Stainless and Honorable Lives 3/4
AUTHOR:Scullspeare
SUMMARY: Murders in two separate cities draw the brothers into a case that has Sam teaming with someone he never thought he’d meet, and Dean fighting for his life in a way he never imagined. Casefic. Chapter 3 of 4.
SPOILERS: Technically, the story is set within Season 9, post trial-related fallout, but is a standalone case-fic-no spoilers-and may become slightly AU depending on what happens in Tuesday’s Season 9 premiere. Right now, though, it fits within canon.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, Jeremy Carver & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude.
RATING: T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen calls them.
WORD COUNT: Chapter One: 5K+ Complete story: 24K
GENRE: Gen/Hurt-Comfort
A/N: This is the third of four chapters, and all chapters are complete. The final chapter will be posted Saturday. Many thanks and big hugs to my beta, Harrigan; my stories are always better with your help. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thanks also to Freya for the encouragement to get this done. And Suzee51: the scene you wanted the last time around that wasn’t there? It shows up here. Cryptic enough? ;-) On the whumpage front, I’ll just say that neither brother escapes this fic unscathed. (Shocking I know, coming from me.) Enjoy! Written to fill the ‘Job-related Injury’ square in my hc_Bingo card. A great big thank you to everyone for the lovely reviews of Chapter One. They are very much appreciated. And now, on with Chapter Two. Enjoy.
Link back to Chapter 2 Here
STAINLESS AND HONORABLE LIVES
Chapter Three
Sam squinted at the computer screen, the strings of coding all blurring together. He pushed away the laptop and scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Perhaps you should rest.” Galahad refilled a tin cup with water and offered it to Sam. “Your brother promised to-how did he put it-change history at my expense if I allowed you to overexert yourself.”
Sam snorted. “That sounds like Dean.” A pained grunt escaped as he leaned in to take the cup. “Thanks…. He told you we were brothers, huh?”
Galahad nodded. “Although it was no surprise. That you were brothers-in-arms was obvious from moment he arrived, but the kinship of blood was evident in the way he cared for you-and threatened us.”
Sam smiled. “Old habit-he’s been looking out for me a long time.” He often bitched at Dean for being overprotective, but only rarely were the gripes heated; the instinct was just hard-wired in his brother. And when he’d come to in the church basement with Dean at his side, growling at the knights…well, he wasn’t griping. Sam gulped down some water, set down the cup, then leaned back, letting his eyes slide shut.
Before Dean left with Percival and Bors, he had changed the dressing on Sam’s injured shoulder, helped him into a zip-front hoodie and re-secured his sling. When Rev. Jeffers had fetched more blankets and pillows, Dean had stacked the pillows behind Sam to keep him upright and as comfortable as possible. Of course, he’d also instructed Galahad to use his sword and cut off Sam at the knees if he attempted to get out of bed for anything beyond trips to the bathroom. OK, that had fueled a gripe or two.
Sam’s computer was balanced on his lap, his phone and gun within easy reach of his good hand. In the hour or so since Dean had been gone, Sam had battled to hack into museum security, while Galahad and the reverend worked their way through the Arthurian exhibit inventory list, looking for anything that might resemble the grail. So far, they’d struck out on both fronts.
Museum security was gold standard, blocking Sam at every move. He’d ditched the sling about twenty minutes earlier, hoping two hands would make a difference. It hadn’t. As for the list-no item had sparked even a flicker of recognition from Galahad. After Rev. Jeffers read out the description and provenance of each item, things like paintings and armor were quickly eliminated; anything worth investigating further, like a court banquet chalice or a kitchen platter, now appeared under yellow highlighter. Sam peeled open his eyes and picked up the list, slowly flipping through the marked pages; there was very little yellow in a sea of dark ink.
Rev. Jeffers had disappeared upstairs a few minutes earlier, muttering something about Sam needing to eat. Galahad remained seated on the floor beside Sam’s makeshift bed, running a whetstone along the blade of a small but deadly-looking dagger.
Sam studied the man beside him; the knight wasn’t quite what he’d pictured-far more soldier than saint. Like Dean, he was finely muscled-and, also like his brother, carried himself in a way that said he could handle himself in a fight. The scars across his hands, arms and face suggested there had been many.
Sam had read Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur in high school English and studied the Vulgate Cycle in a Romantic Lit class at Stanford, but his strongest memories of the Grail story would always be shaped by the Classics Illustrated comic that Dean had read to him when he was a kid. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the panels depicting light streaming down over a praying Galahad as he embarked on the quest for the grail.
But what should be a happy memory, wasn’t; it was one of the first times he’d realized he was…different. Even his five-year-old self knew he’d never be worthy of such a quest-and that was long before he knew about hunting, let alone demon blood and his dark destiny. Now fate in its most cruel form was taunting him, inconceivably dropping him in the midst of that very quest.
“You’re staring, Sir Samuel.” Galahad didn’t look up, just continued sharpening the dagger. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were bewitched.”
“Sorry.” Sam cleared his throat. “And it’s Sam…just Sam. Believe me-I’m no knight.”
Galahad looked up. “From what I understand, you and your brother travel this land defending right, helping those in need. And even though we met but a short time ago, you have each pledged to help us in our quest, guide us through this strange land and for no discernable personal gain. These are all facets of a true knight.” He set down the whetstone and ran his thumb lightly along the edge of the blade. “That, and like Bors, you fight fiercely and are almost the size of my horse….” His head down, a grin was just visible beneath the mop of unruly, dark hair. “Both welcome qualities in any knight at my side on a battlefield.”
Sam stared at Galahad. “How do you do it?”
Galahad lifted his head. “Do what?”
“Stay true…. Live the ‘stainless and honorable life’ your pledge as a knight demands when there’s so much…so much evil out there.” Sam picked at a broken thread on the blanket, all the loss, all the mistakes, all the twisted good intentions that had literally taken him to Hell spinning through his head. “You think you’re doing something good, something right…and then…then it all gets twisted. And even if some kind of miracle happens and you claw your way free, get a chance to start over, there’s still this…this stain on your soul you can’t ever wash away.” His eyes were glassy as he looked up at Galahad. “How do you…stay clean?”
Galahad set down the dagger. “You know much about my life, Sam-disconcertingly so-but over the centuries it seems a few pages have been lost from the books that tell the tales. I’m not clean-no man who lives a soldier’s life, who fights at the whim of kings, can be. I have blood on my hands, have succumbed to rage…to temptation…doubt.”
“But….” Sam shook his head; this didn’t make sense. “You were the one chosen for the grail quest…you survived the Siege Perilous.”
“Ah, the Siege Perilous.” Galahad smiled. “The cursed chair of the Round Table…fatal to all who sit in it except he who is pure of heart, pure of soul-and it is he who is destined to find the grail.” He snorted softly. “I’m sure Merlin would be delighted to know his trickery has become legend.”
Sam’s confusion deepened. “Trickery?”
“The chair is a ruse, Sam-a test.” Galahad stroked a hand over his closely cropped beard. “The story is repeated to all prospective knights, who are then asked to sit in the chair to prove their worth. Their reaction, not the chair itself, tells the king everything he needs to know. If a man refuses and won’t divulge why, Arthur turns him away-he’s hiding something. But if a man is honest and confesses his sins, the reasons he can’t sit in it, then the king can judge if those sins are forgivable.”
Sam frowned. “So you-you confessed?”
“Who amongst us is not without sin?” Galahad’s smile returned. “I asked that God judge me directly. I knelt in front of the chair and prayed-asked him to cleanse me of my sins, and that if any were too great to forgive, that he strike me down there and then. And then I sat in the chair.”
A smile flickered across Sam’s face. “And that’s how you were chosen for the grail quest.”
Galahad shrugged. “I am no more virtuous than my fellow knights-perhaps just more willing than some to admit my mistakes, my weaknesses-of which there are many.” He picked up his dagger and slid it into the sheath on his belt, then dropped the whetstone into a pouch hanging beside it. “Bors also sat in the chair, you know.” He chuckled. “As did Percival-and didn’t that shock the gentlefolk of Camelot. You may have noticed, his manners are…less than courtly.”
Sam grinned. “I like him. He reminds me of my brother-and people always underestimate Dean, too. He’s the best man I know, and the last one to realize it.”
“It appears you and your brother have much in common.” Galahad sat back. “But like you say, it’s often easier to see the good in others than in ourselves.”
Rev. Jeffers returned at that moment, breathlessly entering carrying two plastic shopping bags. “If my dear wife, God rest her soul, was still with us, you’d be eating off plates and drinking from cups with saucers.” He dumped the bags on the workbench, reached into the first and pulled out two foil-wrapped sandwiches. “I’m at a bit of a loss in the kitchen, I’m afraid-this is the best I could come up with.” He tossed them to Galahad, who handed one to Sam.
“Thanks.” Sam dropped the sandwich into his lap and began unwrapping it one-handed. “For the food, and your help.”
“We are also in your debt, good father.” Galahad, at first perplexed by the foil wrapping, followed Sam’s lead, his furrowed brow relaxing when he caught sight of the food inside. “Ah, Percival will be sorry to have missed this. The man’s appetite-for all things-is legendary.”
Sam smiled around a mouthful of tuna, mayo, and tomato. “Another thing he and Dean have in common.”
“Don’t worry-I made enough for everyone. Galahad can take the extras with him when he rejoins the others.” Rev. Jeffers set down the second bag between the two younger men. “There’s fruit and bottles of water in there. Help yourself. We must all take a moment to refuel, to help us think more clearly.” Out of breath, he sank again into the wooden chair. “Until you boys arrived, I’d forgotten how many stairs this old place has. Any progress to report?”
“No. Museum security is still a bitch-I mean, a problem.” Sam shot an apologetic glance at the reverend. “And we finished going through the list but nothing jumped out. I’ve sent Dean the inventory numbers of everything we’ve identified as a possibility but….” He glanced down at the pile of papers. “It would really help if we knew what the hell we were looking for. I mean, bowl, cup, serving platter-which is it? Historians can’t agree, so how are we supposed to know?”
Rev. Jeffers smiled. “It’s hard for people, especially the devout, to believe that something so important, so significant to their faith could be something…ordinary. It’s why DaVinci painted the Last Supper as a grand banquet…why Hollywood depicts the grail as a golden chalice. They need important events and objects to look important. But on earth, Jesus was a fisherman, the son of a carpenter-a simple man. The grail was likely made of wood or clay…something you wouldn’t look twice at if you didn’t know what it was.”
“Something you wouldn’t look twice at-which is why it’s so damn hard to find.” Sam took another bite of his sandwich as he stared at the list. “You ever study Arthurian history, Reverend?”
“A long…long time ago.” Rev. Jeffers glanced over at Galahad. “For obvious reasons, the grail was of great interest to all of us at the seminary. The biggest problem, as I recall, is that most of what we know of Arthur and his court…of the quest…was not recorded by historians, but poets and storytellers.”
“Who never let facts get in the way of good tale. So even with a 1,500-year head start, we know little more than Galahad.” Sam shook his head, then turned to the knight. “Those stories say you had a vision of the grail, but then you would have seen it…seen what it looks like. I’m guessing that was more fiction?”
“A vision?” Galahad smiled. “I take it this was written by the same storyteller who wrote of the Siege Perilous?” He shook his head. “There was no vision. Merlin said only that as knights worthy of the quest, we would know where to look, would recognize what we sought when we found it.” Galahad’s smile returned. “As I recall, Percival’s retort to that was…colorful. He greatly dislikes riddles. But then, they wouldn’t call it a quest if it was easy, would they? More like…an errand.”
“Touché.” According to legend, Galahad would eventually find the grail, although he and Percival would die shortly afterwards, only Bors surviving to return to Camelot. But so much of the lore was wrong-the Siege Perilous, the visions, Percival’s behaviour-what if that part of the legend was wrong, too? “Look, I hate to be the one to say it, but…wood rots, clay shatters or crumbles…. If that’s what the grail is made of, there’s a good chance the real thing doesn’t exist any more.”
“Then what led us here? Brought together my knights with the brothers of Winchester to continue this quest in another time?” Galahad shook his head. “No. I choose to believe it’s out there.” He smiled. “A wise king once said there is no worse death than the death of hope. If I find the grail, we will celebrate. But as long as I search, hope lives. That is most important.”
Sam smiled at a sudden memory, of a nine-year-old Dean dissing the comic-book Galahad-something about Batman being able to kick his pansy-ass blindfolded. Now that they’d met the real thing, he’d make a point to ask Dean whether that childhood assessment still stood. Something told him it wouldn’t. He cleared his throat. “Well, like you said, something led you through time to St. Louis…something that suggests the grail, or at least something connected to it, is here. Let’s figure out what the hell it is.”
xxxXXXxxx
Dean waited for a group of school children to pass in front of him, winked at the frazzled-and hot-teacher shepherding them, then crossed the museum lobby to where Percival and Bors were waiting.
Both now dressed in borrowed suits-Percival in a somewhat dated one belonging to Rev. Jeffers and Bors in Sam’s-the knights blended easily with the modern-day crowd. Still, they looked anything but at ease as museum visitors milled around them. The place was packed, mostly with students visiting on class trips, their laughter and chatter blending with the occasional ‘Shush!’ from a chaperone.
Percival, leaning against a pillar, arms folded across his chest as he watched a group of high schoolers shove and push each other on their way into an exhibit hall, huffed impatiently as Dean approached. “You took your bloody time.” He jerked his head toward the kids. “Romans fed Christians to the lions, and they’re more civilized than this lot.”
“Them?” Dean raised an eyebrow as he watched the kids. “Remind me not to take you to two dollar Tuesdays at the strip club.”
Bors pulled a face while sliding his fingers under the knot of his tie. “Your customs are strange, your dress even stranger. Where I come from, we put nooses only around those we intend to hang.”
“Do all knights whine this much? Just do this….” Dean loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. “See…easy. And hey, I’m no fan of suits, but that’s rich coming from a guy whose worn a tin can most of his adult life.”
Bors’s scowl deepened as he fumbled with the button. “Are we done with this fortress, or is there something here that may in fact help in our quest?”
“Thought you’d never-” Dean froze when he saw an armored knight working his way through the crowd toward them. His hand reflexively moved toward his gun, relaxing only when he realized that the ‘knight’ was joking with a group of kids while handing out what appeared to be flyers promoting the upcoming Camelot exhibit.
“Why is he permitted to wear full armor and yet we are not?” Percival hissed in his ear.
“Dude, it’s a costume-he’s just…an actor, trying to drum up business for this place.” With a quick scan of the lobby, Dean saw at least two other men in costume doing the same thing, along with a woman dressed as Guinevere. “Come on-we’ve got our own business to take care of.” He began walking toward a corridor at the back of the lobby. “That curator sure as hell likes to talk but, bottom line-we’ve now got access to the exhibit. The man’s trying to sell tickets, and he’s a little paranoid that the nutjob running around St. Louis with a sword will kill his box office along with innocent civilians. Let’s just say he’s more than happy to help the FBI sweep away his little marketing problem.” He snorted. “And, hey, if we save lives in the process-bonus.”
Percival frowned at Dean, then turned to Bors. “You got any idea what the fuck he just said?”
“No.” Bors wore a similarly confused expression. “He speaks a very strange dialect of English.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to scowl. “It’s called American, asshat.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “But, whatever-I’ll keep it simple. While you were waiting for me, you see any sign of Mordred?”
Bors shook his head. “But if the grail is indeed within these walls, he will not be far. His dark magic will lead him here.”
Percival glanced over his shoulder as they walked. “He’s close. I…sense his evil-and he will be armed. He will allow no one to take his sword-nor get between him and his prize.”
“Well, that’s just…awesome.” Dean’s stomach lurched at the thought of Mordred forcing his way into a museum full of kids. He stopped in his tracks beside a red fire alarm on the wall. “OK, you see Mordred before this place closes, you do this.” He slammed his elbow into the alarm, breaking the glass pin. “Then you pull this bar. An alarm goes off, and everybody in the building heads for the exits-gets the hell out of harm’s way.”
Percival stared at the fire alarm. “No alarm call will scare off Mordred.”
“No.” Dean resumed walking toward the exhibit hall. “But it’ll clear the battlefield of innocent bystanders, and then it’s just us versus him.” He snorted. “And a big chunk of the St. Louis fire department, but one problem at a time.”
Now Bors glanced over his shoulder, but the hallway behind them remained empty. “Mordred’s soul is twisted, but he is a clever man. He knows neither this land nor its customs, so he will choose the path of least resistance.”
“And you think I talk funny?” Dean shook his head. “But if what you just said means he’ll likely sneak in after closing, that’s good news. One, it gives us more time to search and two, all those kids will be long gone, safe and sound. Damn, I hope you’re right.”
Dean yanked open the door to the exhibit hall, and stepped inside. It was a bit like stepping back in time, sans red lightning and gut-twisting nausea. The massive space had been transformed into a castle’s great hall. Throughout the room, freestanding pieces of faux-stone wall had been erected in varying heights to serve as backdrops to each themed display; paintings and tapestries hung on the walls while glass display cases held everything from jewelry to ceremonial goblets. Full suits of armor stood atop tall pillars, while banners hanging from the coffered ceiling displayed the heraldry of each of Arthur’s knights. A smaller room at one end of the hall held the armory, showcasing a host of weapons, while a similar-sized room at the opposite end was staged as if ready for a court banquet. The centerpiece of the exhibit was a full-sized replica of the Round Table; it sat atop a raised platform surrounded by 24 chairs, and above it hung a giant piece of stained glass depicting King Arthur and his knights.
It was the stained glass that first caught the attention of Bors and Percival. Bors frowned as he stared up at the artwork. “Is that supposed to be us?”
“I believe so.” Percival was also studying their likenesses. “Although Merlin looks like he sat on the pointed end of his hat.”
“If you’re done being art critics, we’ve got a grail to find.” Dean kept his voice low; there were at least three museum staff members in the hall still working to set things up. “Let’s start our search in the banquet hall, as far from them as possible.” He began walking toward the far end as he fished his phone from his pocket and dialed Sam’s number.
“Hey.”
“We’re in. How goes the hacking?”
“It doesn’t. The system’s slick, fighting everything I try. But I’ve tapped into traffic cams around the museum. That at least gives me an eagle eye on each entrance-if anyone in armor shows up, I’ll see him and can sound the alarm.”
“Good.” Dean frowned; his brother sounded tired. “How you doing?”
“Frustrated. Hacking issues aside, we’re about halfway through our second pass on the inventory list, but nothing’s jumping out at us-any of us.”
“I meant, how’re you holding up?”
Sam sighed. “I should be there not here. Hacking from the inside would be a helluva lot easier, as would seeing actual artifacts instead of pages full of names and numbers.”
“Yeah, well for a dude with a bullet hole in his shoulder, you’re right where you should be.” Dean frowned at the knights who were staring curiously into one of the display cases. “Hey,” he stage whispered to get Percival’s attention as he was about to touch the glass. “Look-don’t touch, at least not ’til we shut down the alarms.”
Percival scowled but lowered his hand.
Dean returned the phone to his mouth. “Look, I hate to put pressure on, Sammy, but we need to wrap this up, pronto. This place is fucking full of kids. Mordred shows up and gets pissy, it could be a bloodbath. If he wanders in through the lobby, no way could I get off a clean shot in there.”
“You can’t kill him, Dean.”
Dean snorted, his hand sliding to his gun, nestled comfortingly in the small of his back. “Mordred threatens even one of those kids, there’s no can’t about it. It’s done.”
“Trust me, I’m with you on that, but…we can’t change the past.” Sam lowered his voice, likely trying to keep Galahad from hearing. “Mordred dies at the Battle of Camlann after fatally wounding Arthur. You kill him here, everything changes. Butterfly effect.”
Dean’s scowl deepened. “One, no Kutcher references-ever. Two, that’s legend, Sammy-not history.”
“I know…trust me-after talking with Galahad, legend seems to get more wrong than it gets right. But you really wanna risk changing 1,500 years of history?”
“If it saves one kid, hell yeah.” Dean scrubbed a hand down his face; Sam was right of course, but it didn’t make wrestling with the decision any easier. “Son of a bitch…. Look, whatever goes down hangs on Mordred. He behaves, he lives to die in another time. But the minute he draws his sword, all bets are off. None of those kids becomes collateral damage on my watch.”
“Fair enough. I’ll call when I’m in the system.”
“Good-and don’t be a hero, Sammy. You need help, you ask.” Dean hung up, called up the inventory list Sam had sent earlier and rejoined the knights. “Until Sam turns off the alarms….” He cast a glance at the museum employees still working at the far end of the room. “And they get out of our way, it’s still look, but don’t touch, but let’s see if we can whittle down this list.”
About an hour into the search Dean’s phone rang. “Sammy?”
“Any luck?”
“Yeah-all bad. We’re about three-quarters through the list of possibilities you sent, and Percy and Bors have given a thumbs down to everything. You?”
“The good news-unless Mordred is disguised as a 12-year-old riding a school bus, there’s no sign of him. The bad news….” Sam hesitated. “I need help. I can’t remote access the security system without leaving a trail a blind man could follow. The only way in undetected-”
“Is from the inside. Lucky for us, that’s where I am.” Dean glanced up at a security camera on the wall. “Frank Devereaux taught me a few tricks I haven’t had a chance to try out yet-I should be able to open a back door.”
“Good. We’ve done as much as we can here, so Galahad’s all set to head out. Where should he meet you?”
“In the lobby-and he can come right in the front doors wearing his own stuff. They’ve got actors walking around in fake armor as some kind of promotion for the new exhibit-he’ll blend right in. Anyone talks to him, tell him just to act…knightly. They’ll think he’s on the payroll.”
“Roger that.”
Dean’s jaw muscle twitched. “And Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“Just so we’re clear, Galahad comes solo. Your ass stays parked right where it is. Once I access security, you can Big Brother us from there.”
Sam’s voice was quiet. “I can help with the search, Dean. I-”
“No.” Dean lowered his voice as a couple of museum employees moved with hearing range. “Look, a few hours ago you could barely sit up without help. You really think you can Usain Bolt out of here if that’s what it comes down to, never mind take on Mordred?”
There was a lengthy pause. “Call me when you’ve accessed the computer.”
Dean scowled at the phone as he hung up and turned to fill in Percival and Bors. Sam had caved too easily after being told to stay put-way too easily. And that meant only one thing. “Damn it…. See you soon, Sammy.
xxxXXXxxx
“It’s a good setup.” Dean stood behind the security guard who was seated in front of a bank of monitors that displayed live feeds from around the museum.
“We need it-especially on a day like today.” Ralph, the guard, gulped down some coffee then shook his head. “School visits are the worst. Kids get lost, open alarmed exits, touch alarmed display cases….” He pulled open a desk drawer and took out an oversized bottle of Aspirin. “I go through these by the handful.”
Dean was in fact-finding mode. “You’ve got sixteen monitors but I’m guessing way more than sixteen cameras throughout the museum. So, what? Each monitor shows images from multiple locations?”
Ralph nodded. “Each monitor accepts a feed from up to ten cameras, with the images cycling through.”
Good-that meant blind spots; and blind spots gave them a chance to tap into the system unnoticed and insert looped footage of the empty exhibit hall. Dean watched as images from the Arthurian exhibit hall appeared on the monitors. Museum employees could be seen adding finishing touches to one of the displays; behind them, Percival and Bors strolled between the display cases, still studying the contents. With a brief flicker, the image changed to one of another exhibit hall. Dean glanced at his watch when the images changed again; each one stayed on screen for about 30 seconds. Based on that, they had a four and a half minute window to get the loop up and running-tight, but doable.
“Is there a problem, agent?” Ralph was staring at him curiously, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.
“No…no problem.” Dean gestured to the monitors. “The images cycle through, but each camera must be constantly recording, right?”
Ralph smiled. “Absolutely. If a kid gets lost in, say, the Egyptology wing….” He punched a few buttons. “Then we can re-route all those cameras to the monitors and get either live feed or simultaneous playback on each screen. Voila-blanket coverage.”
“That’s good.” Dean forced a smile; for their purposes, it was anything but. They’d have to wipe the exhibit hall tapes, too.
“Listen….” Ralph tossed back three Aspirin and downed them with another gulp of coffee. “We do a full building sweep just after closing time-you know, make sure there are no stragglers, no one’s left anything behind-and I’d really like to hit the head first. Normally, I’d call up one the guys from downstairs to keep an eye out, but if you could just-”
“Watch the monitors?” Dean’s smile suddenly became genuine; the extra-large coffee he’d brought for the guard had had the desired effect. “Of course. I’m more than happy to help out a brother in law enforcement.”
“Thanks, man.” Ralph pushed back his chair. “I’ll be five minutes…ten, tops. Men’s room is three doors down on the left. If an alarm goes off, just come hammer on the door.”
“Will do.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder collegially as the guard walked past. “Take your time.”
His smile disappeared the moment Ralph left the room. Dropping into the guard’s chair, he pulled a jump drive from his inside jacket pocket and quickly connected it to the museum’s system. He needed almost all the tricks Frank had taught him to get the access he needed, but he did it with seconds to spare. He’d barely gotten the drive back in his pocket before Ralph returned to the room.
“Much better.” The guard grinned at Dean. “If you’re staying downtown, drop into Dancy’s Bar tonight-I owe you a draft.”
“Thanks. I’d love to but-” An image on one of the monitors caught Dean’s eye. Galahad, wearing full armour and with one of the brothers’ large duffels slung over his shoulder, had just pulled open one of the glass entrance doors to the lobby. But Dean’s focus was on the much bigger knight right behind him: Sam-all decked out in Bors’ armor. “I knew it, you sneaky son of a bitch.” Sam quickly scanned the lobby; spotting a pile of flyers in a rack near the door, he grabbed them, then began handing them out to passing students as he and Galahad worked their way across the room. They disappeared from view when an image from the next camera in rotation filled the screen.
“’Scuze me?” Ralph scanned the monitors, trying to pick up on what Dean was staring at. “What’ve you seen?”
Dean’s phone buzzed at that moment with a text message from his brother: G. now at museum. Meet him by the fountain.
“Meet him, huh?” Dean dropped the phone back in his pocket. “Dude, you are dead meat.”
“Agent?”
The look on the security guard’s face told Dean he’d made that threat out loud. “Sorry, it’s just the, um, field office changing things up on me. I’m gonna have to take a rain check on that beer. Thanks again.”
He was out of the room and hurrying down the hall before Ralph had a chance to reply. “Damn it, Sam-next time, I’m handcuffing you to the fucking drainpipe.” Dean stepped into the elevator that would take him to the lobby, slammed his fist against the Close Door button and exhaled loudly. He knew how hard it was to be benched, especially on a case like this. And, yeah, Sam was a grown man; the call to suit up or sit out was his. But after a lifetime of looking out for his brother, that off switch had rusted out long ago.
The elevator doors opened and Dean strode into the lobby. It was near closing time and the place was even more packed than it had been earlier as student groups wrapped up their tours and headed for the school buses now parked around the circular driveway out front. Working his way through the crowd toward the fountain, it wasn’t hard to pick out Sam or the knight.
Galahad was in almost full battle dress, an armored breastplate and articulated pauldrons, or shoulder armor, added to the chain mail hood he’d worn back at the church, and a full-length dark cloak hanging down his back from beneath the pauldrons. The missing gauntlets, helmet, and leg armor were likely in the duffel at his feet.
Dressed almost identically, only the style of the armor differing, Sam looked massive, the pauldrons emphasizing the width of his shoulders, the cape and long, leather tunic his height. Hell, he could have walked right out of the pages of the history books-even that damn long hair fit the image perfectly.
The giggling teenage girls surrounding the two men were obviously impressed. Each was taking turns posing between the two knights as friends used their phones to snap photos; Sam wore an uncomfortable smile while Galahad just look confused by all the attention.
As Dean approached, a teacher rounded up the students and guided them toward a waiting bus. Sam’s smile faded as he waved goodbye. He exhaled in relief-but that relief also faded when he caught sight of his brother, and the pissed-off expression on his face.
“Sammy.” Dean forced a smile. “What a surprise-not. And nice duds-your fan club was certainly impressed.”
“Look….” Sam at least had the decency to look guilty. He gestured to the duffel at Galahad’s feet. “There was no way in hell Galahad was getting all their armor over here in that. This was just…the best way to get it here.”
Dean summoned his most incredulous look. “That’s what you’re going with? The armor wouldn’t fit in the bag?”
“Dean-”
“No…. Don’t Dean me.” Dean kept his voice low because kids were still filing past them toward the buses, but worry made him pissed; he’d seen ghosts with more color than his brother had now. “You look like you’re about to fall over-that’ll be real useful in a fight.”
Sam’s jaw set with all-too-familiar stubbornness. “It’s not a fight, it’s a treasure hunt.”
“Tell that to Mordred when he shows up.”
Sam exhaled audibly. “In or out-my call. Your words, Dean. I chose in-all the way. So, here I am. You wanna kick my ass later, go right ahead-but I can work a laptop here just as well as back at the church, and help search the exhibit.” He gestured to the armor. “Besides, thanks to this…cosplay, I’ve got new intel. One of the docents came over when she saw us, told us not to forget about the staff meeting. Turns out it’s for everyone working tomorrow night’s gala, and attendance is mandatory. After 7 p.m., besides security, gala staff will be the only ones in the building, and they’ll all be up on the fourth floor until at least eight-thirty.”
“Which gives us 90 minutes undisturbed in the exhibit hall. That’s good.” Dean nodded, then the stubborn set of his jaw echoed his brother’s. “Doesn’t get you a free pass, though. Once you’re healthy, I am still gonna kick your ass.”
“Duly noted.” Sam grinned. “But once I’m healthy, I just might kick back.”
“Bring it.” Dean cast a glance at a security camera. “Now, let’s go play a little three-card monty with the security system so we can stick around after closing.”
xxxXXXxxx
Beckett Nash waved goodbye to the last busload of students, his practiced smile disappearing the moment he turned his back to the yellow school bus.
The posting on the drama department’s job site had made it seem like easy money; dress up as a Knight of the Round Table and entertain students and patrons to promote the upcoming exhibit. It had been anything but easy; the kids had never shut up and all they cared about was his sword. He’d almost strangled the 99th kid who’d asked him if he was Loki from The Avengers. This was the last time he took a job that didn’t involve an orchestra pit or a camera between him and the audience. He checked his watch; at least he had time for a beer and a cigarette before the staff meeting started upstairs.
“You!”
Beckett turned in the direction of the shout. Four tall men, also dressed as knights, their gloved hands resting on the hilts of oversized swords, were striding toward him. Their costumes were impressive, far more so than the one he’d cobbled together with leftovers from the university’s production of Camelot five years earlier. “Well, your costume department obviously has deeper pockets than mine. Which school are you from?”
The dark-haired man leading the group had an intense stare, his dark eyes seemingly boring holes right into Beckett’s skull. “Where is it? Take us to it.”
Awesome. Method actors. Beckett rolled his eyes as he turned toward the museum entrance. Idiot method actors who didn’t even know where the meeting would take place. “Follow me.”
Now the museum was officially closed, staff were locking each of the glass doors to the main entrance. Becket sighed dramatically as he yanked open the one door not yet locked. “You know, you really should have used the staff entrance but, lucky for you, you met me.” He motioned for the actors to hurry up. “A few more minutes and you’d have been locked out. You might never have gotten inside.”
xxxXXXxxx
Bors and Percival were almost back in their armor, and the brothers now wearing the jeans and shirts that Sam had thrown into the duffel. Galahad, the only one who didn’t need to change clothes, was already moving through the exhibit, studying each item, in search of the grail.
Dean slipped his gun into the waistband of his jeans and dropped his plaid shirt over it before gathering up the discarded FBI suits and stuffing them inside the duffel. As he did so, he glanced up at his brother. Sam had needed help getting out of Bors’s armor, the chain mail and metal too heavy to pull off one-handed, at least without doing further damage to his shoulder. Galahad had helped take off the armor, proving to Dean he’d also helped get him into it, with Dean taking over after that. Sam said nothing the whole time Dean helped him dress, but the tense way he held himself, the color bleeding from his face, and the sheen of sweat said more than enough. So did the fact he didn’t refuse when Dean silently handed him another dose of painkillers. The sling had been left back at the church, “It didn’t go with the armor,” all Sam would say when asked where it was.
Now, as Dean finished changing, Sam sat at the Round Table, the laptop in front of him as he monitored the security cameras. Between the two of them, they’d successfully hacked into the system; the looped footage of the empty hall was now playing, making them invisible to security. A four-way split-screen on the laptop displayed live views from the cameras outside the exhibit hall, giving them a heads-up on anyone approaching the doors. With a simple tap of the touchpad, they could also cycle through every camera in the building, tracking the movements of security guards or staff. The hall doors were also locked from the inside as a last line of defense.
Dean walked up to Sam. “How you holding up?”
“I’m fine.” Sam didn’t look up; his focus stayed on the screen as he rhythmically tapped the touchpad.
Dean knew the tone and the stubborn set of the jaw all too well. Sam was on autopilot; he was hurting, but he’d keep going until he couldn’t. “OK, tough guy, how ’bout you let me take over.”
“Dean-”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. All I’m saying is I’ll keep an eye out for Mordred. You do what you came here to do-poke through the exhibit. Just don’t drop anything-you break it, you bought it.”
“I’ll laugh later.” Sam glanced around the hall. “You go through everything earlier?”
“Everything that was set up then.” Dean gestured behind him. “They were still working in that corner down by the armory when I went up to security, so there’s stuff there we didn’t see.”
“Then I start there.” Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. His eyebrow peaked as Dean dropped into the chair beside him and pulled over the laptop. “Um, you do know you’re sitting in the Siege Perilous, right?”
“The what where?”
“The chair-it’s the Siege Perilous. It was a test King Arthur used for his knights. According to legend, anyone who sits in it who isn’t pure of soul, drops dead on the spot.”
Dean glanced down at the chair, then looked up with a grin. “I’m still breathing-pure as the driven snow, that’s me.”
Sam rolled his eyes, then set off to search the far corner of the museum.
Percival appeared suddenly at Dean’s side, dropping something on the table. “These are not ours. I know not what they are.”
Dean glanced at them, his face brightening with recognition; they were foil-wrapped sandwiches. “It’s food-look.” He peeled open the foil, pulled out a half and took a big bite before turning back to the computer. “Try it-it’s good.”
Galahad returned to the table as Percival tore into the foil. “The good father sent those. They have a strange name-sand warlocks, I believe.”
“No.” Dean kept his focus on the computer but shook his head. “Wiches-not warlocks. Sandwiches.”
Percival took a massive bite. Mouth still full of food, his grin widened. “I don’t care what you call them, but there’s a special place in Heaven for the good father. I am fucking starving.”
Dean glanced up at Galahad. “You see anything that floats your boat?”
Galahad frowned. “I saw no boat, nor anything to float it-but also nothing that might be the grail. It is discouraging. Why would magic lead us here, if there is nothing to be found?”
Dean shrugged. “When you stepped through the portal, either you got off on the wrong floor, or we’re missing something.” He glanced down at his watch. “Either way we’re on a deadline. Sam says gala staff gets a tour of the exhibit at the end of their meeting. We need to be long gone by the time they show up.”
“Then I shall continue searching.” Galahad shook his head as he stared at the computer screen. “This is a frightening magic you and your brother practice. This one small…mirror allows you to see into every room of this fortress.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You Marty McFly through time, travel fifteen-hundred years into the future, and Sammy’s laptop freaks you out?”
“Buggar me.” Percival’s curse was uttered around a mouthful of sandwich.
Dean’s attention snapped back to the laptop. A body, wearing a knight’s armor, lay sprawled in a growing pool of blood in a stairwell. The eyes, wide open and staring blankly, showed the man was beyond any help. “Fuck. Not one of Mordred’s men, I’m guessing?”
All three knights shook their heads, then Galahad frowned. “I believe Sam called him an actor. He was outside earlier with the children, although he did not seem pleased to be there.”
“Well, trust me-he’s a helluva lot less pleased now.” Dean quickly disconnected the stairwell camera from the main grid, then began cycling through the museum’s cameras, looking for any sign the body had already been discovered and, more importantly, the killers.
“Mordred did this.” The growl was back in Percival’s voice as he stated what they were all thinking.
“Yeah.” Dean was rapidly tapping the touch pad. “We just need to know where the hell he is.”
The cameras in the fourth floor meeting room showed the gala staff still engaged in their meeting, the smiles and laughter saying they were oblivious to the drama playing out a few floors below.
Dean kept cycling through the cameras until he hit the ones covering the lobby; there his hand froze. Four knights appeared out of a stairwell and crossed in front of the fountain, heading for the corridor that led to the Arthurian exhibit. “Looks like they got directions from that kid before they killed him. They’re not searching-they’re headed straight this way.” His fingers flew over the keys, selectively shutting down cameras to keep Mordred’s progress hidden from security guards.
He jumped at the sound of swords being drawn. Bors and Percival were already storming toward the door. “OK, somebody’s itching for a fight.”
“There has always been bad blood between Percival and Mordred. Besides, he needs battle the way most men need food. It keeps lit the fire within. Here.” Galahad slid a sword across the table towards Dean. “You’ll need this to defend yourself.”
Dean scowled at the sword; it wasn’t Galahad’s-his was still in the scabbard. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Galahad motioned to the far end of the hall. “In the armory. Most of the weapons in there are children’s toys, designed for play or practice. That is one of the few real ones. It could use a good sharpening but it will suffice.”
“Thanks.” Dean reached behind his back and pulled out his gun, placing it on the table beside the laptop. “But I think I’ll stick with this.”
Galahad frowned. “That will pierce their armor? When we rescued Sam, his attackers used that weapon on Percival. It bruised his chest but did not take him out of the fight.”
Fuck-the armor. It’d be like shooting someone wearing a bulletproof vest. Dean forced a smile. “Guess I’ll just have to plug him right between the eyes, won’t I?”
“You can’t kill him….” Sam’s voice ran through his head. “You really wanna risk changing 1,500 years of history?”
“Son of a bitch.” There was also the not-so-small matter of noise; gunfire tended to draw attention and Dean had no clue how good the soundproofing was within the exhibit hall. If it sucked, security-and police-would be on their asses in no time. Dean stared at his gun, a weapon so comfortable it felt like an extension of his own arm. But a sword? He picked up the blade trying out the weight. He’d used a machete to behead vamps countless times, a bushido blade to kill that shojo, but outside of Moondor, this was a first-an honest-to-god sword fight.” He glanced up at Galahad. “Any advice?”
Galahad pointed at the computer screen to the tall, dark-haired man leading the others toward the exhibit hall. “That’s Mordred-Percival will take him on, and anyone who tries to get between them.”
Dean shot a look across the room to where Bors and Percival were both pacing behind the closed doors. “Good to know.”
“The older man is Accolon, Morgan’s lover and Mordred’s second. You leave him to me.” By the tone of Galahad’s voice there was history there but twenty questions would have to wait. “The other two are Mordred’s sons, Melehan and Medraig. Be warned-they have no honor. You face them, they will use any means necessary to claim victory.”
Dean snorted. “Not so different from the bottom feeders I usually fight. And here I was thinking I’d have to be all chivalrous-you know, bow before we start and all that crap.”
Galahad unhooked his cape from beneath the pauldrons and dropped it on the table before reaching for his gauntlets, a wry smile spreading across his face. “Bow before Mordred’s sons, and you’re most likely to lose your head.”
Dean nodded. “Got it. Kick’em in the jewels it is.”
Galahad frowned as took in Dean’s jeans and shirt. “I’m certain some of the armor in here would fit you. It would offer far better protection than your own garments.”
“Oh, no.” Dean shook his head. “I’m gonna have a hard enough time figuring out this sword thing without wearing a tin can.” He gestured to his feet. “Steel-toed boots-that’s as close as I come to armor. I think my game plan is to knock the damn sword out of his hands, take it down to a fist fight.” His gaze drifted to Galahad’s breastplate. “A gut punch is kind of off the table, but I can still break the bastard’s nose.”
“And you will not be the first to have done so.” Galahad pointed to his own armor. “The weakest points of the armor are at the neck, shoulder, elbow and knee. Aim your blows there for greatest effect.”
“Got it.” Dean turned toward the corner of the exhibit hall where his brother had gone in search of the grail. “Sam!” For once the numbers were in their favour; there were four of Mordred’s men and five of them, meaning Sam could sit this one out. “Sammy! We’re about to have company. Get your ass somewhere out of sight and hunker down.”
Sam appeared from around one of the faux stone walls, breathless like he’d been moving quickly. He grabbed hold of the wall to steady himself, and ventured a smile. “I think I found something. I-”
He was cut off by a loud bang followed by the sound of splintering wood. Dean’s head snapped toward the doors. Bors and Percival now stood shoulder to shoulder, swords raised, watching as the locked doors started to buckle under an assault from the other side.
“You found something? Dude, your timing seriously sucks.” Dean scrambled back to the table to check out the laptop; it was no surprise to see Mordred and Accolon standing outside the doors, swords raised much like the two knights inside, while Mordred’s sons repeatedly put their shoulders to the door in an attempt to break it down. With each crash, the splintering of wood grew more pronounced; the door was sure as hell not designed to withstand an assault by two armoured men.
Sam now at his side, Dean pointed to the figures on the screen. "That one's Mordred, that's Accolon…."
"Morgan's lover." Sam's gaze jumped from the laptop to the door, as the latter took another blow.
"Yeah. And the two human battering rams are Mordred's kids."
"Melehan and Medraig." Sam turned back to Dean. "What can I do?"
"Like I said, get your ass out of sight. You're here for the treasure hunt, remember?"
Sam's jaw clenched. "Dean, come on. No way am I-"
"Sorry, Sammy-everyone's partnered up. At this hoedown, you get to play wallflower." Besides…." Dean picked up a sword from the table. "You're in no shape for a swordfight."
Sam snorted. “And you are?”
Dean picked up the sword from the table and shrugged. “I’ve got two working arms, which is one more than you, so yeah.”
Sam swallowed. “Just make damn sure you keep both of ’em.”
“That’s the plan, believe me.” Dean pointed to the computer. “Take that and hide. If anything goes sideways, get these guys home, then get the hell out.”
Sam shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
“I’m touched, Sammy, but I’ll be back.” Dean grinned as he picked up the sword. “I’m not checking out after you go and drop a cliff-hanger on me. I wanna know what you found.” He winked, and turned to join the knights just as with a final ear-splitting crunch of splintering wood, the doors flew open and Mordred and his men stormed in.
Continued in Chapter 4a
A/N: And the battle begins… The conversation between Galahad and Sam at the beginning of this chapter was inspired by the scene in 8.21-The Great Escapist, where Sam recalls Dean reading to him from the Classics Illustrated version of The Knights of the Round Table and thinking he’d never been good enough to embark on such a quest. That was the launch pad for this fic. Cheers.
SUMMARY: Murders in two separate cities draw the brothers into a case that has Sam teaming with someone he never thought he’d meet, and Dean fighting for his life in a way he never imagined. Casefic. Chapter 3 of 4.
SPOILERS: Technically, the story is set within Season 9, post trial-related fallout, but is a standalone case-fic-no spoilers-and may become slightly AU depending on what happens in Tuesday’s Season 9 premiere. Right now, though, it fits within canon.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, Jeremy Carver & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude.
RATING: T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen calls them.
WORD COUNT: Chapter One: 5K+ Complete story: 24K
GENRE: Gen/Hurt-Comfort
A/N: This is the third of four chapters, and all chapters are complete. The final chapter will be posted Saturday. Many thanks and big hugs to my beta, Harrigan; my stories are always better with your help. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thanks also to Freya for the encouragement to get this done. And Suzee51: the scene you wanted the last time around that wasn’t there? It shows up here. Cryptic enough? ;-) On the whumpage front, I’ll just say that neither brother escapes this fic unscathed. (Shocking I know, coming from me.) Enjoy! Written to fill the ‘Job-related Injury’ square in my hc_Bingo card. A great big thank you to everyone for the lovely reviews of Chapter One. They are very much appreciated. And now, on with Chapter Two. Enjoy.
Link back to Chapter 2 Here
STAINLESS AND HONORABLE LIVES
Chapter Three
Sam squinted at the computer screen, the strings of coding all blurring together. He pushed away the laptop and scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Perhaps you should rest.” Galahad refilled a tin cup with water and offered it to Sam. “Your brother promised to-how did he put it-change history at my expense if I allowed you to overexert yourself.”
Sam snorted. “That sounds like Dean.” A pained grunt escaped as he leaned in to take the cup. “Thanks…. He told you we were brothers, huh?”
Galahad nodded. “Although it was no surprise. That you were brothers-in-arms was obvious from moment he arrived, but the kinship of blood was evident in the way he cared for you-and threatened us.”
Sam smiled. “Old habit-he’s been looking out for me a long time.” He often bitched at Dean for being overprotective, but only rarely were the gripes heated; the instinct was just hard-wired in his brother. And when he’d come to in the church basement with Dean at his side, growling at the knights…well, he wasn’t griping. Sam gulped down some water, set down the cup, then leaned back, letting his eyes slide shut.
Before Dean left with Percival and Bors, he had changed the dressing on Sam’s injured shoulder, helped him into a zip-front hoodie and re-secured his sling. When Rev. Jeffers had fetched more blankets and pillows, Dean had stacked the pillows behind Sam to keep him upright and as comfortable as possible. Of course, he’d also instructed Galahad to use his sword and cut off Sam at the knees if he attempted to get out of bed for anything beyond trips to the bathroom. OK, that had fueled a gripe or two.
Sam’s computer was balanced on his lap, his phone and gun within easy reach of his good hand. In the hour or so since Dean had been gone, Sam had battled to hack into museum security, while Galahad and the reverend worked their way through the Arthurian exhibit inventory list, looking for anything that might resemble the grail. So far, they’d struck out on both fronts.
Museum security was gold standard, blocking Sam at every move. He’d ditched the sling about twenty minutes earlier, hoping two hands would make a difference. It hadn’t. As for the list-no item had sparked even a flicker of recognition from Galahad. After Rev. Jeffers read out the description and provenance of each item, things like paintings and armor were quickly eliminated; anything worth investigating further, like a court banquet chalice or a kitchen platter, now appeared under yellow highlighter. Sam peeled open his eyes and picked up the list, slowly flipping through the marked pages; there was very little yellow in a sea of dark ink.
Rev. Jeffers had disappeared upstairs a few minutes earlier, muttering something about Sam needing to eat. Galahad remained seated on the floor beside Sam’s makeshift bed, running a whetstone along the blade of a small but deadly-looking dagger.
Sam studied the man beside him; the knight wasn’t quite what he’d pictured-far more soldier than saint. Like Dean, he was finely muscled-and, also like his brother, carried himself in a way that said he could handle himself in a fight. The scars across his hands, arms and face suggested there had been many.
Sam had read Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur in high school English and studied the Vulgate Cycle in a Romantic Lit class at Stanford, but his strongest memories of the Grail story would always be shaped by the Classics Illustrated comic that Dean had read to him when he was a kid. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the panels depicting light streaming down over a praying Galahad as he embarked on the quest for the grail.
But what should be a happy memory, wasn’t; it was one of the first times he’d realized he was…different. Even his five-year-old self knew he’d never be worthy of such a quest-and that was long before he knew about hunting, let alone demon blood and his dark destiny. Now fate in its most cruel form was taunting him, inconceivably dropping him in the midst of that very quest.
“You’re staring, Sir Samuel.” Galahad didn’t look up, just continued sharpening the dagger. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were bewitched.”
“Sorry.” Sam cleared his throat. “And it’s Sam…just Sam. Believe me-I’m no knight.”
Galahad looked up. “From what I understand, you and your brother travel this land defending right, helping those in need. And even though we met but a short time ago, you have each pledged to help us in our quest, guide us through this strange land and for no discernable personal gain. These are all facets of a true knight.” He set down the whetstone and ran his thumb lightly along the edge of the blade. “That, and like Bors, you fight fiercely and are almost the size of my horse….” His head down, a grin was just visible beneath the mop of unruly, dark hair. “Both welcome qualities in any knight at my side on a battlefield.”
Sam stared at Galahad. “How do you do it?”
Galahad lifted his head. “Do what?”
“Stay true…. Live the ‘stainless and honorable life’ your pledge as a knight demands when there’s so much…so much evil out there.” Sam picked at a broken thread on the blanket, all the loss, all the mistakes, all the twisted good intentions that had literally taken him to Hell spinning through his head. “You think you’re doing something good, something right…and then…then it all gets twisted. And even if some kind of miracle happens and you claw your way free, get a chance to start over, there’s still this…this stain on your soul you can’t ever wash away.” His eyes were glassy as he looked up at Galahad. “How do you…stay clean?”
Galahad set down the dagger. “You know much about my life, Sam-disconcertingly so-but over the centuries it seems a few pages have been lost from the books that tell the tales. I’m not clean-no man who lives a soldier’s life, who fights at the whim of kings, can be. I have blood on my hands, have succumbed to rage…to temptation…doubt.”
“But….” Sam shook his head; this didn’t make sense. “You were the one chosen for the grail quest…you survived the Siege Perilous.”
“Ah, the Siege Perilous.” Galahad smiled. “The cursed chair of the Round Table…fatal to all who sit in it except he who is pure of heart, pure of soul-and it is he who is destined to find the grail.” He snorted softly. “I’m sure Merlin would be delighted to know his trickery has become legend.”
Sam’s confusion deepened. “Trickery?”
“The chair is a ruse, Sam-a test.” Galahad stroked a hand over his closely cropped beard. “The story is repeated to all prospective knights, who are then asked to sit in the chair to prove their worth. Their reaction, not the chair itself, tells the king everything he needs to know. If a man refuses and won’t divulge why, Arthur turns him away-he’s hiding something. But if a man is honest and confesses his sins, the reasons he can’t sit in it, then the king can judge if those sins are forgivable.”
Sam frowned. “So you-you confessed?”
“Who amongst us is not without sin?” Galahad’s smile returned. “I asked that God judge me directly. I knelt in front of the chair and prayed-asked him to cleanse me of my sins, and that if any were too great to forgive, that he strike me down there and then. And then I sat in the chair.”
A smile flickered across Sam’s face. “And that’s how you were chosen for the grail quest.”
Galahad shrugged. “I am no more virtuous than my fellow knights-perhaps just more willing than some to admit my mistakes, my weaknesses-of which there are many.” He picked up his dagger and slid it into the sheath on his belt, then dropped the whetstone into a pouch hanging beside it. “Bors also sat in the chair, you know.” He chuckled. “As did Percival-and didn’t that shock the gentlefolk of Camelot. You may have noticed, his manners are…less than courtly.”
Sam grinned. “I like him. He reminds me of my brother-and people always underestimate Dean, too. He’s the best man I know, and the last one to realize it.”
“It appears you and your brother have much in common.” Galahad sat back. “But like you say, it’s often easier to see the good in others than in ourselves.”
Rev. Jeffers returned at that moment, breathlessly entering carrying two plastic shopping bags. “If my dear wife, God rest her soul, was still with us, you’d be eating off plates and drinking from cups with saucers.” He dumped the bags on the workbench, reached into the first and pulled out two foil-wrapped sandwiches. “I’m at a bit of a loss in the kitchen, I’m afraid-this is the best I could come up with.” He tossed them to Galahad, who handed one to Sam.
“Thanks.” Sam dropped the sandwich into his lap and began unwrapping it one-handed. “For the food, and your help.”
“We are also in your debt, good father.” Galahad, at first perplexed by the foil wrapping, followed Sam’s lead, his furrowed brow relaxing when he caught sight of the food inside. “Ah, Percival will be sorry to have missed this. The man’s appetite-for all things-is legendary.”
Sam smiled around a mouthful of tuna, mayo, and tomato. “Another thing he and Dean have in common.”
“Don’t worry-I made enough for everyone. Galahad can take the extras with him when he rejoins the others.” Rev. Jeffers set down the second bag between the two younger men. “There’s fruit and bottles of water in there. Help yourself. We must all take a moment to refuel, to help us think more clearly.” Out of breath, he sank again into the wooden chair. “Until you boys arrived, I’d forgotten how many stairs this old place has. Any progress to report?”
“No. Museum security is still a bitch-I mean, a problem.” Sam shot an apologetic glance at the reverend. “And we finished going through the list but nothing jumped out. I’ve sent Dean the inventory numbers of everything we’ve identified as a possibility but….” He glanced down at the pile of papers. “It would really help if we knew what the hell we were looking for. I mean, bowl, cup, serving platter-which is it? Historians can’t agree, so how are we supposed to know?”
Rev. Jeffers smiled. “It’s hard for people, especially the devout, to believe that something so important, so significant to their faith could be something…ordinary. It’s why DaVinci painted the Last Supper as a grand banquet…why Hollywood depicts the grail as a golden chalice. They need important events and objects to look important. But on earth, Jesus was a fisherman, the son of a carpenter-a simple man. The grail was likely made of wood or clay…something you wouldn’t look twice at if you didn’t know what it was.”
“Something you wouldn’t look twice at-which is why it’s so damn hard to find.” Sam took another bite of his sandwich as he stared at the list. “You ever study Arthurian history, Reverend?”
“A long…long time ago.” Rev. Jeffers glanced over at Galahad. “For obvious reasons, the grail was of great interest to all of us at the seminary. The biggest problem, as I recall, is that most of what we know of Arthur and his court…of the quest…was not recorded by historians, but poets and storytellers.”
“Who never let facts get in the way of good tale. So even with a 1,500-year head start, we know little more than Galahad.” Sam shook his head, then turned to the knight. “Those stories say you had a vision of the grail, but then you would have seen it…seen what it looks like. I’m guessing that was more fiction?”
“A vision?” Galahad smiled. “I take it this was written by the same storyteller who wrote of the Siege Perilous?” He shook his head. “There was no vision. Merlin said only that as knights worthy of the quest, we would know where to look, would recognize what we sought when we found it.” Galahad’s smile returned. “As I recall, Percival’s retort to that was…colorful. He greatly dislikes riddles. But then, they wouldn’t call it a quest if it was easy, would they? More like…an errand.”
“Touché.” According to legend, Galahad would eventually find the grail, although he and Percival would die shortly afterwards, only Bors surviving to return to Camelot. But so much of the lore was wrong-the Siege Perilous, the visions, Percival’s behaviour-what if that part of the legend was wrong, too? “Look, I hate to be the one to say it, but…wood rots, clay shatters or crumbles…. If that’s what the grail is made of, there’s a good chance the real thing doesn’t exist any more.”
“Then what led us here? Brought together my knights with the brothers of Winchester to continue this quest in another time?” Galahad shook his head. “No. I choose to believe it’s out there.” He smiled. “A wise king once said there is no worse death than the death of hope. If I find the grail, we will celebrate. But as long as I search, hope lives. That is most important.”
Sam smiled at a sudden memory, of a nine-year-old Dean dissing the comic-book Galahad-something about Batman being able to kick his pansy-ass blindfolded. Now that they’d met the real thing, he’d make a point to ask Dean whether that childhood assessment still stood. Something told him it wouldn’t. He cleared his throat. “Well, like you said, something led you through time to St. Louis…something that suggests the grail, or at least something connected to it, is here. Let’s figure out what the hell it is.”
xxxXXXxxx
Dean waited for a group of school children to pass in front of him, winked at the frazzled-and hot-teacher shepherding them, then crossed the museum lobby to where Percival and Bors were waiting.
Both now dressed in borrowed suits-Percival in a somewhat dated one belonging to Rev. Jeffers and Bors in Sam’s-the knights blended easily with the modern-day crowd. Still, they looked anything but at ease as museum visitors milled around them. The place was packed, mostly with students visiting on class trips, their laughter and chatter blending with the occasional ‘Shush!’ from a chaperone.
Percival, leaning against a pillar, arms folded across his chest as he watched a group of high schoolers shove and push each other on their way into an exhibit hall, huffed impatiently as Dean approached. “You took your bloody time.” He jerked his head toward the kids. “Romans fed Christians to the lions, and they’re more civilized than this lot.”
“Them?” Dean raised an eyebrow as he watched the kids. “Remind me not to take you to two dollar Tuesdays at the strip club.”
Bors pulled a face while sliding his fingers under the knot of his tie. “Your customs are strange, your dress even stranger. Where I come from, we put nooses only around those we intend to hang.”
“Do all knights whine this much? Just do this….” Dean loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. “See…easy. And hey, I’m no fan of suits, but that’s rich coming from a guy whose worn a tin can most of his adult life.”
Bors’s scowl deepened as he fumbled with the button. “Are we done with this fortress, or is there something here that may in fact help in our quest?”
“Thought you’d never-” Dean froze when he saw an armored knight working his way through the crowd toward them. His hand reflexively moved toward his gun, relaxing only when he realized that the ‘knight’ was joking with a group of kids while handing out what appeared to be flyers promoting the upcoming Camelot exhibit.
“Why is he permitted to wear full armor and yet we are not?” Percival hissed in his ear.
“Dude, it’s a costume-he’s just…an actor, trying to drum up business for this place.” With a quick scan of the lobby, Dean saw at least two other men in costume doing the same thing, along with a woman dressed as Guinevere. “Come on-we’ve got our own business to take care of.” He began walking toward a corridor at the back of the lobby. “That curator sure as hell likes to talk but, bottom line-we’ve now got access to the exhibit. The man’s trying to sell tickets, and he’s a little paranoid that the nutjob running around St. Louis with a sword will kill his box office along with innocent civilians. Let’s just say he’s more than happy to help the FBI sweep away his little marketing problem.” He snorted. “And, hey, if we save lives in the process-bonus.”
Percival frowned at Dean, then turned to Bors. “You got any idea what the fuck he just said?”
“No.” Bors wore a similarly confused expression. “He speaks a very strange dialect of English.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to scowl. “It’s called American, asshat.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “But, whatever-I’ll keep it simple. While you were waiting for me, you see any sign of Mordred?”
Bors shook his head. “But if the grail is indeed within these walls, he will not be far. His dark magic will lead him here.”
Percival glanced over his shoulder as they walked. “He’s close. I…sense his evil-and he will be armed. He will allow no one to take his sword-nor get between him and his prize.”
“Well, that’s just…awesome.” Dean’s stomach lurched at the thought of Mordred forcing his way into a museum full of kids. He stopped in his tracks beside a red fire alarm on the wall. “OK, you see Mordred before this place closes, you do this.” He slammed his elbow into the alarm, breaking the glass pin. “Then you pull this bar. An alarm goes off, and everybody in the building heads for the exits-gets the hell out of harm’s way.”
Percival stared at the fire alarm. “No alarm call will scare off Mordred.”
“No.” Dean resumed walking toward the exhibit hall. “But it’ll clear the battlefield of innocent bystanders, and then it’s just us versus him.” He snorted. “And a big chunk of the St. Louis fire department, but one problem at a time.”
Now Bors glanced over his shoulder, but the hallway behind them remained empty. “Mordred’s soul is twisted, but he is a clever man. He knows neither this land nor its customs, so he will choose the path of least resistance.”
“And you think I talk funny?” Dean shook his head. “But if what you just said means he’ll likely sneak in after closing, that’s good news. One, it gives us more time to search and two, all those kids will be long gone, safe and sound. Damn, I hope you’re right.”
Dean yanked open the door to the exhibit hall, and stepped inside. It was a bit like stepping back in time, sans red lightning and gut-twisting nausea. The massive space had been transformed into a castle’s great hall. Throughout the room, freestanding pieces of faux-stone wall had been erected in varying heights to serve as backdrops to each themed display; paintings and tapestries hung on the walls while glass display cases held everything from jewelry to ceremonial goblets. Full suits of armor stood atop tall pillars, while banners hanging from the coffered ceiling displayed the heraldry of each of Arthur’s knights. A smaller room at one end of the hall held the armory, showcasing a host of weapons, while a similar-sized room at the opposite end was staged as if ready for a court banquet. The centerpiece of the exhibit was a full-sized replica of the Round Table; it sat atop a raised platform surrounded by 24 chairs, and above it hung a giant piece of stained glass depicting King Arthur and his knights.
It was the stained glass that first caught the attention of Bors and Percival. Bors frowned as he stared up at the artwork. “Is that supposed to be us?”
“I believe so.” Percival was also studying their likenesses. “Although Merlin looks like he sat on the pointed end of his hat.”
“If you’re done being art critics, we’ve got a grail to find.” Dean kept his voice low; there were at least three museum staff members in the hall still working to set things up. “Let’s start our search in the banquet hall, as far from them as possible.” He began walking toward the far end as he fished his phone from his pocket and dialed Sam’s number.
“Hey.”
“We’re in. How goes the hacking?”
“It doesn’t. The system’s slick, fighting everything I try. But I’ve tapped into traffic cams around the museum. That at least gives me an eagle eye on each entrance-if anyone in armor shows up, I’ll see him and can sound the alarm.”
“Good.” Dean frowned; his brother sounded tired. “How you doing?”
“Frustrated. Hacking issues aside, we’re about halfway through our second pass on the inventory list, but nothing’s jumping out at us-any of us.”
“I meant, how’re you holding up?”
Sam sighed. “I should be there not here. Hacking from the inside would be a helluva lot easier, as would seeing actual artifacts instead of pages full of names and numbers.”
“Yeah, well for a dude with a bullet hole in his shoulder, you’re right where you should be.” Dean frowned at the knights who were staring curiously into one of the display cases. “Hey,” he stage whispered to get Percival’s attention as he was about to touch the glass. “Look-don’t touch, at least not ’til we shut down the alarms.”
Percival scowled but lowered his hand.
Dean returned the phone to his mouth. “Look, I hate to put pressure on, Sammy, but we need to wrap this up, pronto. This place is fucking full of kids. Mordred shows up and gets pissy, it could be a bloodbath. If he wanders in through the lobby, no way could I get off a clean shot in there.”
“You can’t kill him, Dean.”
Dean snorted, his hand sliding to his gun, nestled comfortingly in the small of his back. “Mordred threatens even one of those kids, there’s no can’t about it. It’s done.”
“Trust me, I’m with you on that, but…we can’t change the past.” Sam lowered his voice, likely trying to keep Galahad from hearing. “Mordred dies at the Battle of Camlann after fatally wounding Arthur. You kill him here, everything changes. Butterfly effect.”
Dean’s scowl deepened. “One, no Kutcher references-ever. Two, that’s legend, Sammy-not history.”
“I know…trust me-after talking with Galahad, legend seems to get more wrong than it gets right. But you really wanna risk changing 1,500 years of history?”
“If it saves one kid, hell yeah.” Dean scrubbed a hand down his face; Sam was right of course, but it didn’t make wrestling with the decision any easier. “Son of a bitch…. Look, whatever goes down hangs on Mordred. He behaves, he lives to die in another time. But the minute he draws his sword, all bets are off. None of those kids becomes collateral damage on my watch.”
“Fair enough. I’ll call when I’m in the system.”
“Good-and don’t be a hero, Sammy. You need help, you ask.” Dean hung up, called up the inventory list Sam had sent earlier and rejoined the knights. “Until Sam turns off the alarms….” He cast a glance at the museum employees still working at the far end of the room. “And they get out of our way, it’s still look, but don’t touch, but let’s see if we can whittle down this list.”
About an hour into the search Dean’s phone rang. “Sammy?”
“Any luck?”
“Yeah-all bad. We’re about three-quarters through the list of possibilities you sent, and Percy and Bors have given a thumbs down to everything. You?”
“The good news-unless Mordred is disguised as a 12-year-old riding a school bus, there’s no sign of him. The bad news….” Sam hesitated. “I need help. I can’t remote access the security system without leaving a trail a blind man could follow. The only way in undetected-”
“Is from the inside. Lucky for us, that’s where I am.” Dean glanced up at a security camera on the wall. “Frank Devereaux taught me a few tricks I haven’t had a chance to try out yet-I should be able to open a back door.”
“Good. We’ve done as much as we can here, so Galahad’s all set to head out. Where should he meet you?”
“In the lobby-and he can come right in the front doors wearing his own stuff. They’ve got actors walking around in fake armor as some kind of promotion for the new exhibit-he’ll blend right in. Anyone talks to him, tell him just to act…knightly. They’ll think he’s on the payroll.”
“Roger that.”
Dean’s jaw muscle twitched. “And Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“Just so we’re clear, Galahad comes solo. Your ass stays parked right where it is. Once I access security, you can Big Brother us from there.”
Sam’s voice was quiet. “I can help with the search, Dean. I-”
“No.” Dean lowered his voice as a couple of museum employees moved with hearing range. “Look, a few hours ago you could barely sit up without help. You really think you can Usain Bolt out of here if that’s what it comes down to, never mind take on Mordred?”
There was a lengthy pause. “Call me when you’ve accessed the computer.”
Dean scowled at the phone as he hung up and turned to fill in Percival and Bors. Sam had caved too easily after being told to stay put-way too easily. And that meant only one thing. “Damn it…. See you soon, Sammy.
xxxXXXxxx
“It’s a good setup.” Dean stood behind the security guard who was seated in front of a bank of monitors that displayed live feeds from around the museum.
“We need it-especially on a day like today.” Ralph, the guard, gulped down some coffee then shook his head. “School visits are the worst. Kids get lost, open alarmed exits, touch alarmed display cases….” He pulled open a desk drawer and took out an oversized bottle of Aspirin. “I go through these by the handful.”
Dean was in fact-finding mode. “You’ve got sixteen monitors but I’m guessing way more than sixteen cameras throughout the museum. So, what? Each monitor shows images from multiple locations?”
Ralph nodded. “Each monitor accepts a feed from up to ten cameras, with the images cycling through.”
Good-that meant blind spots; and blind spots gave them a chance to tap into the system unnoticed and insert looped footage of the empty exhibit hall. Dean watched as images from the Arthurian exhibit hall appeared on the monitors. Museum employees could be seen adding finishing touches to one of the displays; behind them, Percival and Bors strolled between the display cases, still studying the contents. With a brief flicker, the image changed to one of another exhibit hall. Dean glanced at his watch when the images changed again; each one stayed on screen for about 30 seconds. Based on that, they had a four and a half minute window to get the loop up and running-tight, but doable.
“Is there a problem, agent?” Ralph was staring at him curiously, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.
“No…no problem.” Dean gestured to the monitors. “The images cycle through, but each camera must be constantly recording, right?”
Ralph smiled. “Absolutely. If a kid gets lost in, say, the Egyptology wing….” He punched a few buttons. “Then we can re-route all those cameras to the monitors and get either live feed or simultaneous playback on each screen. Voila-blanket coverage.”
“That’s good.” Dean forced a smile; for their purposes, it was anything but. They’d have to wipe the exhibit hall tapes, too.
“Listen….” Ralph tossed back three Aspirin and downed them with another gulp of coffee. “We do a full building sweep just after closing time-you know, make sure there are no stragglers, no one’s left anything behind-and I’d really like to hit the head first. Normally, I’d call up one the guys from downstairs to keep an eye out, but if you could just-”
“Watch the monitors?” Dean’s smile suddenly became genuine; the extra-large coffee he’d brought for the guard had had the desired effect. “Of course. I’m more than happy to help out a brother in law enforcement.”
“Thanks, man.” Ralph pushed back his chair. “I’ll be five minutes…ten, tops. Men’s room is three doors down on the left. If an alarm goes off, just come hammer on the door.”
“Will do.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder collegially as the guard walked past. “Take your time.”
His smile disappeared the moment Ralph left the room. Dropping into the guard’s chair, he pulled a jump drive from his inside jacket pocket and quickly connected it to the museum’s system. He needed almost all the tricks Frank had taught him to get the access he needed, but he did it with seconds to spare. He’d barely gotten the drive back in his pocket before Ralph returned to the room.
“Much better.” The guard grinned at Dean. “If you’re staying downtown, drop into Dancy’s Bar tonight-I owe you a draft.”
“Thanks. I’d love to but-” An image on one of the monitors caught Dean’s eye. Galahad, wearing full armour and with one of the brothers’ large duffels slung over his shoulder, had just pulled open one of the glass entrance doors to the lobby. But Dean’s focus was on the much bigger knight right behind him: Sam-all decked out in Bors’ armor. “I knew it, you sneaky son of a bitch.” Sam quickly scanned the lobby; spotting a pile of flyers in a rack near the door, he grabbed them, then began handing them out to passing students as he and Galahad worked their way across the room. They disappeared from view when an image from the next camera in rotation filled the screen.
“’Scuze me?” Ralph scanned the monitors, trying to pick up on what Dean was staring at. “What’ve you seen?”
Dean’s phone buzzed at that moment with a text message from his brother: G. now at museum. Meet him by the fountain.
“Meet him, huh?” Dean dropped the phone back in his pocket. “Dude, you are dead meat.”
“Agent?”
The look on the security guard’s face told Dean he’d made that threat out loud. “Sorry, it’s just the, um, field office changing things up on me. I’m gonna have to take a rain check on that beer. Thanks again.”
He was out of the room and hurrying down the hall before Ralph had a chance to reply. “Damn it, Sam-next time, I’m handcuffing you to the fucking drainpipe.” Dean stepped into the elevator that would take him to the lobby, slammed his fist against the Close Door button and exhaled loudly. He knew how hard it was to be benched, especially on a case like this. And, yeah, Sam was a grown man; the call to suit up or sit out was his. But after a lifetime of looking out for his brother, that off switch had rusted out long ago.
The elevator doors opened and Dean strode into the lobby. It was near closing time and the place was even more packed than it had been earlier as student groups wrapped up their tours and headed for the school buses now parked around the circular driveway out front. Working his way through the crowd toward the fountain, it wasn’t hard to pick out Sam or the knight.
Galahad was in almost full battle dress, an armored breastplate and articulated pauldrons, or shoulder armor, added to the chain mail hood he’d worn back at the church, and a full-length dark cloak hanging down his back from beneath the pauldrons. The missing gauntlets, helmet, and leg armor were likely in the duffel at his feet.
Dressed almost identically, only the style of the armor differing, Sam looked massive, the pauldrons emphasizing the width of his shoulders, the cape and long, leather tunic his height. Hell, he could have walked right out of the pages of the history books-even that damn long hair fit the image perfectly.
The giggling teenage girls surrounding the two men were obviously impressed. Each was taking turns posing between the two knights as friends used their phones to snap photos; Sam wore an uncomfortable smile while Galahad just look confused by all the attention.
As Dean approached, a teacher rounded up the students and guided them toward a waiting bus. Sam’s smile faded as he waved goodbye. He exhaled in relief-but that relief also faded when he caught sight of his brother, and the pissed-off expression on his face.
“Sammy.” Dean forced a smile. “What a surprise-not. And nice duds-your fan club was certainly impressed.”
“Look….” Sam at least had the decency to look guilty. He gestured to the duffel at Galahad’s feet. “There was no way in hell Galahad was getting all their armor over here in that. This was just…the best way to get it here.”
Dean summoned his most incredulous look. “That’s what you’re going with? The armor wouldn’t fit in the bag?”
“Dean-”
“No…. Don’t Dean me.” Dean kept his voice low because kids were still filing past them toward the buses, but worry made him pissed; he’d seen ghosts with more color than his brother had now. “You look like you’re about to fall over-that’ll be real useful in a fight.”
Sam’s jaw set with all-too-familiar stubbornness. “It’s not a fight, it’s a treasure hunt.”
“Tell that to Mordred when he shows up.”
Sam exhaled audibly. “In or out-my call. Your words, Dean. I chose in-all the way. So, here I am. You wanna kick my ass later, go right ahead-but I can work a laptop here just as well as back at the church, and help search the exhibit.” He gestured to the armor. “Besides, thanks to this…cosplay, I’ve got new intel. One of the docents came over when she saw us, told us not to forget about the staff meeting. Turns out it’s for everyone working tomorrow night’s gala, and attendance is mandatory. After 7 p.m., besides security, gala staff will be the only ones in the building, and they’ll all be up on the fourth floor until at least eight-thirty.”
“Which gives us 90 minutes undisturbed in the exhibit hall. That’s good.” Dean nodded, then the stubborn set of his jaw echoed his brother’s. “Doesn’t get you a free pass, though. Once you’re healthy, I am still gonna kick your ass.”
“Duly noted.” Sam grinned. “But once I’m healthy, I just might kick back.”
“Bring it.” Dean cast a glance at a security camera. “Now, let’s go play a little three-card monty with the security system so we can stick around after closing.”
xxxXXXxxx
Beckett Nash waved goodbye to the last busload of students, his practiced smile disappearing the moment he turned his back to the yellow school bus.
The posting on the drama department’s job site had made it seem like easy money; dress up as a Knight of the Round Table and entertain students and patrons to promote the upcoming exhibit. It had been anything but easy; the kids had never shut up and all they cared about was his sword. He’d almost strangled the 99th kid who’d asked him if he was Loki from The Avengers. This was the last time he took a job that didn’t involve an orchestra pit or a camera between him and the audience. He checked his watch; at least he had time for a beer and a cigarette before the staff meeting started upstairs.
“You!”
Beckett turned in the direction of the shout. Four tall men, also dressed as knights, their gloved hands resting on the hilts of oversized swords, were striding toward him. Their costumes were impressive, far more so than the one he’d cobbled together with leftovers from the university’s production of Camelot five years earlier. “Well, your costume department obviously has deeper pockets than mine. Which school are you from?”
The dark-haired man leading the group had an intense stare, his dark eyes seemingly boring holes right into Beckett’s skull. “Where is it? Take us to it.”
Awesome. Method actors. Beckett rolled his eyes as he turned toward the museum entrance. Idiot method actors who didn’t even know where the meeting would take place. “Follow me.”
Now the museum was officially closed, staff were locking each of the glass doors to the main entrance. Becket sighed dramatically as he yanked open the one door not yet locked. “You know, you really should have used the staff entrance but, lucky for you, you met me.” He motioned for the actors to hurry up. “A few more minutes and you’d have been locked out. You might never have gotten inside.”
xxxXXXxxx
Bors and Percival were almost back in their armor, and the brothers now wearing the jeans and shirts that Sam had thrown into the duffel. Galahad, the only one who didn’t need to change clothes, was already moving through the exhibit, studying each item, in search of the grail.
Dean slipped his gun into the waistband of his jeans and dropped his plaid shirt over it before gathering up the discarded FBI suits and stuffing them inside the duffel. As he did so, he glanced up at his brother. Sam had needed help getting out of Bors’s armor, the chain mail and metal too heavy to pull off one-handed, at least without doing further damage to his shoulder. Galahad had helped take off the armor, proving to Dean he’d also helped get him into it, with Dean taking over after that. Sam said nothing the whole time Dean helped him dress, but the tense way he held himself, the color bleeding from his face, and the sheen of sweat said more than enough. So did the fact he didn’t refuse when Dean silently handed him another dose of painkillers. The sling had been left back at the church, “It didn’t go with the armor,” all Sam would say when asked where it was.
Now, as Dean finished changing, Sam sat at the Round Table, the laptop in front of him as he monitored the security cameras. Between the two of them, they’d successfully hacked into the system; the looped footage of the empty hall was now playing, making them invisible to security. A four-way split-screen on the laptop displayed live views from the cameras outside the exhibit hall, giving them a heads-up on anyone approaching the doors. With a simple tap of the touchpad, they could also cycle through every camera in the building, tracking the movements of security guards or staff. The hall doors were also locked from the inside as a last line of defense.
Dean walked up to Sam. “How you holding up?”
“I’m fine.” Sam didn’t look up; his focus stayed on the screen as he rhythmically tapped the touchpad.
Dean knew the tone and the stubborn set of the jaw all too well. Sam was on autopilot; he was hurting, but he’d keep going until he couldn’t. “OK, tough guy, how ’bout you let me take over.”
“Dean-”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. All I’m saying is I’ll keep an eye out for Mordred. You do what you came here to do-poke through the exhibit. Just don’t drop anything-you break it, you bought it.”
“I’ll laugh later.” Sam glanced around the hall. “You go through everything earlier?”
“Everything that was set up then.” Dean gestured behind him. “They were still working in that corner down by the armory when I went up to security, so there’s stuff there we didn’t see.”
“Then I start there.” Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. His eyebrow peaked as Dean dropped into the chair beside him and pulled over the laptop. “Um, you do know you’re sitting in the Siege Perilous, right?”
“The what where?”
“The chair-it’s the Siege Perilous. It was a test King Arthur used for his knights. According to legend, anyone who sits in it who isn’t pure of soul, drops dead on the spot.”
Dean glanced down at the chair, then looked up with a grin. “I’m still breathing-pure as the driven snow, that’s me.”
Sam rolled his eyes, then set off to search the far corner of the museum.
Percival appeared suddenly at Dean’s side, dropping something on the table. “These are not ours. I know not what they are.”
Dean glanced at them, his face brightening with recognition; they were foil-wrapped sandwiches. “It’s food-look.” He peeled open the foil, pulled out a half and took a big bite before turning back to the computer. “Try it-it’s good.”
Galahad returned to the table as Percival tore into the foil. “The good father sent those. They have a strange name-sand warlocks, I believe.”
“No.” Dean kept his focus on the computer but shook his head. “Wiches-not warlocks. Sandwiches.”
Percival took a massive bite. Mouth still full of food, his grin widened. “I don’t care what you call them, but there’s a special place in Heaven for the good father. I am fucking starving.”
Dean glanced up at Galahad. “You see anything that floats your boat?”
Galahad frowned. “I saw no boat, nor anything to float it-but also nothing that might be the grail. It is discouraging. Why would magic lead us here, if there is nothing to be found?”
Dean shrugged. “When you stepped through the portal, either you got off on the wrong floor, or we’re missing something.” He glanced down at his watch. “Either way we’re on a deadline. Sam says gala staff gets a tour of the exhibit at the end of their meeting. We need to be long gone by the time they show up.”
“Then I shall continue searching.” Galahad shook his head as he stared at the computer screen. “This is a frightening magic you and your brother practice. This one small…mirror allows you to see into every room of this fortress.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You Marty McFly through time, travel fifteen-hundred years into the future, and Sammy’s laptop freaks you out?”
“Buggar me.” Percival’s curse was uttered around a mouthful of sandwich.
Dean’s attention snapped back to the laptop. A body, wearing a knight’s armor, lay sprawled in a growing pool of blood in a stairwell. The eyes, wide open and staring blankly, showed the man was beyond any help. “Fuck. Not one of Mordred’s men, I’m guessing?”
All three knights shook their heads, then Galahad frowned. “I believe Sam called him an actor. He was outside earlier with the children, although he did not seem pleased to be there.”
“Well, trust me-he’s a helluva lot less pleased now.” Dean quickly disconnected the stairwell camera from the main grid, then began cycling through the museum’s cameras, looking for any sign the body had already been discovered and, more importantly, the killers.
“Mordred did this.” The growl was back in Percival’s voice as he stated what they were all thinking.
“Yeah.” Dean was rapidly tapping the touch pad. “We just need to know where the hell he is.”
The cameras in the fourth floor meeting room showed the gala staff still engaged in their meeting, the smiles and laughter saying they were oblivious to the drama playing out a few floors below.
Dean kept cycling through the cameras until he hit the ones covering the lobby; there his hand froze. Four knights appeared out of a stairwell and crossed in front of the fountain, heading for the corridor that led to the Arthurian exhibit. “Looks like they got directions from that kid before they killed him. They’re not searching-they’re headed straight this way.” His fingers flew over the keys, selectively shutting down cameras to keep Mordred’s progress hidden from security guards.
He jumped at the sound of swords being drawn. Bors and Percival were already storming toward the door. “OK, somebody’s itching for a fight.”
“There has always been bad blood between Percival and Mordred. Besides, he needs battle the way most men need food. It keeps lit the fire within. Here.” Galahad slid a sword across the table towards Dean. “You’ll need this to defend yourself.”
Dean scowled at the sword; it wasn’t Galahad’s-his was still in the scabbard. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Galahad motioned to the far end of the hall. “In the armory. Most of the weapons in there are children’s toys, designed for play or practice. That is one of the few real ones. It could use a good sharpening but it will suffice.”
“Thanks.” Dean reached behind his back and pulled out his gun, placing it on the table beside the laptop. “But I think I’ll stick with this.”
Galahad frowned. “That will pierce their armor? When we rescued Sam, his attackers used that weapon on Percival. It bruised his chest but did not take him out of the fight.”
Fuck-the armor. It’d be like shooting someone wearing a bulletproof vest. Dean forced a smile. “Guess I’ll just have to plug him right between the eyes, won’t I?”
“You can’t kill him….” Sam’s voice ran through his head. “You really wanna risk changing 1,500 years of history?”
“Son of a bitch.” There was also the not-so-small matter of noise; gunfire tended to draw attention and Dean had no clue how good the soundproofing was within the exhibit hall. If it sucked, security-and police-would be on their asses in no time. Dean stared at his gun, a weapon so comfortable it felt like an extension of his own arm. But a sword? He picked up the blade trying out the weight. He’d used a machete to behead vamps countless times, a bushido blade to kill that shojo, but outside of Moondor, this was a first-an honest-to-god sword fight.” He glanced up at Galahad. “Any advice?”
Galahad pointed at the computer screen to the tall, dark-haired man leading the others toward the exhibit hall. “That’s Mordred-Percival will take him on, and anyone who tries to get between them.”
Dean shot a look across the room to where Bors and Percival were both pacing behind the closed doors. “Good to know.”
“The older man is Accolon, Morgan’s lover and Mordred’s second. You leave him to me.” By the tone of Galahad’s voice there was history there but twenty questions would have to wait. “The other two are Mordred’s sons, Melehan and Medraig. Be warned-they have no honor. You face them, they will use any means necessary to claim victory.”
Dean snorted. “Not so different from the bottom feeders I usually fight. And here I was thinking I’d have to be all chivalrous-you know, bow before we start and all that crap.”
Galahad unhooked his cape from beneath the pauldrons and dropped it on the table before reaching for his gauntlets, a wry smile spreading across his face. “Bow before Mordred’s sons, and you’re most likely to lose your head.”
Dean nodded. “Got it. Kick’em in the jewels it is.”
Galahad frowned as took in Dean’s jeans and shirt. “I’m certain some of the armor in here would fit you. It would offer far better protection than your own garments.”
“Oh, no.” Dean shook his head. “I’m gonna have a hard enough time figuring out this sword thing without wearing a tin can.” He gestured to his feet. “Steel-toed boots-that’s as close as I come to armor. I think my game plan is to knock the damn sword out of his hands, take it down to a fist fight.” His gaze drifted to Galahad’s breastplate. “A gut punch is kind of off the table, but I can still break the bastard’s nose.”
“And you will not be the first to have done so.” Galahad pointed to his own armor. “The weakest points of the armor are at the neck, shoulder, elbow and knee. Aim your blows there for greatest effect.”
“Got it.” Dean turned toward the corner of the exhibit hall where his brother had gone in search of the grail. “Sam!” For once the numbers were in their favour; there were four of Mordred’s men and five of them, meaning Sam could sit this one out. “Sammy! We’re about to have company. Get your ass somewhere out of sight and hunker down.”
Sam appeared from around one of the faux stone walls, breathless like he’d been moving quickly. He grabbed hold of the wall to steady himself, and ventured a smile. “I think I found something. I-”
He was cut off by a loud bang followed by the sound of splintering wood. Dean’s head snapped toward the doors. Bors and Percival now stood shoulder to shoulder, swords raised, watching as the locked doors started to buckle under an assault from the other side.
“You found something? Dude, your timing seriously sucks.” Dean scrambled back to the table to check out the laptop; it was no surprise to see Mordred and Accolon standing outside the doors, swords raised much like the two knights inside, while Mordred’s sons repeatedly put their shoulders to the door in an attempt to break it down. With each crash, the splintering of wood grew more pronounced; the door was sure as hell not designed to withstand an assault by two armoured men.
Sam now at his side, Dean pointed to the figures on the screen. "That one's Mordred, that's Accolon…."
"Morgan's lover." Sam's gaze jumped from the laptop to the door, as the latter took another blow.
"Yeah. And the two human battering rams are Mordred's kids."
"Melehan and Medraig." Sam turned back to Dean. "What can I do?"
"Like I said, get your ass out of sight. You're here for the treasure hunt, remember?"
Sam's jaw clenched. "Dean, come on. No way am I-"
"Sorry, Sammy-everyone's partnered up. At this hoedown, you get to play wallflower." Besides…." Dean picked up a sword from the table. "You're in no shape for a swordfight."
Sam snorted. “And you are?”
Dean picked up the sword from the table and shrugged. “I’ve got two working arms, which is one more than you, so yeah.”
Sam swallowed. “Just make damn sure you keep both of ’em.”
“That’s the plan, believe me.” Dean pointed to the computer. “Take that and hide. If anything goes sideways, get these guys home, then get the hell out.”
Sam shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
“I’m touched, Sammy, but I’ll be back.” Dean grinned as he picked up the sword. “I’m not checking out after you go and drop a cliff-hanger on me. I wanna know what you found.” He winked, and turned to join the knights just as with a final ear-splitting crunch of splintering wood, the doors flew open and Mordred and his men stormed in.
Continued in Chapter 4a
A/N: And the battle begins… The conversation between Galahad and Sam at the beginning of this chapter was inspired by the scene in 8.21-The Great Escapist, where Sam recalls Dean reading to him from the Classics Illustrated version of The Knights of the Round Table and thinking he’d never been good enough to embark on such a quest. That was the launch pad for this fic. Cheers.