to that night at the bar in Munich, when he and Dean had been two lonely strangers in the night, sharing stories over drinks.
Dean had told him about Sam, his head a little fuzzy from the whiskey. He had spoken like a proud parent, boasted tiny insignificant details about his little brother. The one time a teenage Sam climbed the neighbor’s tree to rescue a cat, and the one cruel winter when Sam had stopped on his way to university to offer his coffee to a gentleman at the bus stop.
Sam, who gave Dean the opportunity to become someone when the rest of their family had gone their separate ways. Selfless, generous, and kind. A good friend to Castiel, a surrogate brother.
There is no possible way to choose one, so Castiel focuses on Dean instead.
The mere thought sends his heart fluttering within his chest. Rude, big headed, and crude, maybe, but Dean is the epitome of courage and good will. A man worth looking up to; a man worth saving. He had given his all for his brother, tended to Castiel’s wounds with tenderness and love.
Dean so loved the world that he took it upon his shoulders, defended it until the very end of his life.
They won.
Castiel looks up at the woman, his throat tight. His smile is wet with his own tears.
Only one deed, but who can create a god by telling of just one deed?
“I don’t believe that’s possible,” Castiel finally says, pushing himself up onto his feet again. He takes a deep breath, works out the knots on his neck before walking towards the scale.
Osiris lifts his head, eyes steady on him.
What can he tell about the men who saved the world? Isn’t that enough?
Castiel decides it isn’t.
“Place your heart on the scale,” Osiris says.
The woman looks from Castiel to Osiris, and then back to Castiel. She bows her head, and lifts a hand to gesture at the golden scale.
Castiel hesitates, unsure of what to do. Sure enough, there’s a live, beating heart clasped within his hands, but one heart for three feathers won’t certainly be enough to even out the balance, much less tip it in his favor.
The soft beating fills him with peace, and the understanding that he too is dead comes with a muted shock, however brief. Set is no longer present. Another stone statue joins Thoth’s side.
There’s serenity within Castiel, calm acceptance. This is the end of his journey, and maybe it won’t be so terribly bad. Perhaps, if his heart is enough to balance the feathers, he’ll see the Winchesters on the other side.
Drinking in one more breath, Castiel places his heart over the golden pan, and watches.
▲ previous chapter || chapter eleven || epilogue ▲
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.
Dean stands before the yawning opening of the hallway and waits for the rest of the company to prepare for their journey. What awaits them just beyond the threshold puts fear in his guts and sweat in his palms, but they have come too far to back out now. It’s time to take the first step into the final stretch of their journey, and he’s ready to face whatever cataclysm stands at the very end.
Armed with torches, canteens, guns, and plenty of ammunition, the soldiers stand at attention, listening to the barking of words meant to boost their morale. Eckhart marches in front of them, fist to his chest, passionately broadening on the importance this moment holds. This is their trench, he says, this is their battle.
He culminates the speech with a boisterous Sieg Heil.
Sam stands to Dean’s right, looking uncomfortable at the display, but making himself look like a tolerant human being. To Dean’s left is Castiel, looking impassive, closed off to the potential chaos he’s about to face. Dean won’t waste his time asking how they’re holding up, because both his companions will simply nod and say they’re ready for anything. Neither will ask about the outcome of the mission.
Sam, however, mutters a prayer, and Dean is certain he hears Jessica’s name in the hushed words.
Eckhart joins them shortly after, head held high and defiant to the dangers down the hall. Victor stands behind him, too close to Castiel for Dean’s peace of mind. Bela is there as well, looking far too pale. “Lead the way, Herr Winchester.”
Dean takes a deep breath to still himself, to calm his nerves, and then nods with determination. No sense in hesitating. It’s far better to simply get things over with. Wordlessly, he crosses into the stone hallway.
The sunlight that fills the temple with hues of orange and gold seems muter here, just two steps in. Gray eats away at the plain walls, black bleeds through the cracks and holes in the ancient bricks. The transition is so quick that it causes Dean to falter in his step, putting him on high alert, searching for any kind of sound. He listens for the slither and the hiss, or the creak and the groan.
The company is quiet where it follows behind them, but their weariness is nearly tangible, and their agitated breaths call out in symphony, disturbing the deathly silence.
There isn’t a scarab in the rapidly growing darkness, not a statue in sight. There is no end, only the gaping black void as far as Dean’s eyes can see. His mind is eerily blank, quiet after the incessant whispers he’s been hearing since emerging from the river.
Dean’s fingers grip and release the gun holstered to his side; it’s useless, but it gives him an outlet. Tension coils beneath his skin where it stretches too thin in the presence of an all-consuming power. There’s something here, although no one may be able to see it.
Minutes stretch into hours, not all that different from Dean’s journey through that Hell.
They stop at one point, when the darkness becomes impenetrable, to light the torches. Sam and Castiel both take one.
One more hour and the erratic breathing has subsided. Hushed chuckles and murmurs whiff up from behind. Victor even begins to hum.
Sam and Castiel both send Dean the same look, one of doubt and confusion. Dean shakes his head. “Don’t let your guard down,” he says, feeling sour. This is exactly what the forces want, to catch them unaware. Let them walk for hours, days even, and when they’re too tired to react, too jaded to care, it’ll come in and exterminate the threat.
It’s only a matter of time.
The corridor goes on, unchanging.
What signifies the difference is an itch beneath Dean’s chin, one that refuses to go away no matter how much he scratches at it. Unnoticed, he too had slipped into an unthreatened state of mind, and the itch snaps him out of it, making him notice the hum behind his ears.
Subtle in the company’s chatter, it carries itself through an undercurrent, like white noise. So far, only he has noticed it, and he alerts Sam and Castiel of it by clearing his throat. Their reaction isn’t pronounced, just a twitch of the lip or an eyebrow, and Dean knows the both of them are paying close attention.
Eckhart, too, hears the sound Dean makes. He knows this much when they meet eyes, but Dean looks away, and says nothing.
The hum becomes a low rumble the rest still fail to recognize, but Dean and those beside him have quickened their stride.
The boom comes when they’ve broken into a run.
There’s no place to run to, Dean reminds himself, but they can’t stay behind. Running did him well the last time; maybe he can outrun it again.
The thundering of boots nearly overshadows the rumble, and the grinding of stone against stone. A crackle like electricity overpowers all of the sounds.
As far as Dean knows, neither Castiel nor Sam look back in their frantic escape. They all push on until they’re heaving, until Castiel’s step falters, and Dean is pulling him by the wrist. Still they run, through the dark corridor that falls pitch black after the sound of a resounding boom.
Dean turns around, bracing himself when Castiel’s speeding body collides with his. “Sammy!” he calls out. After a few horrifying seconds of silence, Sam answers.
“I’m here! I’m here.”
There’s nothing to see, but Dean feels Sam’s hand land on the back of his head, and then slip downward until he’s gripping his shoulder.
“Anyone else?” Dean asks, letting his hand drop when Castiel straightens away from him.
“Present,” Bela says, somewhere off to his right.
“As am I.”
“And me.”
Those two come from Eckhart and Victor respectively.
No one else answers.
“What on Earth just happened?” The question comes from Bela, but the final words are drowned out by the same sound of crackling electricity.
Deathly still, they all listen to the sound intensify, followed by bloodcurdling screams and sickening sound of crunching.
Bela gasps when the noise reaches its peak; the sound of someone scrambling against stone, a gurgled cry. A furious litany of German, followed by agonized wails and horrified screeching.
Dean feels Sam’s hand tighten over his shoulder, and Castiel is now clinging to his shirt. Both are quiet. All of them fall silent when the chaos comes to an end, for the exception of Bela, who lets out a barely audible sob.
Steadying himself once again, Dean pats down the front of his shirt. Inside his breast pocket he finds his lighter. The flame is measly in the black pit they stand in, but it’s something.
“We need a torch,” Dean says, realizing that the ones they came in with have now vanished. Presumably dropped in their frantic race. His voice sounds deafeningly loud.
He hears the ripping of fabric, and a bundle is shoved into his hand. “Where are you going to find a stick in here? There’s nothing.” Bela’s voice, in turn, is small.
“I don’t think we’re in the same place,” Dean explains, turning in place to catch a better glimpse of the room around him. “This is a chamber.”
“Hopefully not for torturing,” Sam says, trying to sound amused, but only succeeding to make himself sound like he’s ten again. “I don’t like this.”
“None of us do,” Eckhart says. He flicks on his own lighter. “What now?”
Dean walks around the room with both Sam and Castiel in tow. There’s nothing to aid their plan, but he does hear a crunch beneath his boot. Upon close inspection, he sees that it’s the carcass of a scarab. “We keep going,” he says, wanting to get as far from the bloodshed as possible.
“Where to?” This time it’s Castiel asking, calm and collected despite the shaking hands.
“I don’t know. We just keep moving.”
They walk, this time hurriedly, although clumsy. It’s quieter now, with only six sets of footsteps thumping across the stone floor.
The flames are useless against the vast darkness, and Eckhart eventually gives up on keeping his lighter aflame. Dean leads them all with nothing but his tiny light.
Castiel is holding his hand, and Dean figures that he probably feels safer doing so in the dark. The absence of a mob of self-righteous Nazis ready to get hostile may be a good reason as well.
Dean focuses on the gentle weight of him in his hand, the occasional squeeze of fingers. It’s one of the two reasons that keep him going.
It isn’t long before Dean is slowing his stride, having come face to face with what looks like a wall. But the impenetrable surface is the least of Dean’s worries. On both sides of them are statues, stoic and made of stone, but Dean can perceive their breathing. Those things are very much alive, and he isn’t the only one that knows this.
Sam and Castiel both groan in unison, huddling closer to Dean, as if he has a way to make those things stop.
As expected, the rest of the group doesn’t say a single word.
That is, until Bela screams.
Dean keeps still, even when Sam, Castiel, and the others turn towards Bela. He has no need to look in order to know what’s going on.
“Winchester!” Victor bellows, most likely for an explanation.
He waits still, until Bela’s voice retreats into the darkness, dragged away by clawed paws. Now, only ragged breaths and unbidden whimpers fill the vacuum of the room.
“Leverage,” Dean finally says. “She’ll be safer than we’ll be when we get into the next chamber.”
“Leverage for what?” comes Sam’s shaky voice, and Dean instinctively presses closer to his side.
“To make sure we see this through to the end.”
“Why wouldn’t we?” Eckhart asks, his voice as steely as ever.
Dean smiles, although he’s sure no one can see it. “Don’t fight them.”
Before any other question can be asked, Dean’s lighter blows out, and he doesn’t get the chance to hear it hit the floor.
Claws as cold as ice bury themselves into his shoulder, yanking him away from the closeness of the group. The sound of a struggle echoes across the stone walls; grunts, and enraged and panicked outbursts of German and English.
Dean tries to catch his heel on something, to give him the momentum he needs to rip away from the force dragging him across the chamber. “Sam!” He can hear his brother putting up a fight.
“Dean!” he calls out, but the rest of his words sound faint, too far off to decipher.
“Sammy? Sam!” Frantic, Dean’s effort to break free multiplies as he lashes out. But throwing an arm over his head to claw the face off whatever is toying with them yields no result, as he’s only met with smooth and cold stone. “Shit.”
There really is no use in trying to fight these things, he knows it, said so himself, but the visceral need to protect Sam is overriding all sense of logical thinking. That is, until Dean notices that he hasn’t heard a peep out of Castiel. His blood runs cold.
“Cas?”
No reply comes.
“Cas?! Ca-motherfucker!” Riding out his rage, Dean fights harder, twisting his body into impossible way to be held, but the stone creature hold fast, their fingers digging so hard into Dean’s muscle that he cries out with pain.
Hopeless. Dean is hopeless, unable to do a damn thing. He should have fought harder, gone against the knowledge in his head, tried to make a run for it - so much he could have done rather than surrendering to the inevitable. He’s done it before. He and Sam have both done it before: spit in the face of fate and make it out alive. But he’s let his guard down. Dean’s let the anger and the self-loathing get a hold of him; became lethargic.
When Dean comes to again, head lolling and knees weak, he’s inside another chamber, one that isn’t a chamber at all. He’s standing in a cave that’s dimly illuminated by pools of blue water, narrow in width but endless in length. The rocky ceiling is low enough to be nearly suffocating. A steady drip-drip-drip of water is close to driving him mad.
He can’t move his limbs, or his back, and that frightens him for a moment before realizing that he’s still being held by the same creature that dragged him in here.
His neck hurts, and it’s while stretching it that Dean spots Sam all the way across the room, slumped forward, held up only by another of the creatures. A jackal is what Dean sees, made of polished black stone and gold accents. It all makes a sickening kind of sense.
“Sam,” Dean says, his voice but a dry croak. He has no idea how long he’s been out, but he’s thirsty, hungry. “Sam.”
“I wouldn’t worry about him,” Eckhart says.
Dean turns towards his voice, and sees him in the same position as the rest of them. He looks calm, determined, and Dean reluctantly admires his self-discipline. His shirt is torn in places, and he’s bleeding from his side, but he remains stock still.
Behind Eckhart, slumped, and in no better state than Sam, is Victor.
“You look pretty calm for a guy who’s lost his entire battalion in this little endeavor,” Dean says, tasting blood in his mouth. He spits it out.
Eckhart harrumphs. “My men knew the dangers, but they were driven by something greater than the promise of fame and riches.”
“Lot of good that did them.”
Nodding his head, stiffly, Eckhart concedes. “The Thule Society will honor their deaths.”
Dean narrows his eyes at the stone pedestal before them. “The what?”
“The Thule Society,” Eckhart says again, and chuckles. “Or did you think that the Men of Letters are the only keepers of the occult?”
Sagging against the stone jackal holding him, Dean sighs. He wonders why he never thought of it before. “Is John alive?”
Eckhart finally graces him with a look. “This is the first time you’ve asked about your father.”
“Well, is he?”
There’s a moment of silence before Eckhart replies. “I fear I do not know.”
The answer doesn’t surprise him. “Son of a bitch.”
“If you fear that we are holding him hostage, we are not. The contents of that letter were authentic, down to your grandfather’s signature.”
It’s Dean’s turn to give Eckhart a steady stare, mostly because that doesn’t make a lick of sense. “Then what…? I don’t get it.”
“The Thule Society and the Men of Letters have been working under a precarious truce, Herr Winchester. We both intended to find this artifact, although for different reasons, I’ll have you know.”
Dean mulls over the information, piecing all those stray thoughts regarding the letter and the journal together. The reason why none of it ever made sense is simply because none of them considered the possibility that these two organizations have been working together since the start. All this time, it has been nothing other than an elaborate scheme to get their hands on the artifact.
“If we are to get technical,” Eckhart says, “my company took far better care of your little triad than your precious organization.” He sounds smug. “It was your father who was supposed to be here, along with you and your brother. But he was adamant on not getting you involved. Look at what that got him. He’s missing, and now you and your brother must face this alone.”
Dean fumes.
“With the help of the librarian, that is,” Eckhart continues. “I must admit, I never expected for this to all fit together so perfectly. The Father, the Mother, and the Shooting Star. A slightly unorthodox trio, but it seems that the gods aren’t fastidious over who plays the roles.”
Dean doesn’t dignify him with a reply.
“I can’t blame you for being upset, Dean. You three have been abandoned by the very people who have placed you here in the first place. But it does serve to put things in perspective. Who is good, and who is evil?”
“You tortured Castiel, you threw me into a river for three days, and had I not gotten back when I did, you would’ve thrown my brother in.”
“All necessary evils.”
Indignation makes Dean struggle against the stony hold. “You torture people just because, you kill them because they’re different, you abuse your power and pretend to play God, and buddy, that makes you the evilest fucking scum to ever walk this planet.”
“What is more important to you?” Eckhart asks, looking Dean in the eye. “Your family or the world?”
“Don’t play that fucking card,” Dean spits. Despite Eckhart placing a persuasive argument, Dean isn’t buying it. “You still led us all into the slaughter.”
Silence rings deep and hollow, only the echo of Eckhart’s slow and charming smile remains. “Oh, no, mein freund. You led them here yourself.” Canting his head to the side, Eckhart sighs. “Remember that when you are taking your last breath, that it was you who brought little Sam and Herr Milton into the belly of the beast.”
A sense of searing rage lights up Dean’s gut, wickedly twisting it and lashing out with blindingly pure hatred.
He desperately clings to the hope that it’s a lie, but Dean knows, the truth of it marked in his bones, that Eckhart is right. All of this is his fault. He should have prevented Sam from making the trip, should have made Castiel stay in Munich. There is so much he could have done differently, but he didn’t. He went along, and near the end he gave up.
Dean chose incorrectly, and now they all face the consequences of his actions.
He refrains from yelling out in anger, instead he groans out his frustration, and heaves frantic breaths of air. Closing his eyes, Dean focuses on the dripping water. Anger will only cloud his judgment, and he needs to approach what comes next with a clear mind. Not that he remembers what is to come.
The sound of distant footsteps robs Dean’s attention.
“Like I said, your brother? I wouldn’t worry too much about him.”
Dean no longer has to ask what Eckhart means when he sees Castiel walk into the cave, two jackals flanking him. He wants to weep with relief, but the blank look on Castiel’s face is cause for alarm. There’s no fear, no worry; just cold, hard grit.
Trying to call out, Dean’s voice fails him. He does notice that Sam is awake now, staring at him with too-big eyes and a sad frown. Dean looks back to Castiel, and can’t decide which sight is more devastating.
“Cas? Hey! Cas, over here,” Dean manages to say, trying to catch his attention. “Don’t ignore me, man. You’re hurting my feelings.”
Castiel reacts to that by blinking, as if waking from a trance. Dean can see his chest shudder, his fingers flexing.
“You okay?”
Castiel turns his head towards Dean, blinking with confusion. “Dean?”
“The one and only.”
Dean watches him glance around the room, and give a nod in Sam’s direction.
“What’s going on?” Castiel says, refusing to move any more than he already has. Dean doesn’t blame him, not with those two beasts looming behind him.
“Stuck in a sticky situation,” Victor says.
Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. He half expected him to be dead already, and the idea had filled him with great joy. “Thanks for the input.”
The familiar sound of rumbling fills the tenebrous cave, making the ground beneath their feet quake and tremble. The sound of grinding stone puts Dean on edge, frantically searching the floor for any sign of flesh eating bugs. What happens next is unexpected.
Blue light erupts from the top of the stone pedestal, blinding in its first appearance, but dimming to something bearable in just the tick of a second. It twinkles like a star, softly spinning in place as it expands and contracts, as if stretching itself into something substantial. Within its light is the dim outline of an object, and Dean strains to see the artifact they’ve been searching for all this time, but it proves impossible to make out.
The amulet that hangs around Dean’s neck scorches his chest.
Dean is feeling overwhelmed by it. Part of him expected to find nothing, or maybe just a plain old stone tablet. When speaking of an artifact, no one ever really thinks about light.
“What is it?” Eckhart says, his calm façade finally failing him. “Well?”
No one answers him, too rapt to care.
“I want to see it,” he continues. “Release me right this instant, you useless piece of rock.”
Eckhart continues his arguing, but Dean’s eyes are still fixed on the light. It pulses with a sense of familiarity, something primal and intimate that reminds Dean of a certain touch. Not entirely Castiel’s, but something like it. It holds the sense of security that had kept Dean running through the floor of the Nile, instead of collapsing and giving into the serpents.
He’s snapped out of his reverie when the corner of his eye catches a glimpse of Eckhart, quickly walking across the cave to the pedestal.
Dean blinks, thrown off as to how that’s possible, since the jackal is still standing in its spot. Its arms are at its side now, as if it had simply let Eckhart go. Tentatively, Dean twists his upper body, but his own guard hasn’t moved an inch.
The two that flank Castiel aren’t even touching him.
A sense of déjà vu floods Dean’s mind, but he can’t put a finger on it. Something that he’s supposed to know but has forgotten. He scours through his head, searching for anything, but the only thing he knows is that Eckhart shouldn’t be approaching the stone pedestal.
“Eckhart, don’t touch it,” Dean says, hoping he sounds urgent enough.
Eckhart doesn’t listen.
“You aren’t meant for it,” he pushes on, struggling once more against the stone hands. “If you touch it, you’re gonna die, and nothing you did will be worth anything! Goddammit, man!”
Still, Dean’s warning falls on deaf ears.
Deep down, Dean has always known that this would be Eckhart’s end. He had seen it when he stood before Anubis, but the memory wisps away like smoke. Dean had seen everybody’s death, but those too escape him like misty dreams.
Dean clenches his jaw when Eckhart ascends the spiral steps of the pedestal, hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the light. The man is entranced, grinning from ear to ear as he approaches the very top.
Eckhart lowers his hands, ready to take the artifact, and Dean can see his mouth moving, speaking words no one will ever know. He chuckles, eyes glistening, and it all comes to an abrupt culmination the moment his hands land within the glowing light.
Dean nearly vomits at the scream, one unlike anything he has heard before.
The sizzle, the stench of burnt flesh makes Sam retch, and Dean heave.
The hellish noise continues, and the consummation of a human body will forever haunt Dean’s waking moments. A wet plop makes him gag again, his nose running, and eyes stinging with inhuman terror.
At the sound of clattering, Dean looks up, just in time to see Eckhart’s skeleton rattle and clack onto the ground with absolute finality.
Only the drip-drop-drip of water fills the cave, along with Sam’s sickened groans.
Dean is left trembling on the spot. There is no terror, just eerie blankness and the feeling of acceptance.
His eyes land on Castiel, who hasn’t moved an inch. Only, his eyes are wider than Dean has ever seen them, and his hands clench and unclench by his side. He looks absolutely terrified, and the instant he leans back just an inch, the jackals at his back step closer.
The understanding of what will happen next hits Dean hard. “No! Don’t you fucking dare!” He fights with renewed vigor, violent distress helping him twist and bend enough for the jackal to put up a struggle. But he doesn’t budge, it’s not possible.
Dean’s delivered them to their doom, and now he’ll have to stomach it.
“Fucking-hell, Cas! Don’t let them! Don’t you fucking let them!”
Castiel turns frantic eyes to him, but then, he finally realizes what will happen, and it only serves to sicken Dean far more.
“You don’t have to go through with this! We’ll find a way back, Cas, come on. Come on, man!” Dean thrashes, cold hollowness rendering him helpless. “Cas, please, don’t do it. Please.”
Castiel turns back towards the pedestal, his eyes softening in its glow.
“Cas,” and this time it’s Sam who calls him. “We’ll get Bela, find a way to get out of here. Go down swingin’ if we have to.” Sam too is struggling to get loose. “You don’t have to go through with this.”
“Aren’t I the conduit?” Castiel says, voice hushed. “It wouldn’t hurt me if I’m meant for it.”
“Dammit, Cas,” Dean hisses. He’s stopped his thrashing, and the only thing that keeps him from falling to his knees is the sentient statue holding him. “Don’t you get it? It’s over. Eckhart’s dead, there’s no reason to take it. It’s safe.”
“I’m sorry, Dean.” He sounds distant, dreamlike as he takes his first steps forward. “You should hear it.”
“Cas-”
“I can wield it. Stop the war.”
“Castiel!”
“We can win.”
“You stupid sonuvabitch,” Dean whispers to himself. This isn’t much different from facing a tank head-on. “Don’t you dare leave me alone. Don’t you dare.”
Castiel is well out of hearing range, mounting the first steps towards the glowing light. He’s bruised and bloody, his hair a wreck, and Dean longs to at least tend to his wounds before he leaves. There’s nothing he can do now. Nothing.
Sam is still trying to convince him, shouting out words that Dean can’t decipher. He’s too far gone with anger and grief.
“Would you look at him go?”
Dean’s head snaps up, but not to look at Castiel. His blood scorches in his veins at the sound of Victor and his sickly tender voice. As if Castiel was his, as if he is proud to see him walking up to certain death.
“You should have gone instead,” Dean snarls through his teeth.
Victor chuckles. “I know what would have happened if I did. May I remind you that the angel was under my wing for nearly a week? The things we discussed…”
His words taste like filth in Dean’s mouth. Dean lets himself focus on Sam’s pleas.
Castiel already stands at the top of the pedestal, looking down at the artifact that pulses the closer his hands get. His touch is hesitant, pulling away when he gets too close, the light too bright. There’s peace on his features, and Sam eventually falls quiet. They all do.
They wait.
Dean wants to crawl out of his skin.
But nothing happens when Castiel finally wraps his hand over the artifact, within the light. All remains calm, his body doesn’t combust, and a slow smile crawls across his mouth.
And it’s a smile Dean wishes to have never witnessed.
Twisted and wrong in its gentleness, Dean instantly knows that Castiel has fulfilled his part as the conduit, but whatever needed to use him, has no intention of leaving.
Flexing his hands in front of his face, Castiel sighs, looking deeply satisfied with his achievement. The light before him has vanished, and in its place stands what looks like an ivory lotus.
The stone guardians finally release Dean, Sam, and Victor.
Castiel places a hand to his chest, looks himself over with a sense of wonder and appreciation. His movements are positively alien; Dean failing to find another way to explain it. His eyes are wide, face blank when he turns to look across the cave.
Dean startles when Sam grabs his arm, shaking him out of his stupor.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Victor says, but there’s no fight left in Dean to retort. “His glory will suffer no fool who refuses to bow before him.”
Head bowed, Victor kneels over the damp cave floor.
Dean stumbles half a step away, face contorted into an emotion of confused fury. Lord help him, because all he wants to do is leave his boot print across Victor’s face. Sam pulls him away, however, with a hint of urgency.
Castiel saunters down the spiral staircase, his gait whimsical yet supercilious. He deposits the lotus into his shirt pocket, and tucks his hands behind his back. Discreet smile in place, Castiel crosses the distance between the pedestal and the area where they’re currently huddled.
He stops mere inches from Victor, who inclines himself further.
Opening his mouth, the words that come are unlike anything Dean has ever heard. A distant twinge inside of him tells Dean that it’s the same language from the journal’s runes, but it makes it no less awesome. This creature is satisfied at the sight of being worshipped, and Dean feels violently ill once more.
Castiel’s fingers land atop of Victor’s head, perhaps as a blessing, before falling away. He turns to Dean and Sam then, and the fear is nearly paralyzing.
Friend, lover, whatever-Dean isn’t bowing to anyone or anything. He’s had enough of sick games and crafty manipulations.
“Dean,” Castiel says, in the tenderest fashion Dean has ever heard. It makes his hair stand on end. “I want to thank you for bringing me this far, my friend. You as well, Sam.” Sam’s hand tightens on Dean’s bicep.
“For centuries I have awaited this moment,” Castiel’s voice resembles melted gold. “Had it not been for the two of you…I would have been trapped for several more.” There’s amusement in his words, a hint of companionship Dean knows they haven’t earned.
“Glad to have helped,” Dean says, trying hard not to sound sarcastic. “Can we have Cas back?”
Blue eyes blink, confused. He looks down at his hands, flexes his longer fingers. “This man’s blood is special. The blood of kings flows through him.” He meets Dean’s eyes. “Who else if not him?”
The implications slide home, leaving Dean breathless. “You can’t.”
Castiel offers a condescending smile, but as he stretches out his hand to touch Dean’s cheek, Dean pulls away. Smile falling, he lets his hand come away. “Fret not, for you have had him, and I shall have you.”
“Just who the fuck do you think you are?”
Castiel opens his mouth to retort, but stops at mid-breath. His lifts his head, as if listening for something, and grins once he finds what he’s looking for.
He takes a step back when the floor begins to shake.
“I am Set,” he announces, voice soft with tenderness. “And I have come to claim my throne.”
Beside Dean, Sam hisses out a horrified “Shit”.
“Only those worthy will survive my armies,” Castiel continues, turning away towards the pedestal. “I bid you the luck of the gods, the blessing of Ra, and the wisdom of Thoth. If you live, come to me and ascend as the holy triad. If you don’t….do send Anubis my kindest regards. He and I have much to talk about.”
Dean takes one agitated step forward, but Sam pulls him back. “Dean, don’t. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“I don’t give a shit. I want that asshole out of him right-” Dean’s words die at mid-sentence, because one look around him guarantees that he’s no longer in the same cave as before. Castiel is gone.
❖
Sam whips around at the sudden feeling of being watched.
He’s still clinging to Dean’s sleeve, fearing for both their lives before the monster wearing Castiel’s face. Of all artifacts, of all gods, the idea of Set, god of chaos, being at ground zero had never crossed Sam’s mind.
But that fear is second in place, now that they are elsewhere, with Victor slowly uncoiling himself from the groveling position. They aren’t alone, and the darkness that surrounds him is moving in mass, like a poked anthill.
“Dean, snap out of it,” he says, shaking him still. The situation is about to get far worse than it already is, and Sam can’t risk having Dean indisposed at such a crucial time. “You heard him, it’s possible to make it out alive.”
“What then, huh, Sam? What happens when he tries to make us ‘ascend’?” Dean pulls out of Sam’s grasp, hands on his knees. He looks sick.
“You accept the miracle,” Victor says, trying to make himself sound important.
“We’ll make it up as we go, okay?” Sam offers instead, making Dean face him rather than punch Victor.
The unsheathing of blades forces Sam to shut his eyes for just a moment, if only to imagine that he is elsewhere. He can’t say what rests within the animated darkness, only that whatever it is wants them dead. It intends to test them, push them past the point of breaking, and if they succeed, only more pain and suffering ensures in the afterlife.
“What are those things?” Victor says.
“Hopefully? Your demise,” Dean says. Humor aside, he’s drawing out his gun, and Sam follows suit.
There isn’t much to see, but the barking and snarling is enough to give it away. Sam catches glimpses, tiny flashes of gold in a wall of black, a glint of silver blades.
He and Dean stand back to back, guns trained at their surroundings, but nothing in particular. They know they’re surrounded, and Sam is willing to bet that they’re outnumbered. A total of five handguns won’t be enough take down an entire legion of sentient darkness.
“This is bad,” Sam grumbles. He hears Dean’s grunt of agreement right behind him.
A gunshot goes off, startling him out of the anxious suspense.
Victor, losing his nerve, is firing at random.
“What the hell is he doing?” Dean shouts over the growing hum.
Sam cocks his gun when he makes up his mind about pulling Victor back, but the advancing of the mass begins just then, riled up by Victor’s gunfire.
He isn’t at all surprised when he realizes that the army is composed solely of the same guards that had held him and Dean captive in the previous room. The only difference being that rather than having skin made of stone, only their faces are made of the shiny onyx material; some of them even carry ceremonial crowns. The rest of their body, adorned with golden bracelets and shendyts, is decrepit and rotting. It smells of putrefaction.
“Are those…mummies?” Sam didn’t intend to voice the question aloud, because it is far too ridiculous an idea.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Dean says. “Army of the undead. Why’d I ever expect otherwise?”
“You think bullets will put them down?”
Dean snorts. “Fat chance, but what other choice do we have?”
Sam’s back melds to Dean’s when the army closes in. “Dean, if you die, I’ll find you and kick your ass.”
“Likewise, Sammy. Likewise.”
Sam tries to think a dozen thoughts a second, looking for a way to survive the swarm of beings surrounding them. The objective isn’t to kill them. Like Set mentioned, it’s to survive. And they can’t die if they aren’t hit.
The cave walls are sheer and unblemished, there is no elevated platform for them to climb up on, and Sam only has half a round of bullets left. Chances of survival are slim.
He’s startled when Dean’s gun goes off twice in a row, and instinct has him turning around to see what’s going on. Sam’s gut clenches when his brother lunges forward, towards the two humanoid jackals who have just hit the floor. But instead of diving headfirst into the mob, as Sam expected, Dean grabs their scythes and quickly retreats.
Sam catches the bronze weapon when Dean throws it to him.
Trust Dean to do something reckless like that, but now they’re both armed. Sam can’t help but smirk.
“What about me?” Victor snaps, face turning stormy. “I’m part of this too!”
“Shoot for the leg,” Dean instructs him. “It probably won’t kill it, but it’ll give you enough time to grab its scythe.”
One can also trust Dean to be honest when it counts. Sam would spend time admiring the goodness that lies deep within his brother, not letting a man go down without a fight, but a jackal charges at him.
Sam meets it half way across the floor, ducking at just the right moment to slice the scythe against its knees. The guard collapses, Sam pins it, and drives the rusted blade through its throat. He doesn’t pull away until the head rolls to its side, detached from its body.
Sam quickly steps back to regroup, just as Dean whistles. “Color me impressed.”
“Okay, so, head,” Sam says, heaving like a bull. Adrenaline is finally pumping him up, making him feel like he can take on the entire army by himself. “Save your ammo until you really need it.” The information is more for Victor than for Dean.
Dean goes in again, taking out two more jackals and picking up an extra scythe. He spins them by his side, looking smug. Sam rolls his eyes and mutters, “Show off.”
They come in groups of two while the others linger in the background, barking and trilling, waiting for their turn. The hum grows louder, its sole existence is to distract them, drive them crazy, but Sam and Dean are both too sharp to care. The noise gets pushed to the back of their minds.
Dean picks them off easily with a smooth sense of hack and slash that carries the smallest hint of skill. It’s impressive to watch, and Sam finds himself thinking that maybe Dean has done this before. Not to an army of mummies, but Sam remembers Dean’s stories of encountering grave robbers hell-bent on putting him six feet under. Dean has experience.
That’s not to say that Sam can’t hold his own.
Now, they come in threes.
Sam keeps a tempo in his head, a beat of step, hit, step, step, hack, kick, slice. It flows like second nature, his muscles moving in tandem to a perfect rhythm he’s surprised he can even perform.
Three down, forty-three seconds.
There’s muck on his face and shirt, the smell of rot worsening so close to his nose, but all of that doesn’t matter. He’s on a roll, he hasn’t been hit, and he’s beginning to feel like they will be able to get through this.
He turns to look at Dean, show off how well he’s doing, only to see his brother neck deep in jackals. But he’s still going, face also smeared with gunk and ancient fluids. Sam slowly fights his way to him.
In a brief moment of respite, Sam looks for Victor, but he’s nowhere to be seen. His gunshots, despite being advised to save the bullets, have ceased.
The mummified guardians are coming in groups of five now, and it’s getting harder to keep up. Sam’s muscles ache regardless of the adrenaline rush that keeps him going, and his movements are beginning to slow down. He pushes himself to keep going, to not be swallowed by the swarm, but it’s becoming harder and harder to keep fighting.
Sam searches above the heads of the jackals for any sight of Dean. Sam eventually finds him, holding Victor by the neck.
He looks away before his brother can even finish lifting his blade.
❖
Through his eyes he can see a path illuminated by pale blue light in an otherwise dark cavern. He can hear the drip-drop-drip of water, and smell the faint scent of flowers.
Far too long; for far too long has he been locked away within a plane of absence, with nothing but the weak hum of existence pulsing in the endless beyond. The human realm, however tiny and insignificant, has its moments. It delivers to primal senses, allowing him to taste, smell, see, hear, and touch things he would otherwise not pay attention to. This universe is incomprehensible in its tiny state of being.
Within him, the human fights. Arduously at first, spitting words that have little meaning. Time has calmed him, and only small hiccups remain, broken and sad. Placing a hand to his chest, Set calls to Castiel with genuine pity. The human’s soul recoils.
“Your kind was once great,” Set says, running a hand across the stubble on his jaw. “You were once giants, and the slaves feared you.” Going through the memories and thoughts of his conduit, he frowns. “And now you’re just a keeper of words. Not a single ounce of that magnificence remains. Only human.”
Castiel steps further back into his mind.
“Don’t be shy, little one. What we’re about to do will benefit all of us.” Set stands before a solid wall, runs his finger in the pattern of a hawk, a beast, an ankh, and lastly, a circle.
The wall opens into a valley, long rolling and dry with age. Browned blades of grass sway to and fro, caressing the flowers with soothing whispers. A permanently setting sun lingers over the horizon, bathing the endless expanse in gold.
“Brother!” Set calls out, hands spread out in a welcoming gesture. “Where are you?”
Nothing but the grass stirs.
“Will you forsake me once more?” Lowering his arms, Set sighs. “I only wish to see you.”
“The last time you said that, my wife was still recovering the pieces of my corpse from the river.”
Set turns, eyes wide and smile wider at the sight of his brother.
Clad in regal black robes, Osiris lifts his head. “Your banishment is eternal.” Dark eyes narrow dangerously. “Why are you here?”
“Simply to see you,” Set says, and inches forward to place a hand over his brother’s shoulder. Osiris pulls away before there is any contact. “You don’t believe me.”
“You possess a human who had no knowledge of your venture, condemn his loved ones to death, and now you stand before me weaving lies,” Osiris says, tone smooth and thunderous.
Castiel’s soul stirs.
“My possession is just.”
“Your possession is cruel and childish.” Osiris turns on his heels, robes flowing with the crisp breeze. He keeps his hands clasped in front of him. “Your intentions useless, for the age of the gods have long come to end. Horus no longer holds the throne, none of us do. We simply play our parts in this new world.”
Set’s face twists into a scowl. “You lie.”
“Ask the human.”
Set pushes in rather than asking, cards through the thoughts and memories that aren’t his own. Amidst the fictitious stories and human fears, he finds knowledge of events. Set sees the barbaric nature of humanity, so similar to the times in which Osiris had taught them the wills of life. The regression fills him with ire. The gods themselves granted humanity so much, for what?
“And you allowed this?” he bellows, before taking a step back. The anger, although present, isn’t entirely his own. “Osiris!”
“Among the realms and all of the worlds, these humans have adopted the idea of ‘free will’, and there is no way to stop them. In fact, as you can see, they have rendered us obsolete with their thoughts alone. They truly are a race to be admired, despite their faults.”
The brothers walk across the fields, until an ibis taps the ground. They are now within the walls of a vast cavern, the sounds of a skirmish bleeding through the stones. Set recognizes this place as Osiris’ throne room.
Along the left wall sits Isis and Horus, and on the right sits Thoth and Ma’at.
Above the stone throne, towering high above all of them, sits Anubis, with his mighty feet on either side of Osiris’ throne.
Head held high, Set pays them no heed, even when their lifeless eyes descend upon him.
“You may rejoin us, brother,” Osiris says, lifting the hem of his robes as he ascends to his seat. “But an existence here will be no better than the void.”
“We can retake our place,” Set reasons, stopping when a weighing scale materializes before him. “Rally our forces.”
“So you may be crowned rightful king?” The melodious voice comes from Isis, but she doesn’t move. Not her mouth, or eyes-nothing. She’s as good as dead, sitting on the stone bench of the throne room.
“Clearly anything is better than this,” Set says, gesturing towards the lifeless room.
“You may choose between staying with us, or returning to the void,” Osiris says, his word final.
“How come you’re still sentient, brother? How come Anubis sits above you?”
Osiris tips his head to the side, nodding slowly. “There is still balance within the universe. The human realm may be free, but the afterlife still belongs to us. We are the keepers.”
“I want to be a keeper as well.” Within his head, the human tells him to ‘act like a god and stop whining’.
Set hisses in anger when Osiris chuckles, knowing very well that he’s heard the exchange.
“Brother-”
“Choose, or I shall choose for you,” Osiris says, coolly. “Either way you shall release the human.”
Castiel twists inside of him, thrashing out like a caged animal.
Set digs his nails into the palm of his hands. “He’ll die,” he spits out with manic glee.
“Then so be it, but you will ride him no longer.”
“No.”
“Set…”
“I said no!”
Heaving an impatient sigh, Osiris nods. “Very well,” and snaps his fingers.
❖
When Castiel comes to, he falls to his knees with exhaustion. His body aches and groans, pitifully exhausted once Set is locked away somewhere within him. He can feel it, that powerful force that pushes and pulls with tremendous strength.
Castiel wheezes, hand clutching his stomach as he pushes himself up on his feet. The urge to vomit is overwhelming.
“Castiel,” Osiris says, and his voice booms far fiercer than what he had heard filtered through Set. It sounds like bells and the crunching of broken glass.
“Um,” is all he can say. He looks around to the stone gods, all of them long-dead but still present. The whole ordeal is terrifying.
“I must inform you that my brother’s words are law in the matters of abandoning his conduit,” he continues, tapping a staff that seems to have appeared from thin air. “You voluntarily took him in.”
Looking down at his feet, Castiel slowly exhales. The lack of knowledge regarding the artifact will perhaps be of little importance. Even if the information regarding its origins had been withheld, Castiel had walked up that pedestal, and took the ivory lotus of his own volition. Dean had even told him the stakes in a fit of power-induced madness.
“I understand,” Castiel says. He clenches his fists by his side. “I will fully accept the consequences of my actions.”
Inside of him, Set feels insulted. A particularly hard snap has Castiel gagging, but he sucks it up, swallows the bile forming at the bottom of his throat.
Osiris’ stare is steady, as cold as the stone deities witnessing the events. His thumb caresses the golden staff, the ankh at the very top slowly spinning and reflecting the light from the blue pools.
He sits back, crosses his legs in a very Dean-like manner. Castiel’s chest aches at the thought.
Osiris clears his throat. “As judge, it is my duty to decide whether or not your souls are worthy of paradise.” Castiel’s stomach trembles at what he’s insinuating; the thought made certain when Osiris nods his head. “Death is inevitable. I can only deliver just judgment.”
A thunderous voice speaks in a language that hurts Castiel’s ears, so much that he has to clap his palms over them to block it out. Fear, dread, and finality suddenly fills Castiel’s soul-and within, Set laughs.
Osiris’ pleasant demeanor shifts into something stoic and impassive. The air itself feels charged, heavy, mournful. Something has changed, and before Castiel can wonder what, he’s already certain as to what it is. Emptiness and misery manifests within his heart.
This time, he falls to his knees with nothing but grief.
“Castiel Milton, it is now your onus to serve as advocate to both souls, as well as your own.”
Arms wrapped around his middle, Castiel heaves desperately for air. Sam and Dean are dead, and now he must serve as their lawyer. The notion is appalling.
The staff hits the ground like a gavel, prompting him to look up.
“You will present one deed, just one, for each,” Osiris says, and with a wave of his hand, a woman appears.
Unlike the other gods, she isn’t made of stone. Her skin is the color of olives, her hair dark and thick where it rests over her shoulders. She’s dressed in silk, and her bare feet make no sound as she crosses a blue puddle. On her head, pinned by a gold circlet, are three ostrich feathers.
Castiel watches her through teary eyes, as she plucks the rich feathers and places them over one side of the scale.
She then takes a step back, with her hands at her sides.
Easing back onto his calves, Castiel tells Set to shut up.
One deed.
One deed for Sam and another for Dean; one that will grant them entrance into the land of rest. It’s a hard thing to do for someone who has only known the Winchesters for a handful of weeks.
Castiel thinks.
He thinks back to that night at the bar in Munich, when he and Dean had been two lonely strangers in the night, sharing stories over drinks.
Dean had told him about Sam, his head a little fuzzy from the whiskey. He had spoken like a proud parent, boasted tiny insignificant details about his little brother. The one time a teenage Sam climbed the neighbor’s tree to rescue a cat, and the one cruel winter when Sam had stopped on his way to university to offer his coffee to a gentleman at the bus stop.
Sam, who gave Dean the opportunity to become someone when the rest of their family had gone their separate ways. Selfless, generous, and kind. A good friend to Castiel, a surrogate brother.
There is no possible way to choose one, so Castiel focuses on Dean instead.
The mere thought sends his heart fluttering within his chest. Rude, big headed, and crude, maybe, but Dean is the epitome of courage and good will. A man worth looking up to; a man worth saving. He had given his all for his brother, tended to Castiel’s wounds with tenderness and love.
Dean so loved the world that he took it upon his shoulders, defended it until the very end of his life.
They won.
Castiel looks up at the woman, his throat tight. His smile is wet with his own tears.
Only one deed, but who can create a god by telling of just one deed?
“I don’t believe that’s possible,” Castiel finally says, pushing himself up onto his feet again. He takes a deep breath, works out the knots on his neck before walking towards the scale.
Osiris lifts his head, eyes steady on him.
What can he tell about the men who saved the world? Isn’t that enough?
Castiel decides it isn’t.
“Place your heart on the scale,” Osiris says.
The woman looks from Castiel to Osiris, and then back to Castiel. She bows her head, and lifts a hand to gesture at the golden scale.
Castiel hesitates, unsure of what to do. Sure enough, there’s a live, beating heart clasped within his hands, but one heart for three feathers won’t certainly be enough to even out the balance, much less tip it in his favor.
The soft beating fills him with peace, and the understanding that he too is dead comes with a muted shock, however brief. Set is no longer present. Another stone statue joins Thoth’s side.
There’s serenity within Castiel, calm acceptance. This is the end of his journey, and maybe it won’t be so terribly bad. Perhaps, if his heart is enough to balance the feathers, he’ll see the Winchesters on the other side.
Drinking in one more breath, Castiel places his heart over the golden pan, and watches.
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