Stainless and Honorable Lives 4b/4
AUTHOR:Scullspeare
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 Four: 11K+ Complete story: 30K
GENRE: Gen/Hurt-Comfort
Link back to Chapter 4a Here
STAINLESS AND HONORABLE LIVES
Chapter Four
Dean slid into the passenger seat of the Impala under his own steam-or maybe Sam had helped him; things got a little fuzzy right about then. Very few places felt safe to Dean, but his car was one of them; maybe it finally felt OK to let down his guard-or maybe he'd simply run out of juice.
He'd made it out of the museum upright-that much he was sure of. Sam talked the whole damn time on the trek from the exhibit hall to the car. It would've been annoying except he knew exactly what his brother was doing; giving him something to concentrate on besides the pain ripping through his side, his blurry vision, and just how much harder it was getting to focus on…well, anything.
Dean rolled his head across the seat back; Sam was beside him now, behind the wheel. That always felt wrong; it was his car-he was the driver, Sam rode shotgun. If it was a long-haul trip and they were pressed for time, they'd spell each other off; he was cool with that. But this…this didn't feel cool at all.
Sam was talking again but someone had hit the mute switch. He could see his brother's lips moving, see the worry etched into his face, but he couldn't hear a word Sam was saying. He scowled when Sam leaned in and pressed his hand to Dean's forehead. "Get the hell off." The sounds that came out were nothing like the words he was going for. He tried to pull away from Sam but suddenly seemed frozen in place.
Images flashed through his head of his fight with Medraig, of breaking the knight's nose, of the powder thrown in his face, of the searing burn when the sword sliced through his side. "Mordred's men are known to devil their blades" - that explained a few things, especially the terrified look on Sam's face as he grabbed for his phone. It was the last thing Dean remembered before the lights went out.
The next moment of awareness everything was in reverse; Dean couldn't see much but his hearing was working just fine. He heard the familiar, comforting rumble of the Impala's engine-and Baby was doing a full-out sprint. He was being tossed gently side-to-side, meaning they were on curving back roads, not city streets-a guess confirmed when he peeled open his eyes. It was dark outside-middle-of-the-night dark-the inky blackness broken only occasionally by a random streetlight.
"No, four hours is too far. He needs a doctor now." Sam's voice fell somewhere between pissed and panic. "If I knew one, I wouldn't be calling you, would I?"
Dean scowled at the itchy feel of wool on bare skin-he was covered by Dad's old army blanket. The damn thing always made him itch. He rolled his head toward Sam; his brother had his phone in his right hand, pressed to his ear, his left hand on the wheel. Something about that wasn't good, but Dean couldn't think what.
"Ben Chase? That's the doc from Bobby's book? No…no-that's good. And he's where? OK-I'm maybe…twenty minutes away. Just make damn sure he knows we're coming…. No, I have no idea what the hell the poison is so tell him to be ready to do blood tests." Sam glanced over at Dean and forced a smile. "Hey…. Just hang in there. We'll have you feeling better in no time." Somehow Dean didn't buy the smile that accompanied the reassurance.
The next time Dean woke, two things were very different-he wasn't in the car any more, and it wasn't dark outside. He squinted against the sun streaming in through the window and wished someone would close the damn drapes; the bright light was giving him a headache. He felt like someone had put him through the spin cycle at the Laundromat after he'd downed a fifth of Johnny Walker.
He frowned as he glanced around; it wasn't the bunker, and it wasn't a motel room-more like some kind of makeshift hospital. Yeah, the IV in his arm, the meter on his finger, the itchy leads taped to his chest all confirmed that. But the monitor beside his bed kicked it up a notch when he glanced to his left; Sam was in an adjacent bed.
His brother was awake, the head of his bed propped up so he was almost sitting up. He was facing away from Dean, lost in thought, and his arm was back in a sling. Dean's frown deepened at that; Sam had been shot, but he'd ditched the sling. Why was it back now?
"Hey." Sam turned toward Dean, smiling when he saw his brother was awake. "How you feeling in there?"
Dean tried to answer but his voice was on strike again.
"It's OK…it's OK." Sam threw back the covers and swung his legs out of bed; one step and he was at Dean's bedside. "You've had a rough ride but the worst is over. You're gonna be fine." He smiled when he realized Dean's frown was directed at his sling. "This? It's fine, Dean. The doc fixed me up right after he took care of you. Be good as new in no time."
Dean's frown deepened. Why the hell had Sam's voice suddenly developed a weird echo. He also felt really hot-and not in a good way; more like someone had lit a fire underneath his bed. His chest tightened, too, making it damn hard to breathe.
"Oh, fuck. Doc! Get in here!"
The shout for help, the expression on Sam's face didn't make Dean feel any better; he knew Sam's worried face all too well. Something was definitely wrong. He frowned when a gray-haired man he didn't know appeared beside his brother. The stethoscope around his neck made it a good bet he was the 'Doc' Sam had shouted for, but that's about as far as Dean got when it came to figuring things out; he was halfway through a silent objection to the oxygen mask placed over his face when everything faded to black.
Dean blinked three times to get his vision to focus. When it did, he was staring at an old dresser. It sat in front of a brick wall, magazines stacked neatly on top of it beside an old metal desk lamp.
He smiled; the space hadn't been his for long, but it was his. He was back in his room at the bunker, lying in his own bed.
Dean exhaled slowly; he felt like he'd just won a battle with the flu-starving and zero energy, but otherwise OK. He rolled onto his back and did a quick triage; arms and legs both worked, it didn't hurt to breathe and, unlike the last few times he'd woken up, it didn't hurt to think, either. His head was clear.
The events of the past few days ran through his head in fast forward-Sam getting shot, meeting Galahad and the knights, fighting Mordred's son, getting slashed and poisoned…. He slid his hand to his side; a heavy bandage was hidden beneath his T-shirt-a clean T-shirt, one with no blood and no gaping hole where the sword had cut through both fabric and skin. He smiled again. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam.
There was no sign of his brother. "Sam!" His voice was a hoarse croak. If his brother was anywhere in the bunker other than right outside the door, there was no way in hell he'd hear him.
"Screw it." He sat up quickly-too quickly. His injured side screamed its objection to the movement, and he slumped back onto the pillow, the walls of his room spinning in a dizzying kaleidoscope. He swallowed, fighting the urge to puke. "Oh, son of a bitch…."
Dean lay still, waiting for the room to stop spinning and his stomach to settle. "OK, let's try this again." He threw back the covers, slowly swung his legs off the bed, then pushed himself up, letting the muscles on his healthy side do most of the work. This time, there was no dizziness. Exhaling slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He pulled a face at the feel of cold floors under bed-warm feet, but he was up and moving under his own steam.
In the doorway he paused to survey his room. His gun-cleaned by the looks of it-was back on his nightstand beside his wallet, his duffel at the foot of his bed. His stuff was back where it should be-in his room. Dean was smiling again as he moved slowly down the hall. It felt good to be home.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam sat at the map table in the bunker, tapping his pen absently against the polished wood while staring at the amulet Galahad had given them.
It had been more than a week since the knights returned to their own time. Dean had lost consciousness shortly after they reached the Impala, and the early part of their high-speed exit from St. Louis was a blur of frantic phone calls as Sam sought medical help for his brother. Hospitals were out; the cops in San Francisco and Chicago had finally touched base after discovering the similarities in their cases, and sword wound was trending nationwide on law enforcement bulletins. Dean would be cuffed to a gurney the moment an ER doc got a look at him.
Sam drove instead to a retired doctor who now exclusively treated hunters. Dr. Ben Chase seemed liked a good guy, came with solid references, but it was the first time Sam had met him, had needed his services. Ben had seemed a little pissed when Sam insisted on watching his every move as he stitched up Dean and tested his blood to identify the poison. He hadn't fought Sam though; he'd dealt with enough hunters to know how that would turn out.
Hunting had left Sam pretty much immune to the sight of blood, but his brother's was the exception. It stirred up too many nightmarish memories-of Dean being ripped apart by hellhounds; of him being pummeled senseless by Sam's own fists under Lucifer's control; of him unmoving and barely alive in the back seat of a crushed Impala after being tortured by their possessed Dad; of him dying over and over and over in the Trickster's sick, twisted déjà vu lesson. That sensory overload combined with injury and the waning effects of painkillers trumped even Winchester stubbornness; about seventeen hours after the brothers landed on Ben Chase's doorstep, Sam passed out cold on the floor of the doctor's surgery.
He woke up a day later, pumped full of painkillers and antibiotics, Dean still unconscious in the bed five feet away. Ben had identified the poison and had given Dean the antidote. His life was no longer in danger but he was in for a rough ride over the next few days.
There was no bullshit in that diagnosis; the ride had been rough-on both brothers.
When the worst was over, Sam had brought him home to his own room, his own bed. He smiled, Dean's voice playing out in his head. "Memory foam, Sam-it remembers me." After all the crap his brother had been through, waking up here would be the best thing for him.
"Sammy?"
Sam's head snapped up. Dean, still wearing the sweat pants and old gray T-shirt Sam had dressed him in when they'd first gotten back, stood on the opposite side of the table, his arm cradled around his injured side. He looked stubbled and pale, but it was the first time Sam had seen him vertical in more than a week. "Hey….You should've called…I would've helped."
Dean snorted. "One, I've been walking longer than you-I'm good on my own, and two…." He gestured to Sam's sling. "I don't think you're in any shape to haul my sorry ass anywhere."
Sam smiled. After days of nothing but grunts and unintelligible mumbles as he kept Dean medicated and hydrated, it was good to have his smart-ass brother back. "How you feeling?"
"Starving." Dean eased himself slowly into a chair opposite Sam and grinned. "Maybe I'll make myself some sand-warlocks."
Sam returned the smile. "Stay put. I'll make'em." He put down his pen and pushed the chair away from the table. "What kind do you want?"
"Park it, Sammy. Grub'll wait." Dean motioned for Sam to sit. "I want a little 4-1-1 as an appetizer. Last thing I remember clearly was crawling into the Impala after our showdown at the museum."
Sam sat back down. "I wanted us well out of St. Louis before they found the actor's body. So, I put my foot down…didn't take it off the pedal 'til we rolled into the doctor's driveway."
"Gray-haired dude?"
Sam nodded. "His name is Ben Chase…he's a good guy."
Dean shook his head. "Never heard of him. How'd you find him?"
Sam swallowed. "Garth recommended him."
"Oh, god." Dean rolled his eyes. "There's three words that should never be strung together."
Sam snorted. "This coming from a guy who went to Dr. Robert-willingly."
Dean just frowned at that. "I remember bits and pieces from the doc's place." He motioned again to Sam's sling. "Why's that back?"
Sam shrugged. "We were there long enough that the infection cleared up so he was able to operate…put me back together."
Dean frowned. "Son of a bitch…. How long was I out?"
Sam pushed back his sling to check the calendar on his watch. "Galahad and crew went through the portal ten days ago."
"Ten days?" Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Shit…I've got memories covering maybe ten minutes of that."
Sam's smile didn't quite make it to his eyes. "It's been...rough. You really feeling OK?"
"Yeah…really." Dean grinned. "Or I will after I eat. What happened after the shit hit the fan at the museum?"
Sam picked up his pen, again tapping it on the table. "The gala was postponed, a special task force working with cops in San Francisco and Chicago was formed to look into the sword attacks-even the State Department got involved because the exhibit items destroyed belong to the United Kingdom. Oh, and I dug around a bit into British news archives. Turns out a Sebastian Bellamy and his son Arthur were involved in a car wreck two days before the exhibit shipped out. Sebastian is director of antiquities for the museum, Arthur his assistant, being groomed to take over when dad retires."
"The guardians?"
Sam nodded.
"Two generations taken out in one accident-no wonder no one noticed the lance was missing."
"Exactly." Sam frowned. "the son was released from hospital three days ago, but they're still no public fuss about a missing artifact-I'm still trying to figure out what that means."
"Maybe now that Galahad and crew have the lance, they found a better place to hide it and it was never shipped out in the first place." Now Dean's frown matched his brother's. "But then why do you and me still look like we've been through a meat grinder? If the lance was never shipped here, Galahad and Mordred would never have come through the portal, we'd have never fought Mordred's men…." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "The only constant with time travel is that my head hurts every time we try to make sense of it." He glanced over at Sam. "What about us? We get tied to this mess in any way?"
Sam shook his head. "The only faces caught by the security cameras were Mordred and his men."
"And good luck finding them." Dean grimaced as he tried to find a more comfortable position.
Sam nodded. "For the past two days, I've been poking around the police computers, tapping in to some conference calls. They've discovered the looped footage, are pissed about the gaps but, bottom line, they can't recover what was never recorded. The only thing that could really be traced back to us…." He swallowed, picturing the heavy bandages now hidden beneath Dean's T-shirt. "Is your blood. And I um, kind of tampered with the lab results. Shouldn't be a problem."
"That's my boy." Dean frowned. "And big picture-wise-we screw up any history?"
"Don't think so." Sam glanced at the stack of the books at the end of the table, books on Arthurian history he'd spent a good chunk of the past couple of days poring over. "Bors originally killed Melehan at the Battle of Camlann, after Melahan killed Bors' brother. Now, it looks like Medraig killed Bors's brother in retaliation for Melahan's death and Bors killed Medraig at Camlann."
Dean squinted at Sam. "Dude, I just woke up."
Sam grinned. "We added a few more twists and turns to the history books but story stayed the same. Everything basically ended up in the same place."
"Good." Dean scanned the bunker. "And speaking of same place, how'd we get back here?"
Sam shrugged. "We got back two days ago. You've been mostly asleep since."
"I didn't ask when, Sammy-I asked how?" Dean gestured again to Sam's sling. "I didn't walk in, no way you carried me…. So, how?"
Sam's jaw clenched; this wasn't going to go over well. "Garth."
Dean's eyes narrowed again. "Garth drove us here?"
Sam nodded.
"So where's my car?"
Sam gestured toward the door. "Outside, where it always is."
Dean started to look nauseous. "I'm not liking where this is going."
Sam swallowed. "Look, you were out of it, I was a long way from a hundred percent, but I didn't want to leave the Impala behind, so…."
Dean's eye twitched. "Who was behind the wheel, Sammy?"
"Who do you think?"
Dean shook his head. "No, I wanna hear you say it-who was behind the wheel?"
Sam blew out a breath. "Garth, Dean-Garth drove the car."
Dean looked like a goldfish for a few seconds, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly until his could wrap his head around that idea. "Did that doc throw in a free lobotomy when he had you under? You let Garth drive Baby?"
"Dean, chill. The car's fine." Sam snorted. "Trust me-of the three of us, she's in the best shape. Besides, since we're keeping the bunker on a need-to-know basis, it was either Garth driving or we were stuck at the doctor's place 'til you came to. I just figured you'd rather wake up here."
Dean had a look on his face that said Sam was right, but there was no way in hell he was admitting it.
Sam tried a smile. "Seriously, Dean-the Impala's good…not a scratch. Garth even offered to wash and wax it. Don't worry…." He cut off Dean as he started to object. "I told him you were pretty picky about that stuff, that you'd rather do it yourself."
"Oh, no." Dean shook his head. "Once that sling comes off, you Sam Winchester, are detailing her top to bottom, inside and out, while I park my ass on a cooler, beer in hand, and supervise. Letting Garth drive…." His rant trailed off as he caught sight of the amulet Galahad had given them. It now sat in a silk-lined wooden box on the table, surrounded by library cards covered in Sam's writing. "What are you doing with that?"
"I figured I should catalog it before we stash it away…record its history, symbolism…." Sam picked up the amulet and handed it to Dean. "The cross, that's to remind the knights of the love of God and man the order is based on, and to live stainless and honorable lives in the pursuit of noble deeds."
"One grail-slash-Bleeding-Lance quest-check."
Sam nodded. "The dragon-that's Arthur's symbol, so that represents the knights' allegiance to king and country."
Dean frowned. "Galahad honored us for service to the Crown." He glanced up at Sam. "As Americans, does that make us turncoats?"
Sam grinned. "When Arthur was on the throne, America wouldn't exist for almost thirteen hundred years, so, technically, no. And if Galahad's right, and our ancestors came from the City of Winchester, they would have fought for king and country right alongside the knights."
"Alongside?" Dean snorted. "We're blue collar, Sammy-not blue blood. Chances are our great-great-times-whatever grandfather would've been a front-line grunt, holding up a pike not a sword."
"Maybe." Sam glanced around. "But the Men of Letters had to start somewhere. I'll bet that between battles our great-great-times-whatever grandfather was shooting silver-tipped arrows into medieval werewolves, picking the lock of Merlin's castle to steal spells, and tossing rock salt grenades at the ghosts of other grunts, pissed about dying too soon on the battlefield."
"Sounds about right." Dean ran his thumb around the circle that backed the amulet. "The circle-that's the Round Table, right? Representing the equality of all men?"
Sam nodded. "And the eternity of God, and the unity and comradeship of the order."
Dean smiled. "For one little amulet, it's got quite a mouth." He placed it reverently back in the box and pushed it toward Sam.
"Yeah." Sam stared at it. "I've been doing some research on it. As far as I can tell, Dean, it's the only one still in existence. There are records of the symbol because of paintings, stories….but the amulets, they've all been lost-or hidden."
Dean smiled. "Then let's just call it our 401K. If we're ever in a pinch financially-"
Sam snorted. "When aren't we in a pinch?"
"Sad, but true." Dean stood up with a groan. "Right, I'm off to make sand-warlocks. You want one?"
Sam nodded. "Thanks. But lay off the beer. Doc says alcohol doesn't play nice with the drugs you're on."
"Yeah, yeah…." Dean turned back and stared at Sam.
"What?"
"You OK?"
Sam frowned, but nodded. "I'm fine."
"No B.S." Dean gestured to Sam's arm. "That's not gonna fall off in your sleep or anything?"
"It's good, Dean. Once the stitches are out, I'm back to a hundred per cent." Sam bit back a smile. "OK, a major league pitching career is out."
Dean's eyebrow peaked. "One, it's your left shoulder and you're right-handed, and two, you suck at baseball."
"Then I've got nothing to worry about." Sam nodded at Dean. "You took good care of me."
"Damn straight I did." Seemingly reassured, Dean turned and headed for the kitchen. His phone rang when he was halfway across the room. He grinned when he caught sight of the caller display, then lifted the phone to his ear. "Charlie…. You are never gonna guess who we just met…."
Sam smiled, picked up his pen and got back to work.
Finis
"The Rounde Table at Wynchestere beganne, and ther it ende, and ther it hangeth yet"
- John Hardyng, Chronicle of England (1463)
xxxXXXxxx
A/N: It is fact that the Round Table thought to have inspired Arthurian legend hangs to this day in the Great Hall of Winchester Castle in England. It is believed to date back to around 1290, is 5.5 metres in diameter, weighs 1200 kg and 24 knights could sit comfortably around it. (Sorry, that's me channeling Sam, getting my geek on!). As the boys says, there is great debate over whether Camelot (in some form) actually existed and, if it did, where it was. I choose to believe it's in Winchester - a fitting birthplace for a long line of hunters. J This story was inspired by that wonderful scene in The Great Escapist, where Sam remembers Dean reading to him from the Classics Illustrated comic. I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear from you. Thanks so much for reading. Below are the vows of the Knights of the Round Table, from which the title of this story was taken. Until next time, cheers!
King Arthur's Charge
to the
Knights of the Round Table
(From the website kingarthursknights.com )
God make you a good man and fail not of beauty. The Round Table was founded in patience, humility, and meekness. Thou art never to do outrageousity, nor murder, and always to flee treason, by no means to be cruel, and always to do ladies, damsels, and gentle women succour. Also, to take no battles in a wrongful quarrel for no law nor for no world's goods.
Thou shouldst be for all ladies and fight for their quarrels, and ever be courteous and never refuse mercy to him that asketh mercy, for a knight that is courteous and kind and gentle has favor in every place. Thou shouldst never hold a lady or gentle woman against her will.
Thou must keep thy word to all and not be feeble of good believeth and faith. Right must be defended against might and distress must be protected. Thou must know good from evil and the vain glory of the world, because great pride and bobauce maketh great sorrow. Should anyone require ye of any quest so that it is not to thy shame, thou shouldst fulfil the desire.
Ever it is a worshipful knights deed to help another worshipful knight when he seeth him a great danger, for ever a worshipful man should loath to see a worshipful man shamed, for it is only he that is of no worship and who faireth with cowardice that shall never show gentelness or no manner of goodness where he seeth a man in any danger, but always a good man will do another man as he would have done to himself.
It should never be said that a small brother has injured or slain another brother. Thou shouldst not fail in these things: charity, abstinence and truth. No knight shall win worship but if he be of worship himself and of good living and that loveth God and dreadeth God then else he geteth no worship here be ever so hardly.
An envious knight shall never win worship for and envious man wants to win worship he shall be dishonoured twice therefore without any, and for this cause all men of worship hate an envious man and will show him no favour.
Do not, nor slay not, anything that will in any way dishonour the fair name of Christian knighthood for only by stainless and honourable lives and not by prowess and courage shall the final goal be reached. Therefore be a good knight and so I pray to God so ye may be, and if ye be of prowess and of worthiness then ye shall be a Knight of the Table Round.
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 Four: 11K+ Complete story: 30K
GENRE: Gen/Hurt-Comfort
Link back to Chapter 4a Here
STAINLESS AND HONORABLE LIVES
Chapter Four
Dean slid into the passenger seat of the Impala under his own steam-or maybe Sam had helped him; things got a little fuzzy right about then. Very few places felt safe to Dean, but his car was one of them; maybe it finally felt OK to let down his guard-or maybe he'd simply run out of juice.
He'd made it out of the museum upright-that much he was sure of. Sam talked the whole damn time on the trek from the exhibit hall to the car. It would've been annoying except he knew exactly what his brother was doing; giving him something to concentrate on besides the pain ripping through his side, his blurry vision, and just how much harder it was getting to focus on…well, anything.
Dean rolled his head across the seat back; Sam was beside him now, behind the wheel. That always felt wrong; it was his car-he was the driver, Sam rode shotgun. If it was a long-haul trip and they were pressed for time, they'd spell each other off; he was cool with that. But this…this didn't feel cool at all.
Sam was talking again but someone had hit the mute switch. He could see his brother's lips moving, see the worry etched into his face, but he couldn't hear a word Sam was saying. He scowled when Sam leaned in and pressed his hand to Dean's forehead. "Get the hell off." The sounds that came out were nothing like the words he was going for. He tried to pull away from Sam but suddenly seemed frozen in place.
Images flashed through his head of his fight with Medraig, of breaking the knight's nose, of the powder thrown in his face, of the searing burn when the sword sliced through his side. "Mordred's men are known to devil their blades" - that explained a few things, especially the terrified look on Sam's face as he grabbed for his phone. It was the last thing Dean remembered before the lights went out.
The next moment of awareness everything was in reverse; Dean couldn't see much but his hearing was working just fine. He heard the familiar, comforting rumble of the Impala's engine-and Baby was doing a full-out sprint. He was being tossed gently side-to-side, meaning they were on curving back roads, not city streets-a guess confirmed when he peeled open his eyes. It was dark outside-middle-of-the-night dark-the inky blackness broken only occasionally by a random streetlight.
"No, four hours is too far. He needs a doctor now." Sam's voice fell somewhere between pissed and panic. "If I knew one, I wouldn't be calling you, would I?"
Dean scowled at the itchy feel of wool on bare skin-he was covered by Dad's old army blanket. The damn thing always made him itch. He rolled his head toward Sam; his brother had his phone in his right hand, pressed to his ear, his left hand on the wheel. Something about that wasn't good, but Dean couldn't think what.
"Ben Chase? That's the doc from Bobby's book? No…no-that's good. And he's where? OK-I'm maybe…twenty minutes away. Just make damn sure he knows we're coming…. No, I have no idea what the hell the poison is so tell him to be ready to do blood tests." Sam glanced over at Dean and forced a smile. "Hey…. Just hang in there. We'll have you feeling better in no time." Somehow Dean didn't buy the smile that accompanied the reassurance.
The next time Dean woke, two things were very different-he wasn't in the car any more, and it wasn't dark outside. He squinted against the sun streaming in through the window and wished someone would close the damn drapes; the bright light was giving him a headache. He felt like someone had put him through the spin cycle at the Laundromat after he'd downed a fifth of Johnny Walker.
He frowned as he glanced around; it wasn't the bunker, and it wasn't a motel room-more like some kind of makeshift hospital. Yeah, the IV in his arm, the meter on his finger, the itchy leads taped to his chest all confirmed that. But the monitor beside his bed kicked it up a notch when he glanced to his left; Sam was in an adjacent bed.
His brother was awake, the head of his bed propped up so he was almost sitting up. He was facing away from Dean, lost in thought, and his arm was back in a sling. Dean's frown deepened at that; Sam had been shot, but he'd ditched the sling. Why was it back now?
"Hey." Sam turned toward Dean, smiling when he saw his brother was awake. "How you feeling in there?"
Dean tried to answer but his voice was on strike again.
"It's OK…it's OK." Sam threw back the covers and swung his legs out of bed; one step and he was at Dean's bedside. "You've had a rough ride but the worst is over. You're gonna be fine." He smiled when he realized Dean's frown was directed at his sling. "This? It's fine, Dean. The doc fixed me up right after he took care of you. Be good as new in no time."
Dean's frown deepened. Why the hell had Sam's voice suddenly developed a weird echo. He also felt really hot-and not in a good way; more like someone had lit a fire underneath his bed. His chest tightened, too, making it damn hard to breathe.
"Oh, fuck. Doc! Get in here!"
The shout for help, the expression on Sam's face didn't make Dean feel any better; he knew Sam's worried face all too well. Something was definitely wrong. He frowned when a gray-haired man he didn't know appeared beside his brother. The stethoscope around his neck made it a good bet he was the 'Doc' Sam had shouted for, but that's about as far as Dean got when it came to figuring things out; he was halfway through a silent objection to the oxygen mask placed over his face when everything faded to black.
Dean blinked three times to get his vision to focus. When it did, he was staring at an old dresser. It sat in front of a brick wall, magazines stacked neatly on top of it beside an old metal desk lamp.
He smiled; the space hadn't been his for long, but it was his. He was back in his room at the bunker, lying in his own bed.
Dean exhaled slowly; he felt like he'd just won a battle with the flu-starving and zero energy, but otherwise OK. He rolled onto his back and did a quick triage; arms and legs both worked, it didn't hurt to breathe and, unlike the last few times he'd woken up, it didn't hurt to think, either. His head was clear.
The events of the past few days ran through his head in fast forward-Sam getting shot, meeting Galahad and the knights, fighting Mordred's son, getting slashed and poisoned…. He slid his hand to his side; a heavy bandage was hidden beneath his T-shirt-a clean T-shirt, one with no blood and no gaping hole where the sword had cut through both fabric and skin. He smiled again. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam.
There was no sign of his brother. "Sam!" His voice was a hoarse croak. If his brother was anywhere in the bunker other than right outside the door, there was no way in hell he'd hear him.
"Screw it." He sat up quickly-too quickly. His injured side screamed its objection to the movement, and he slumped back onto the pillow, the walls of his room spinning in a dizzying kaleidoscope. He swallowed, fighting the urge to puke. "Oh, son of a bitch…."
Dean lay still, waiting for the room to stop spinning and his stomach to settle. "OK, let's try this again." He threw back the covers, slowly swung his legs off the bed, then pushed himself up, letting the muscles on his healthy side do most of the work. This time, there was no dizziness. Exhaling slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He pulled a face at the feel of cold floors under bed-warm feet, but he was up and moving under his own steam.
In the doorway he paused to survey his room. His gun-cleaned by the looks of it-was back on his nightstand beside his wallet, his duffel at the foot of his bed. His stuff was back where it should be-in his room. Dean was smiling again as he moved slowly down the hall. It felt good to be home.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam sat at the map table in the bunker, tapping his pen absently against the polished wood while staring at the amulet Galahad had given them.
It had been more than a week since the knights returned to their own time. Dean had lost consciousness shortly after they reached the Impala, and the early part of their high-speed exit from St. Louis was a blur of frantic phone calls as Sam sought medical help for his brother. Hospitals were out; the cops in San Francisco and Chicago had finally touched base after discovering the similarities in their cases, and sword wound was trending nationwide on law enforcement bulletins. Dean would be cuffed to a gurney the moment an ER doc got a look at him.
Sam drove instead to a retired doctor who now exclusively treated hunters. Dr. Ben Chase seemed liked a good guy, came with solid references, but it was the first time Sam had met him, had needed his services. Ben had seemed a little pissed when Sam insisted on watching his every move as he stitched up Dean and tested his blood to identify the poison. He hadn't fought Sam though; he'd dealt with enough hunters to know how that would turn out.
Hunting had left Sam pretty much immune to the sight of blood, but his brother's was the exception. It stirred up too many nightmarish memories-of Dean being ripped apart by hellhounds; of him being pummeled senseless by Sam's own fists under Lucifer's control; of him unmoving and barely alive in the back seat of a crushed Impala after being tortured by their possessed Dad; of him dying over and over and over in the Trickster's sick, twisted déjà vu lesson. That sensory overload combined with injury and the waning effects of painkillers trumped even Winchester stubbornness; about seventeen hours after the brothers landed on Ben Chase's doorstep, Sam passed out cold on the floor of the doctor's surgery.
He woke up a day later, pumped full of painkillers and antibiotics, Dean still unconscious in the bed five feet away. Ben had identified the poison and had given Dean the antidote. His life was no longer in danger but he was in for a rough ride over the next few days.
There was no bullshit in that diagnosis; the ride had been rough-on both brothers.
When the worst was over, Sam had brought him home to his own room, his own bed. He smiled, Dean's voice playing out in his head. "Memory foam, Sam-it remembers me." After all the crap his brother had been through, waking up here would be the best thing for him.
"Sammy?"
Sam's head snapped up. Dean, still wearing the sweat pants and old gray T-shirt Sam had dressed him in when they'd first gotten back, stood on the opposite side of the table, his arm cradled around his injured side. He looked stubbled and pale, but it was the first time Sam had seen him vertical in more than a week. "Hey….You should've called…I would've helped."
Dean snorted. "One, I've been walking longer than you-I'm good on my own, and two…." He gestured to Sam's sling. "I don't think you're in any shape to haul my sorry ass anywhere."
Sam smiled. After days of nothing but grunts and unintelligible mumbles as he kept Dean medicated and hydrated, it was good to have his smart-ass brother back. "How you feeling?"
"Starving." Dean eased himself slowly into a chair opposite Sam and grinned. "Maybe I'll make myself some sand-warlocks."
Sam returned the smile. "Stay put. I'll make'em." He put down his pen and pushed the chair away from the table. "What kind do you want?"
"Park it, Sammy. Grub'll wait." Dean motioned for Sam to sit. "I want a little 4-1-1 as an appetizer. Last thing I remember clearly was crawling into the Impala after our showdown at the museum."
Sam sat back down. "I wanted us well out of St. Louis before they found the actor's body. So, I put my foot down…didn't take it off the pedal 'til we rolled into the doctor's driveway."
"Gray-haired dude?"
Sam nodded. "His name is Ben Chase…he's a good guy."
Dean shook his head. "Never heard of him. How'd you find him?"
Sam swallowed. "Garth recommended him."
"Oh, god." Dean rolled his eyes. "There's three words that should never be strung together."
Sam snorted. "This coming from a guy who went to Dr. Robert-willingly."
Dean just frowned at that. "I remember bits and pieces from the doc's place." He motioned again to Sam's sling. "Why's that back?"
Sam shrugged. "We were there long enough that the infection cleared up so he was able to operate…put me back together."
Dean frowned. "Son of a bitch…. How long was I out?"
Sam pushed back his sling to check the calendar on his watch. "Galahad and crew went through the portal ten days ago."
"Ten days?" Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Shit…I've got memories covering maybe ten minutes of that."
Sam's smile didn't quite make it to his eyes. "It's been...rough. You really feeling OK?"
"Yeah…really." Dean grinned. "Or I will after I eat. What happened after the shit hit the fan at the museum?"
Sam picked up his pen, again tapping it on the table. "The gala was postponed, a special task force working with cops in San Francisco and Chicago was formed to look into the sword attacks-even the State Department got involved because the exhibit items destroyed belong to the United Kingdom. Oh, and I dug around a bit into British news archives. Turns out a Sebastian Bellamy and his son Arthur were involved in a car wreck two days before the exhibit shipped out. Sebastian is director of antiquities for the museum, Arthur his assistant, being groomed to take over when dad retires."
"The guardians?"
Sam nodded.
"Two generations taken out in one accident-no wonder no one noticed the lance was missing."
"Exactly." Sam frowned. "the son was released from hospital three days ago, but they're still no public fuss about a missing artifact-I'm still trying to figure out what that means."
"Maybe now that Galahad and crew have the lance, they found a better place to hide it and it was never shipped out in the first place." Now Dean's frown matched his brother's. "But then why do you and me still look like we've been through a meat grinder? If the lance was never shipped here, Galahad and Mordred would never have come through the portal, we'd have never fought Mordred's men…." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "The only constant with time travel is that my head hurts every time we try to make sense of it." He glanced over at Sam. "What about us? We get tied to this mess in any way?"
Sam shook his head. "The only faces caught by the security cameras were Mordred and his men."
"And good luck finding them." Dean grimaced as he tried to find a more comfortable position.
Sam nodded. "For the past two days, I've been poking around the police computers, tapping in to some conference calls. They've discovered the looped footage, are pissed about the gaps but, bottom line, they can't recover what was never recorded. The only thing that could really be traced back to us…." He swallowed, picturing the heavy bandages now hidden beneath Dean's T-shirt. "Is your blood. And I um, kind of tampered with the lab results. Shouldn't be a problem."
"That's my boy." Dean frowned. "And big picture-wise-we screw up any history?"
"Don't think so." Sam glanced at the stack of the books at the end of the table, books on Arthurian history he'd spent a good chunk of the past couple of days poring over. "Bors originally killed Melehan at the Battle of Camlann, after Melahan killed Bors' brother. Now, it looks like Medraig killed Bors's brother in retaliation for Melahan's death and Bors killed Medraig at Camlann."
Dean squinted at Sam. "Dude, I just woke up."
Sam grinned. "We added a few more twists and turns to the history books but story stayed the same. Everything basically ended up in the same place."
"Good." Dean scanned the bunker. "And speaking of same place, how'd we get back here?"
Sam shrugged. "We got back two days ago. You've been mostly asleep since."
"I didn't ask when, Sammy-I asked how?" Dean gestured again to Sam's sling. "I didn't walk in, no way you carried me…. So, how?"
Sam's jaw clenched; this wasn't going to go over well. "Garth."
Dean's eyes narrowed again. "Garth drove us here?"
Sam nodded.
"So where's my car?"
Sam gestured toward the door. "Outside, where it always is."
Dean started to look nauseous. "I'm not liking where this is going."
Sam swallowed. "Look, you were out of it, I was a long way from a hundred percent, but I didn't want to leave the Impala behind, so…."
Dean's eye twitched. "Who was behind the wheel, Sammy?"
"Who do you think?"
Dean shook his head. "No, I wanna hear you say it-who was behind the wheel?"
Sam blew out a breath. "Garth, Dean-Garth drove the car."
Dean looked like a goldfish for a few seconds, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly until his could wrap his head around that idea. "Did that doc throw in a free lobotomy when he had you under? You let Garth drive Baby?"
"Dean, chill. The car's fine." Sam snorted. "Trust me-of the three of us, she's in the best shape. Besides, since we're keeping the bunker on a need-to-know basis, it was either Garth driving or we were stuck at the doctor's place 'til you came to. I just figured you'd rather wake up here."
Dean had a look on his face that said Sam was right, but there was no way in hell he was admitting it.
Sam tried a smile. "Seriously, Dean-the Impala's good…not a scratch. Garth even offered to wash and wax it. Don't worry…." He cut off Dean as he started to object. "I told him you were pretty picky about that stuff, that you'd rather do it yourself."
"Oh, no." Dean shook his head. "Once that sling comes off, you Sam Winchester, are detailing her top to bottom, inside and out, while I park my ass on a cooler, beer in hand, and supervise. Letting Garth drive…." His rant trailed off as he caught sight of the amulet Galahad had given them. It now sat in a silk-lined wooden box on the table, surrounded by library cards covered in Sam's writing. "What are you doing with that?"
"I figured I should catalog it before we stash it away…record its history, symbolism…." Sam picked up the amulet and handed it to Dean. "The cross, that's to remind the knights of the love of God and man the order is based on, and to live stainless and honorable lives in the pursuit of noble deeds."
"One grail-slash-Bleeding-Lance quest-check."
Sam nodded. "The dragon-that's Arthur's symbol, so that represents the knights' allegiance to king and country."
Dean frowned. "Galahad honored us for service to the Crown." He glanced up at Sam. "As Americans, does that make us turncoats?"
Sam grinned. "When Arthur was on the throne, America wouldn't exist for almost thirteen hundred years, so, technically, no. And if Galahad's right, and our ancestors came from the City of Winchester, they would have fought for king and country right alongside the knights."
"Alongside?" Dean snorted. "We're blue collar, Sammy-not blue blood. Chances are our great-great-times-whatever grandfather would've been a front-line grunt, holding up a pike not a sword."
"Maybe." Sam glanced around. "But the Men of Letters had to start somewhere. I'll bet that between battles our great-great-times-whatever grandfather was shooting silver-tipped arrows into medieval werewolves, picking the lock of Merlin's castle to steal spells, and tossing rock salt grenades at the ghosts of other grunts, pissed about dying too soon on the battlefield."
"Sounds about right." Dean ran his thumb around the circle that backed the amulet. "The circle-that's the Round Table, right? Representing the equality of all men?"
Sam nodded. "And the eternity of God, and the unity and comradeship of the order."
Dean smiled. "For one little amulet, it's got quite a mouth." He placed it reverently back in the box and pushed it toward Sam.
"Yeah." Sam stared at it. "I've been doing some research on it. As far as I can tell, Dean, it's the only one still in existence. There are records of the symbol because of paintings, stories….but the amulets, they've all been lost-or hidden."
Dean smiled. "Then let's just call it our 401K. If we're ever in a pinch financially-"
Sam snorted. "When aren't we in a pinch?"
"Sad, but true." Dean stood up with a groan. "Right, I'm off to make sand-warlocks. You want one?"
Sam nodded. "Thanks. But lay off the beer. Doc says alcohol doesn't play nice with the drugs you're on."
"Yeah, yeah…." Dean turned back and stared at Sam.
"What?"
"You OK?"
Sam frowned, but nodded. "I'm fine."
"No B.S." Dean gestured to Sam's arm. "That's not gonna fall off in your sleep or anything?"
"It's good, Dean. Once the stitches are out, I'm back to a hundred per cent." Sam bit back a smile. "OK, a major league pitching career is out."
Dean's eyebrow peaked. "One, it's your left shoulder and you're right-handed, and two, you suck at baseball."
"Then I've got nothing to worry about." Sam nodded at Dean. "You took good care of me."
"Damn straight I did." Seemingly reassured, Dean turned and headed for the kitchen. His phone rang when he was halfway across the room. He grinned when he caught sight of the caller display, then lifted the phone to his ear. "Charlie…. You are never gonna guess who we just met…."
Sam smiled, picked up his pen and got back to work.
Finis
"The Rounde Table at Wynchestere beganne, and ther it ende, and ther it hangeth yet"
- John Hardyng, Chronicle of England (1463)
xxxXXXxxx
A/N: It is fact that the Round Table thought to have inspired Arthurian legend hangs to this day in the Great Hall of Winchester Castle in England. It is believed to date back to around 1290, is 5.5 metres in diameter, weighs 1200 kg and 24 knights could sit comfortably around it. (Sorry, that's me channeling Sam, getting my geek on!). As the boys says, there is great debate over whether Camelot (in some form) actually existed and, if it did, where it was. I choose to believe it's in Winchester - a fitting birthplace for a long line of hunters. J This story was inspired by that wonderful scene in The Great Escapist, where Sam remembers Dean reading to him from the Classics Illustrated comic. I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear from you. Thanks so much for reading. Below are the vows of the Knights of the Round Table, from which the title of this story was taken. Until next time, cheers!
King Arthur's Charge
to the
Knights of the Round Table
(From the website kingarthursknights.com )
God make you a good man and fail not of beauty. The Round Table was founded in patience, humility, and meekness. Thou art never to do outrageousity, nor murder, and always to flee treason, by no means to be cruel, and always to do ladies, damsels, and gentle women succour. Also, to take no battles in a wrongful quarrel for no law nor for no world's goods.
Thou shouldst be for all ladies and fight for their quarrels, and ever be courteous and never refuse mercy to him that asketh mercy, for a knight that is courteous and kind and gentle has favor in every place. Thou shouldst never hold a lady or gentle woman against her will.
Thou must keep thy word to all and not be feeble of good believeth and faith. Right must be defended against might and distress must be protected. Thou must know good from evil and the vain glory of the world, because great pride and bobauce maketh great sorrow. Should anyone require ye of any quest so that it is not to thy shame, thou shouldst fulfil the desire.
Ever it is a worshipful knights deed to help another worshipful knight when he seeth him a great danger, for ever a worshipful man should loath to see a worshipful man shamed, for it is only he that is of no worship and who faireth with cowardice that shall never show gentelness or no manner of goodness where he seeth a man in any danger, but always a good man will do another man as he would have done to himself.
It should never be said that a small brother has injured or slain another brother. Thou shouldst not fail in these things: charity, abstinence and truth. No knight shall win worship but if he be of worship himself and of good living and that loveth God and dreadeth God then else he geteth no worship here be ever so hardly.
An envious knight shall never win worship for and envious man wants to win worship he shall be dishonoured twice therefore without any, and for this cause all men of worship hate an envious man and will show him no favour.
Do not, nor slay not, anything that will in any way dishonour the fair name of Christian knighthood for only by stainless and honourable lives and not by prowess and courage shall the final goal be reached. Therefore be a good knight and so I pray to God so ye may be, and if ye be of prowess and of worthiness then ye shall be a Knight of the Table Round.