[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Four
Title: For Love, For Glory
Author: bellanovaskies [shotgunsinlace]
Artist: unbearablebears
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural; Action/Adventure
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jessica, mentions of Charlie/Gilda, previous Dean/Lisa and one-sided Victor/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~84,000
Warnings: Violence, language, torture, racism, controversial political views, and sexual content.
Summary: It’s the 1940’s, the war is tearing Europe in half, and the Nazis have a plan to uncover an ancient weapon belonging to the Egyptian gods that can tip the scale in their favor. With the help of a librarian named Castiel, it’s up to Sam and Dean Winchester, respectively a professor of archaeology and treasure hunter, to get to the Lost City of Amun-Ra and stop the Third Reich from achieving world domination. But with a missing father, secret societies, and an unexpected romance, things get more than a little complicated in this race against time. Loosely based on the Indiana Jones franchise.
The day flows by in a slow shade of gray, the rain having scared off any students or tourists, with the exception of two individuals who frequent the library on a weekly basis. Thunder rumbles in the near distance as rain continues to patter the windows, filling the hollow silence with a sense of homeliness that makes Castiel want to hum as he sorts the philosophy shelf at the very back of the room. Humming is better than thinking, and right now he would rather not think about the trouble that may be brewing just down the hall.
He’s a librarian, not a soldier. Castiel knows many languages, as well as mathematics, science and philosophy. He’s a scholar who looks at the world through the colored panes of his library, and nothing else. Observation without interference. The thought of having Nazis at his doorstep sets a chill to his bones. He wants nothing to do with this situation, so he’ll do nothing to encourage it. The Winchesters will get all of the information that is at his disposal, and then they’ll be on their way. By the end of the week, they will be nothing but a bad memory.
“What are your thoughts on this?”
Balthazar’s voice breaking the deep silence startles Castiel, and he clings to the rolling ladder for dear life, willing his heart to calm down. “Don’t do that.”
“Do you really think that letter was a forgery? That you’ve been cast into this intentionally?”
Lodging the last two books into place, Castiel descends from the ladder to place a hand over Balthazar’s shoulder. “I’m not sure of anything, so far. This could very well be a coincidence, but…”
“It may not.”
Castiel side-eyes the men sitting at the tables they had convened at earlier, and on a hunch, drives Balthazar further away from them for the sake of privacy. “What I think is that we should be ready for anything while they remain here. Aaron may need to be confined to the grounds until we’re well out of their attention. We have to play it safe, especially if Eckhart has already infiltrated several of the bases.”
“How can we possibly be ready when we don’t know what we should expect?” Balthazar grabs Castiel by the elbow and pulls him close enough to whisper, “John Winchester was here, you spoke with him. If there is anything I should know, Castiel-”
“I would have told you. I would have told them. I’ve dealt with enough to continue dallying in the game of secrets. It will only get you so far.” Secrets and lies had cost him his parents’ life, and now Castiel wishes to have nothing to do with them. Omitting John’s visit is something he is still debating whether to reveal or not.
“Well then,” Balthazar says, clearing his throat and tugging at the hem of his vest. “I see we have no other option other than to wait.”
“And hope we don’t get the answers too late,” Castiel adds, anxiously running his thumb through the grooves of his pocket watch.
The rain falls harder, echoing through the stone hallways like a haunting melody. Both peaceful and unnerving, it feels like a portent. Whether good or bad, Castiel can’t really decide.
“He looks to be a nice fellow,” Balthazar says, seemingly as a nonchalant afterthought, but Castiel knows him far too well.
“Who does?”
“Don’t play coy with me, mein liebling.”
“I will not engage you in this conversation, Balthazar. We’ve been through this enough times.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Balthazar chuckles. “It’s just that, with the way you two were gazing into each other’s eyes, I thought there had been some sort of connection.” His words drip a certain kind of sarcasm that is probably meant to edge Castiel on, or call him out on it.
It takes Castiel a moment to realize that Balthazar isn’t talking about Sam. He feels the tip of his ears warm, but he’s certain it has more to do with indignation rather than embarrassment. “As I’ve told him, I have this thing called ‘standards’,” he makes a point to air-quote the word. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of the word?”
“Oh ho!” Balthazar calls out, but flinches when someone shushes him from the main floor. “He’s handsome, and seems to have a wonderful personality.” His words are almost melodious.
“He a treasure hunter, which means he’s a brute. That man wouldn’t know erudition if it was delivered to him on a silver platter. He belched,” Castiel says, scandalized by the idea of even being seen with someone so… so uncouth. “He’s nothing but this roguish drugstore cowboy with a slight hint of charm to his name. It will certainly take more than lovely eyes and a handsome face to… to…” Castiel searches for a way to complete that sentence, but only draws up a blank. “I’m not interested.”
But Balthazar is grinning from ear to ear. “No need to be defensive.”
“I’m not being defensive,” Castiel says coolly, grabbing the lapels of his suit and tugging them fiercely, before flattening them down with his palm. “And that’s the end of it. I am a professional, and I want nothing to do with these men.”
He pretends that he doesn’t trip on a step as he makes his way back onto the main floor.
“Live a little, Castiel. There’s no need to conquer the world when you haven’t taken the chance to walk away from your doorstep.”
“This conversation is over,” Castiel says, walking away to man the front desk.
❖
As the day slowly goes by, the Winchesters fade from Castiel’s mind, the name being replaced with those of books such as Gone With the Wind, Brave New World, and The Grapes of Wrath, while he sits behind his desk and marks dates off a tally as they’re gradually returned. He doesn’t normally take the front desk, but with Miss Talbot out of the country, they’ve found themselves short of staff. Besides, there is really no need to summon anyone else into a cold, rainy day. Three people can run the library very easily when visitors are scarce.
Manning the front desk also places Castiel on a vantage point, allowing him to keep an eye on the front doors and the strange gentlemen who continue leafing through books and looking over their shoulders. Normally, Castiel would wander over and ask if they were in need of assistance, but with a brewing situation at hand, he let Balthazar take care of it.
They leave an hour before closing, when the moon spills in whenever the doors swing open, taking the stagnant stench of suspicion with them.
Perhaps it’s all in Castiel’s mind. The talk of conspiracy and danger may be adding a layer of paranoia he can very well do without. It may be harmless at the very moment, probably it won’t even have a purpose, but he’s now carrying a shadow of nervousness and anxiety he doesn’t need. He’s just a librarian, after all. He doesn’t need any excitement in his life.
“Let’s close up for the night,” Balthazar calls out from down the hall, rapping his fist against a wooden column. “Make sure to double lock those doors.”
Castiel files away today’s papers and organizes all returned books by segments, setting them into a neat stack before closing the library. Three padlocks the size of his fist, and a deadbolt. He draws the curtains, cutting off the outside lighting.
Gathering the books, Castiel crosses the main floor, walks by Aaron who is sweeping up the dirt dragged in throughout the day, but stops at the table they had huddled over just this morning. He sets the books down in favor of looking through the ones the two strange men had spent the entire day looking through.
“They’re just journals,” Aaron says, shrugging when he stops sweeping. “Personal research?” He doesn’t sound too convinced.
“I don’t know.” Castiel checks the log information engraved in the leather, and finds that it’s missing a publishing date and the author’s name. The pages are worn and yellowing with age, but the content is just senseless rambling of magic tricks. “Spies?”
“They had SS badges.”
Castiel looks up, alarmed. “How do you know?”
“I caught a glimpse of it earlier. It was hidden under the blonde one’s collar, saw it when he moved to pull out another book from his satchel.” Aaron rubs his nose with the back of his hand - a nervous gesture Castiel has picked up on. “You think they’re here for the Americans?”
Castiel tried to kid himself into thinking he’s had time to plot a course of action, if the need arose. And all this time, the enemy has already been sitting inside of his home. Heaven knows how far along they already are.
“Cassie?” Balthazar emerges through the archway, pointedly looking at Aaron and waving him off. “Summon the Winchesters. We’re going out for dinner this evening.”
“Surprising for someone as stingy as you,” Aaron counters, pulling a scornful face in Balthazar’s direction before turning into the left corridor, towards the living quarters. “Keep an eye on the short one for me,” Aaron shouts over his shoulder, his chuckle reverberating through the hallway.
“Why should I?” Castiel murmurs to himself, his colleagues’ humor lost on him.
❖
“Wow, Dean. You’re looking dapper,” Sam says, whistling an impressed note in his brother’s direction, who is standing in front of a body-length mirror and adjusting the knot on his silk tie.
Dean beams, moving his hand to fix the top button of his waistcoat and dusting off the dust motes on his jacket. Bringing his expensive suit was by far the best decision he’d made before leaving the States, because in his personal opinion, with hair slicked into place and a dash of cologne, he looks and feels like a million bucks and ready to come face to face with any lucky contender.
Sam is dressed a bit more casually, and for a moment Dean wonders if he’s overdressed and trying too hard to impress. His first impression failed to do so, with stained slacks and smelling like old cheese, hence the choice for dressing the slightest bit over the top for dinner this evening.
“I might just give Bogart a run for his money tonight, don’t you think?”
Sam doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and grabs his jacket, which he’d left hanging from the back of a chair when they had first walked in the room a few hours ago.
They’re very much fatigued, jet-lagged and drowsy, even after getting several hours of sleep, but Dean is at least hoping that a night out in the cold German air might be able to shake him awake and sweat off the rust in his bones. A few beers here, and a hearty meal there, some lovely nurses singing show tunes while fawning over… him, really, given that Sam insists on being a one-woman guy. However, rather than broadening that thought on nurses, Dean’s mind zeros in on a specific pair of baby-blues he’d like to call his.
“You ready?” Sam says, opening the door without bothering to wait for an answer.
Giving himself one last once-over, Dean nods his head and grabs his coat.
❖
Zum Anbeißen is a small restaurant that stands nestled in a corner between a bakery and a shoe shop just a twenty minute walk from the library. It’s loud and merry, with native music bursting from a live band as lovely ladies in white, brown and green dirndls serve the tables. The smell of roasting meat and crisp beer is strong in the air, mingling with the pungent smell of cigar smoke.
It’s far too rowdy, and Dean is dandified, but he can’t stop laughing raucously at Balthazar’s anecdotes. By all means, he doesn’t like the man, his accent and attitude making him seem shady, but aided by the warmth in his belly the beer has provoked, Dean can’t be bothered to hold anything against him. Similarly, Sam is coughing into a napkin after coming down from a high of guffaws.
Castiel doesn’t appear to be amused. He’s sitting at the end of the table, nudging the last bite of seasoned potatoes around his plate with a fork. He looks bored, and toeing the line of irritation. Dean feels sorry for him. Judging by his quiet disposition back in the library, it’s easy to tell that these kinds of joints aren’t his thing.
“But then I asked him,” Balthazar says, leaning against his elbow on the table, “if you had to choose a weevil…” He stops to snicker into his hand. “Which would you choose? And do you know what he answered?” Both Winchesters inch closer. “He said, ‘well that’s easy - I’d choose the lesser of two weevils’!”
Castiel rubs at his temples when they burst out in another wave of laughter.
“The bloke was pissed off his rocker, let me tell you. But weevils!”
Dean’s belly hurts from the exercise it’s getting, and he has to dab a napkin across his forehead after a while. The restaurant is stuffy, and with the amount of layers he has on, he feels about ready to melt. He considers taking off his jacket, but thinks better of it once he remembers about the gun strapped to his lower back.
“All right, all right, but really. How on Earth did you end up in Germany, of all places?” Sam says, taking a sip from his lager.
Sitting back in his chair, Balthazar worries his lower lip in thought. Several huffs of laughter continue to ebb their way out of his chest, but he eventually settles down. “Ah, let’s see. My usual story narrates the events of a young bachelor who came for the culture and stayed for the damen; voluptuous and amatory, the lot of them. But in truth, I stayed only for one.”
“Isn’t that romantic,” Dean says, mockingly.
“It’s always a lady, isn’t it,” Sam adds with the hint of a sigh, staring down at his pint with a longing expression.
“Looks like our dear professor has sipped the love juice.” Balthazar leans forward again, this time lacing his fingers together and resting his chin over them. “Tell me about her.”
Sam smiles, his eyes turning soft as he averts them down to the table. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat as he looks for where to start. “She’s a teacher,” he says. “We plan on getting married in June of next year.”
Dean grins at hearing Sam’s elation. “Always a lady,” Dean says without much thought. It isn’t always true, but it’s the easiest thing to say in a restaurant full of men, in a country where admitting to any kind of deviancy can get you killed.
The scraping of a chair dragging across the floor makes them all look up at Castiel, who is gathering his jacket. “I need a bit of air,” he announces quietly, and says nothing else as he hurriedly navigates his way through the crowd and out the door.
“This sweetheart of yours,” Balthazar continues, as if not caring that Castiel just left in a hurry. “Her name?”
“You’re just going to let him run off?” Dean interrupts, already straightening up in his seat.
“He’s a grown man, liebling. I’m sure he can take care of himself.” Balthazar raises an amused eyebrow as Dean stands up. He smiles up at him, knowingly, but doesn’t say another word.
“I’ll meet you back in the library,” Dean says, nodding his head at Sam, who waves him off with a smirk.
Dean makes his way through the throng of people and steps outside, taking a deep breath of cold air that is soothing in more ways than one. The rain has stopped but it’s still cloudy, and thunder still rumbles in the distance.
Fixing his jacket, he looks down both sides of the sidewalk, trying to spot a glimpse of Castiel amongst the scarce amount of people. He sees him shortly after he starts walking in the opposite direction of the library, mumbles a ‘good evening’ to a couple getting into a car that are polite enough to smile at him.
Dean isn’t sure if Castiel did it on purpose, but he can’t help but feel a surge of hope when Dean sees him enter a modest looking bar with barely any patrons. With a bounce in his step, Dean follows.
Much smaller and quieter than the previous establishment, the bar smells of polished wood and fresh pastry. To the left, a man sits behind a grand piano, stroking keys to a smooth rhythm that would lull anyone to sleep. It’s cozy, and he hesitates at the sight of Castiel sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of liquor.
Snapping his fingers, Dean catches the piano man’s attention. He walks over to him and asks, “Do you know Sinatra?”
The piano man, who can’t possibly be old enough to even be inside a bar, gives him a nod and a flourish of keys that sets into a familiar tune. Satisfied, Dean drops a few coins into the tip jar.
Running his hands over suit jacket, and straightening out his waistcoat, Dean makes his way to the bar and smoothly slips onto the stool beside Castiel. He knocks on the bar top, orders whatever’s on tap, and at the confused look the bartender gives him, Castiel is kind enough to step in and translate the request into German.
“Thanks,” Dean says, settling himself into a comfortable position, while still being able to face Castiel.
“You’re welcome,” Castiel offers in return, tipping back his glass, eyes steady on the ice cubes that chink against it.
Dean takes a moment to admire the angular features of his profile, from the perfectly straight nose to the oddly flat lips, and the way his hair curls just behind his ear. Maybe it’s the glasses that make him look endearing, but Dean wishes to see Castiel without them, just to be able to appreciate how handsome he truly is.
He looks away when the bartender puts the glass of beer in front of him, and Dean mumbles a “danke”.
“I’m here,” Castiel says, stating the obvious. He finally turns to look at Dean with a serious expression that makes Dean worry.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“Impress me.” Castiel twines his fingers together, the tension around his eyes melting into something more expectant.
Dean drums his fingers against the bar top, smiling incredulously at the man sitting beside him. Impress me. Dressed in his finest outfit, hair combed, and zero belching-Dean isn’t sure what else he can do. He isn’t sure whether or not he should do anything. What makes Castiel so special, that it would merit Dean’s best effort in wooing?
Licking his lips, Dean decides that he doesn’t know. There’s nothing to set Castiel apart from the endless amount of people Dean’s found worth casting a second glance to, but there’s something there that makes him want to win him over. Maybe it’s his good looks, or maybe that slight intellectual arrogance; maybe it’s nothing at all and for once, it isn’t the bit between his legs doing the thinking for him.
“I’m afraid I got nothing to brag about,” Dean offers, turning his eyes to the glass he’s holding. “What you see is all I’ve got to offer.” And it’s the truth. The luxuries he enjoys aren’t his to show off.
Castiel’s eyes, so intensely blue, stare curiously at Dean. “You don’t seem to be a modest kind of man. I do believe that, once again, you’re trying too hard.”
“Hardly trying, actually,” Dean says, smirking around the rim of the glass as he takes a swig. “I got nothing but the clothes on my back, a heap of junk for a car back home, and my good looks. Everything else is courtesy of Sam’s good graces.”
There is a moment of silence that makes Dean fidget in his seat, eyes locked onto Castiel’s like magnets unable to be pulled apart. Thrill surges and scorches his blood when Castiel finally breaks the gaze in favor of looking over Dean’s form with an arched eyebrow. He hums a note that Dean figures is appreciative, before turning back to his drink.
“It’s a very nice suit,” Castiel says, his tone serious and unaffected. Dean’s grip on his glass tightens when the tip of Castiel’s tongue surfaces to lick along his lips. “You look swell.”
Dean’s stomach makes a pleasant flip. “You’re not so bad yourself, Cas,” he says, while attempting to sound casual and not at all affected by the admission.
The bartender has drifted along to serve the only two patrons aside from them, granting them a moment of privacy Dean wishes he could take advantage of. But for what? He’s determined not to destroy this tumultuous acquaintanceship they’ve formed over the course of a day… a day.
The realization leaves Dean reeling. It’s only been a day and yet it’s felt like weeks since he’d first laid eyes on Castiel. Thoughts that Castiel’s detachment is just a side effect of being courted by a stranger suddenly dawns on him, and Dean nearly laughs out in relief.
“How did you end up all the way Germany?” Dean says. He has made the split decision to act like an adult, and he’ll win Castiel over the old-fashion way: by taking the time to get to know him. Patience isn’t his strong point, but for a gentleman like Castiel Milton, he’s willing to give it a try. “You don’t sound very European.”
Castiel looks mildly surprised by the turn the conversation has taken, but his shoulders sag and the corners of his mouth tip slightly upward. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but the tension from back at the restaurant seems to have melted away.
“I’m from Illinois,” Castiel begins to explain, pausing to remove his glasses. Dean watches him clean them with a napkin, blow them, and then put them back on. “My father’s business forced my parents to move to England when I was five. I became interested in history by the time I began secondary school, after visiting several castles. Germany has been my home for the past fifteen years, having moved to Berlin by myself to continue my studies. When the war broke out, Balthazar offered me a job at the library.”
“Huh. So I’m guessing you’ve done some traveling.”
“Oh, no, hardly. I know it’s a terrible excuse, but I’m terrified of flying,” Castiel says, shyly attempting to suppress a chuckle. “If humans were meant to take to the skies-”
“We’d have wings! Exactly!” Dean exclaims with a bought of delighted laughter. They have something in common, and it’s a better start than anything Dean would have hoped for.
Castiel is smiling now, big and brilliant before clearing his throat and fixing his bow tie. His cheeks are tinged pink, but Dean can’t tell if that’s a result of the alcohol or something else entirely.
The music changes into something slower, the familiar tune of Sinatra’s As Time Goes By drifting through the mellow air of the bar. The patrons have drifted away, maybe to a table or elsewhere, but Dean doesn’t bother to check.
Too enraptured by Castiel’s smile, he lifts his glass.
“A toast,” Dean announces.
Swiveling towards Dean, Castiel raises his glass. “To the expedition,” he offers.
Dean considers him for a moment, tracing the sharp slopes of Castiel’s face with his eyes before he says, “To the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Their glasses chink.
❖
“I met John Winchester a matter of months ago,” Castiel says during their walk back to the library. He has his hands deep in his coat’s pockets in an attempt to fend off the sharp cold of the rainy night.
Beside him, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
“He came looking for me, asking if I could translate the glyphs.” Shrugging deeper into his coat, Castiel turns his face skyward. The sky is inky, with every star hidden behind pregnant rainclouds. “You have his eyes.”
“And my mother’s mouth, so I’ve been told,” Dean says. He gives Castiel a sly grin. “But the rest belongs to you.”
Ducking his head to hide a smile, Castiel clears his throat. “It looks like all the best parts are already spoken for.”
Dean’s laugh is deep and rich, honest like a child’s and just as loud. His green eyes gleam under the streetlights, and once the laughter dies down to a pleasant smile, Castiel can feel his innards being suspended in mid-air. It’s a strange kind of excitement that keeps him on his toes, and maybe it’s just the lager, but Castiel can swear Dean looks twice as dashing than when they first met.
“Aren’t you a rascal?”
“I have my moments,” Castiel says, sidestepping a puddle on the sidewalk.
“Oh? Go on. Tell me about your conquests.”
“Hardly anything memorable, I assure you.”
“Come on, Cas. A creature like you? I’m shocked you aren’t wearing anyone on your arm. Such a waste.”
Castiel bites his lower lip, basking in the attention. It’s been so long since anyone has shown such a blatant interest in him, and he fears that the night may take a turn into dangerous territory. Standards be damned, Dean is playing him like an instrument, with skillful fingers sinfully strumming his rusted chords.
“It’s difficult to find someone who is willing to give a boring man a chance,” Castiel says, and holds up his hand before Dean can retort. “It’s always the soldiers and the adventurers who get the girl, not the stunted librarian who is afraid of heights and would rather stay in.”
“But you can talk dirty in fifteen different languages,” Dean says suggestively.
Castiel laughs, but it’s humorless.
They walk quietly until the library is in view, the towering structure ominous and imposing as thunder rumbles overhead. This is Castiel’s fortress, and he feels relieved to be home after a long night. He’s feeling tired, and a bit hot under the collar thanks to Dean’s crass teasing.
“Two lonely strangers in the night,” Dean suddenly says, making Castiel falter.
“Excuse me?”
“Just an observation.”
Castiel’s lips part when Dean reaches for him, firmly grabbing his elbow in a gesture meant to reassure. Their eyes briefly meet, but Castiel quickly looks away, afraid of what he may see in them.
The Winchesters will only be here for a couple of days. Once they’ve decoded the text, they will be well on their way to God knows where. Dean Winchester is a passing fancy, the promise of danger and excitement proving an intoxicating mix that is getting under his skin. Getting attached to a cocky wanderer won’t do Castiel any good; it will only cause him heartache once the time comes for them to move on with their quest.
With a soft sigh, Castiel pushes the library door open and steps inside, only to find the others already present and convened at the tables. Dean comes in shortly after, standing close enough to Castiel’s body that his heat bleeds in beneath his clothing. Shivering, Castiel walks towards the table, away from the comforting heat while shedding his coat.
“Glad you two finally decided to join us,” Balthazar quips from where he stands, hunched over a variety of books.
Across from him sits Sam, casting both Dean and Castiel an amused look Castiel doesn’t bother looking into.
“It’s raining,” Dean says, walking past Castiel to take the seat next to Sam’s. “Was just waiting for the downpour to let up before we risked the walk back.” Removing his coat and unceremoniously casting it aside, Dean drops onto the chair with a huff. “Can’t afford to catch a cold. Ain’t that right, Cas?”
Both Sam and Balthazar turn to look at Castiel with their eyebrows raised in question.
Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, Castiel nervously clears his throat. “Yes, of course. Why else would we take so long?” He doesn’t meet Balthazar’s eyes as he takes the book from underneath him, scared that the heat on his cheeks and ears will be too obvious. “What have you two been up to in our absence?”
“Attempting to decode this mess,” Balthazar says, waving both hands above his head in exasperation. “I’ve gone through every bloody book and journal we own on the subject of dead languages - but so far I’ve got zilch.”
Conflicted emotions play out inside of Castiel’s mind, both relief and trepidation wreaking havoc as he schools in his features for the blank look he feels safer behind. More of the same questions dance around as he thinks deeper into the problem, and tries to bring up a rational and suitable answer for it. But maybe the rational is the wrong approach when talk of the occult comes into play.
Castiel reaches for a loose piece of paper and the first pen he finds. “There has to be a way,” he says, running a hand over his face.
“Well, you can tell me if you’ve found it in the morning. I’m far too tired and far too old to keep on playing Scrabble at one in the morning.” Balthazar straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck with a groan. “I trust you gentlemen to behave yourselves while I’m gone.”
As discreetly as possible, Castiel contemplates his pocket watch and is surprised to find that he did spend more than two hours having a pleasant chat with Dean at the bar. He’s grateful that he stopped drinking after his second glass, favoring to turn his attention towards a more fascinating vice.
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Sam says.
Castiel pointedly ignores the suggestiveness of his words.
“Have a nice beauty sleep, old man,” Dean says with a wave. “We’ll make sure not to wake you.”
Balthazar leaves with a fake salute and a bow before waltzing down the hall that leads to the library’s living quarters.
Maybe it’s just Castiel thinking too much, but the atmosphere takes a turn for the awkward. With Sam fiddling with the dirt under his nails and Dean watching Castiel with enough attention to make goosebumps erupt along his skin, he’s ready to crawl underneath the table in order to continue his research.
Palms sweating, Castiel turns away from the table and into the library hall without a word. He decides to focus on the task at hand and nothing else, because stopping the SS from whatever it is they’re planning is undoubtedly more important that hesitatingly stealing glances at Dean’s lovely eyes, or daydreaming about rough fingers tenderly carding through his hair.
He’s just a passing fancy, Castiel thinks for the umpteenth time that evening.
Sighing, he grabs the first journal he sees.
In the main room, the Winchesters are discussing something in voices far too hushed for Castiel to hear. Dean sounds defensive at one point, and Castiel can pick up Sam’s tired sigh. He briefly wonders if they’re talking about him, or maybe their current predicament with the untranslatable text. A hint of sadness reminiscent of melancholy edges its way into his chest, for reasons Castiel doesn’t want to acknowledge at the moment, or anytime in the foreseeable future for that matter.
When he walks back into the main floor, Castiel notices that Dean has moved to inspect a suit of armor along the east wall, while Sam remains in the same chair as before, inspecting a book Balthazar must have brought in earlier.
“Have you made any progress at all?” Castiel says, just to break the tension that is thick enough to choke on.
Sam looks up from his book, and shakes his head. “No, not really. So far I’ve ruled out Anglo-Saxon, Romanic and Oanish.”
“I really don’t think it’s Scandinavian,” Castiel mutters, for what he’s sure is already the fifth time. “The style is far more similar to Hebrew, actually, but not quite.”
“It would make a lot more sense, if so.”
Castiel frowns as he leans down against the table, holding himself upright by his elbows, but immediately straightens up when the pressure proves too much for his back. Stretching himself out, the fatigue of a long day finally setting in, he notices that Dean is looking at him, unabashed, a slight curl in the corner his lip. It takes him a moment to realize that the position he was just in had been this side of provocative, if not lewd when taken into the wrong context.
Huffing out a breath, Castiel focuses on the text beneath his nose. No more bending over the table.
Dean finally approaches the table again, after a few minutes of aimless drifting along the library, and settles next to Castiel, looking down at the symbols he’s transcribing onto a blank piece of paper.
Neither of them talks for a short while, all three of them lost in their own thoughts and calculations. The storm picks up again, sporadic bolts of lightning making the lights within the library flicker every so often. The tension eventually fades away into somber stillness as the clock ticks on, the night quiet when the hour hand hits two in the morning.
It becomes surprisingly easier to understand the strange glyphs with Dean sitting by his side. He’s wide awake, humming to a song Castiel recognizes but can’t put a name to, and the concoction alleviates the headache that is maddeningly pressing against Castiel’s temples. It may also be lulling him off to sleep, when his eyelids begin dropping upon half-formed words he isn’t aware how he understands enough to translate. Castiel is unsure about their origin, but with the peace Dean offers, he can almost understand them enough to get what the message means.
A hand on his arm startles him, and Castiel blinks blearily at Dean, who is giving him a gentle smile. “You’re out of it, Cas. You should probably get some sleep.”
Sam isn’t sitting across from them anymore, and Castiel vaguely wonders where he’s gone. “What time is it?”
“Almost three,” Dean says, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “Let’s call it a night. You look like you’re about to pass out there.”
Castiel tries to wave him off, but Dean isn’t having any of it by the way he grips Castiel’s forearm and tugs him to his feet. Grumbling, Castiel slips the half-translated page into John Winchester’s journal before allowing Dean to drag him away.
“Where’s Sam?” Castiel asks, removing his glasses to rub at the corner of his eyes.
“Going through the books he brought from home. He thinks Dad probably left something behind: a clue for us to follow. There’s gotta be something we’re missing.”
“You think Mr. Winchester would have done so?”
“Not a chance,” Dean says, wryly. “But if it’ll set Sam’s mind at ease, then let him scavenge everything. He’s an archeologist; it’s kind of his job to do that.”
Castiel hums his agreement. “But you’re the treasure hunter. Shouldn’t you be helping him? It’s kind of your job to do that,” he says with a chuckle.
They take a turn as they step out of the hall with the Grimm tapestries, and going down the short flight of stairs. Castiel takes a moment to dim the gaslights, and it isn’t until they’re standing in front of his door that Dean sheepishly answers. “I was doing my job.”
“How so?”
“I was looking after treasure.”
Furrowing his brow, it’s only a moment later that Castiel realizes what Dean means. He inhales, sharply, and averts his eyes, but there’s the beginning of a smile that insists on tugging the corner of his mouth. “Oh.” Placing a hand on the doorknob, Castiel can’t bring himself to put a door between them.
It’s ridiculous, silly and unheard of. But Heavens, it makes Castiel’s heart race.
Dean’s face, half obscured in shadow, twitches in what looks to be hesitation. His hand comes up, maybe to touch Castiel’s elbow again, but it jerkily drops away. “Goodnight, Cas,” he says at last, and before Castiel can respond, his back is already retreating into the darkness of the hallway.
They’re both toeing a line that shouldn’t be crossed, but at this very moment, Castiel isn’t sure he’ll be able to continue ignoring it.
Opening his bedroom door, Castiel steps inside to call it a night.
❖Sam drags in his duffel bag and drops it on the table with a grunt. His room is too dark to scour for potential clues, so he decides to bring them into the main area, where light and a brother can help him out. So far, there isn’t a brother or a librarian in sight.
He doesn’t worry about it, not in the sense of there being a threat, but he does worry about how Dean is handling the situation. Not one for words, Dean’s actions have always spoken the loudest, and the way he looks at Castiel like he’s one of the world’s Seven Wonders has Sam on edge. Granted, Dean is his own man, capable of making his own decisions and dealing with the consequences, but it’s Sam’s responsibility to look after him if he refuses to do so himself.
After the incident with Lisa - Dean’s former lady friend - Sam has learned to stay out of the affairs of the heart. Always one to abide to his little brother’s wishes, Dean had smiled, tipped his hat, and attempted to settle down and have a life that didn’t include hard liquor, willingly dangling over the ledges of temples, and the monthly stay in the big house.
If he’s completely honest with himself, Sam can take the blame for Dean’s bitterness over the past few days. While most of the people they know label Dean’s wandering eye as a sickness, Sam once bought in on that too, insisted that Dean focus on the ladies and to stop acting out. And so Dean listened. They never spoke of that conversation again, but it’s obvious that it didn’t work out.
Dean isn’t in it for the good times, he isn’t doing it just to spite everyone he knows and calls him a menace to society - Dean just… Hell, he can’t even explain what Dean is after. Acceptance? Love? Not that he will ever admit any of this, Sam knows all too well.
But with Castiel, Dean has thrown Sam into one hell of a doozy.
One day, one single day and Dean’s eyes are already softening around their edges, wrinkling whenever he smiles at the sight of ruffled hair and blue eyes. But it was the touches that had given him away. Sam noticed the way Dean keeps touching Castiel’s elbow, or his back when they walked down to dinner earlier that night. He sees it in the way Dean bites back his lewd remarks, and Sam also noticed the way Castiel’s eye seems to twitch.
Maybe Dean’s attention makes him uncomfortable, but Castiel is no small man. If a simple no wouldn’t suffice, Castiel can bodily reject Dean’s advances very well - much like other men have done before. Not that Dean would ever force himself on Castiel… Strangely enough, Castiel gracefully takes Dean’s tacit attempt at flirting and reciprocates it an oddly muted fashion.
From Sam’s vantage point, Dean and Castiel are polar opposites, but hell if there isn’t something there, something powerful enough that in just twelve hours their worlds were flipped upside down by the laws of attraction.
Running a hand through his hair, Sam leans against the ledge of the table, his rear too sore to continue sitting. He vaguely thinks that his sleeping pattern has been shot to hell, and that it’ll be a hassle to get it back to normal, before focusing on one of the books he’s brought along.
It’s a hopeless idea and he knows it, but Sam holds on to that last bit of faith that John left behind a trail of breadcrumbs for them to follow. There’s nothing as he flips through his books, not a single note in sight. Sam drops the last of his books back into his duffle with a defeated sigh.
Sam jumps up from his place against the table when the deathly silence of the library is interrupted by a hurried knock on the door.
Instinctively, he moves towards the knocking, but then thinks better of it. It’s three in the morning, and while Sam is sure that Munich isn’t under curfew, most civilians know better than to walk the streets at this ungodly hour.
When the knocking grows in intensity, rapid and demanding, Sam inches away and immediately rummages through duffle bag for the knife he knows is hidden at the very bottom. Removing a false flap, Sam quickly grabs the knife and stashes in his pant pocket just as the front doors suddenly creak and slam open.
Sam takes several steps back, alarmed by the group of men who spill into the receiving lobby of the library. He thinks about hiding, maybe ducking into one of hallways and looking for Dean to back him up, but one of the men has already spotted him. “Shit.” And unlike their arrival to the German border, there are now six swastikas in the same room as him.
Two officers stand guard at the door, and the other four advances towards Sam with a calculated single-mindedness that puts a chill to Sam’s bones. He warily watches as three of the soldiers rummage through the books on the table, picking and casting aside everything that isn’t of interest, ripping papers or throwing them in piles onto the floor.
Sam feels his stomach give when he sees John’s journal out of the corner of his eye, pinned beneath the heavier tome Castiel had been translating a few hours ago. The corner of the paper he had been writing on sticks out of the cover, and Sam prays that they won’t notice.
The last of the soldiers, the only one who isn’t getting his hands dirty with the bust, approaches Sam with a sincere smile that reminds him of a rabid hound. Long hair, sunken eyes that look haunted and cold, skin pale - the man makes Sam ill. The badges on his black tunic are plenty, and he wears his SS badge with a stale kind of pride.
“It is an honor to meet you, Herr Winchester,” the man says, holding out his hand. He tucks it away behind his back when Sam stares him down. “I’m here for the translation of the text, as I’m sure you know.”
They had been right all along.
Sam lifts his chin in defiance, and makes little move to acknowledge the movement he sees in the shadows of the left hall. He knows Dean is now there, watching the exchange, and waiting for the opportune moment to intervene.
“Terribly rude of me, my apologies. My name is Victor. My intention isn’t to cause any sort of harm, just to take that which we are owed.”
“I owe you nothing,” Sam says, taking a daring step forward. He’s by no means scared of the man, or the fact that may be outgunned.
Victor, who looks more like a man destined to be at home with his wife and children, frowns. He sighs and reaches inside his tunic, pulling out a small revolver that looks too small in his hand. “Professor, give us the text, and we’ll be on our way. There is no need for an altercation unless you wish to become acquainted with my Walther.”
“There is no translation to the text,” Sam says, tersely, as he instinctively flexes his fingers. He’s aware that he’s brought a knife into a gunfight, but that’s never put him off before.
Victor laughs, and it’s a sudden burst of sound that carries on around the room when the others join in. The cocking of guns soon follows when the other five SS draw their arms.
“Herr Milton has had enough time,” Victor says. Raising his gun, he levels it with Sam’s forehead. “You have ten seconds to give it to me…” He moves his hands to the left, aiming the pistol in the direction of the hall. “Or your brother gets a hole in his head.” He maneuvers the gun to tap his own forehead, making sure Sam gets the gravity of the situation.
Shoulders tensing and sweat forming on the back of his neck, Sam stomps down on the urge to shuffle his feet. He’s not scared, but a distinct hint of anxiety is trying to wedge its way in. A military upbringing had John teaching his boys how to react in the face of immediate danger; keeping a level head and never showing all of your cards are two of the most important lessons he could have taught them.
“My brother isn’t here.”
“Oh, come now. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”
Victor pulls the trigger, and in that same second Sam reaches for his knife. He moves fast, not sparing a thought at the other men who are now yelling out in a flourish of German, and grabs a firm hold of Victor’s wrist and twists. The gun doesn’t fall away, much to Sam’s dismay, and instead he’s met with an elbow to the nose. Sam stumbles a few steps back, feeling blood all the way down past his lip.
Adrenaline peaks, and there’s nothing but a sharp whistle in his ears when several guns go off at once. He hits the floor and rolls underneath the table for cover. From there he can see Dean’s feet swiftly move across the floor, disabling one of the soldiers who have opened fire.
Sam springs to his feet again, grabbing the closest chair and swinging it with so much force he can feel a muscle cramp along his neck, but the thick wood collides with another soldier’s back with a satisfying crunch. The man hits the floor with a heavy thump, immobile.
Victor is nowhere to be seen when Sam frantically scans the plume of dust as bullets pulverize the marble of the desk and floor. There are shards of wood and flying papers, but Sam catches the handgun Dean throws his way with little effort. They open fire, aiming at the feet, for their intention is to disable and not kill. Not yet.
Another soldier howls out in pain and doubles over, and Sam throws a quick glance to his side. His blood runs cold when he sees yet another nameless soldier knock Dean to the floor.
“Dean!” But Victor is there again, catching Sam off guard and head butting him so hard that he’s left reeling in place.
Sam’s fist connects with Victor’s jaw, and he can feel the sharp give of bone beneath his knuckles. For a brief moment, he can see Dean pinned to the floor, receiving punch after punch to his face, blood splattering the dusty floor. Sam goes to move, pull the son of a bitch off his brother, but Victor is still on him, anger and hatred blinding him.
Height advantage be damned, Sam grunts when a sharp pain shoots down his spine. Distress strikes him when he feels a rush of cold liquid gush down his back, and the moment of hesitation costs him a kick to the back of his knee, making him plummet to the floor. A boot digs into his spine as he struggles to get free, but the last thing Sam sees is Dean’s bloodied face, before a blow to the back of his head renders him unconscious.
❖
A faint throb, cracking skin, something cold and hard pressing to his nose - or is it his cheek? Sounds are muffled. His eyelids have an orange backdrop as bursts of light and color flutter around aimlessly, and Dean overall feels like he’s been repeatedly run over by a tank. There isn’t a single bone in his body that doesn’t hurt, or a single muscle that doesn’t cramp in protest of him moving.
There’s a hand carding through his hair, and then lightly tapping at his cheek. A voice calls to him, and it almost sounds like whoever is speaking is underwater. That can’t be good.
Dean moans when he finally decides to open his eyes, but he’s still seeing orange, even when Castiel’s worry-creased face comes into view. “Hey gorgeous,” Dean croaks, sinking back into whatever softness has been placed behind his head. A pillow, most likely.
Then it’s Sam who pops up, opposite of Cas, staring down at Dean with a frown that can rival any child he’s ever been faced with. There’s a cut on his lip, and his left eye looks swollen, but there isn’t a speck of blood on him. Dean blows out a relieved sigh.
“How’re you feeling?” Sam ventures into asking, only to crack a smirk when Dean gives him a dirty look. At least, he tries to give him a dirty look, especially with how disproportionate his face currently feels.
“I’m alive.” Dean swats Castiel’s hand away, which insists on pressing ice to his forehead. “What the hell happened?”
Castiel sits back on his haunches, giving Dean the space he needs in order to sit up. “I came when I heard the gunfire. The man named Victor ordered them to cease fire the moment I walked in. He didn’t mutter a single word,” Castiel says, nearly whispering as he swabs Dean’s cheek with a damp towel. “They left. Just like that. All this chaos and destruction and then they just… they just left.”
Dean nods his head when he sees Castiel’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears. As he averts his eyes elsewhere, Dean realizes the reason for Castiel’s distraught countenance.
The floor is littered with bullet holes, the marble crushed to the point where the polished surface has turned gritty and rough. The old suits of armor that stood guard along the library walls have been decimated to heaps of dented rubble strewn over the dusty floor. Tapestries have been torn to shreds, windows shattered, and books were made holey by the merciless rain of bullets. Not even the table they had convened at was spared, having had its legs hacked off, and the word Berlin carved into it. They also carved swastikas on every corner of the table.
It had been an act of cruelty and spite, and Dean can’t bury the bubbling loathing he feels threatening to spill out of his stomach. His breath turns labored, ears red hot, because they didn’t just destroy a library - they destroyed a part of Castiel.
“Calm down,” Castiel says, his voice soft and soothing as he tries to push Dean back onto the pillow. They’re sitting on the floor, amongst the chaos. “What matters is that you’re both all right.”
“They do anything to you?” Dean isn’t sure if his question is directed at either Sam or Castiel, but he figures he’ll take both answers. Two birds with one stone.
“I got a busted lip, probably a few fractured ribs,” Sam answers, shifting into a more comfortable position. “Other than that, I think I’ll live to see another day.”
Dean turns his eyes to Castiel, and waits for his answer.
“I’m fine. A bit shaken, but I guess that’s to be expected.”
Satisfied, Dean shuts his eyes and asks, “This Victor jobbie, you know him?”
“No,” Castiel says. “Sam had told me his name. He introduced himself when he asked for the translated text.”
Dean opens his eyes. “I knew it. I knew this was a fucking trap from the beginning, didn’t I tell you, Sam? Goddamn Nazi motherfuckers!” Not thinking the action all the way through, Dean slaps a hand over his face, only to wince and tense under the colorful burst of pain. “They took it, didn’t they?”
The stony silence in the library is all the answer he needs.
“Fuck!”
“Our best guess,” Sam explains, “is that they took the journal to Berlin. Why else would they write the word on the table? More sloppy clues, which means it’s probably another trap.” Sam sounds tired, his voice hoarse.
“A trap we can do nothing other than walk right into,” Castiel says. “Without the text, there will be nothing we can do. We still don’t know what they’re after, or how powerful this artifact may be.”
“Right, yeah. You expect us to walk right into a Nazi den? Are you freaking nuts?”
“I don’t see any other options, Dean. If you do, then please enlighten me.”
“Gee, Cas, I don’t know. If you’d give me a chance to come up with something other than tying the knot on my own noose, then probably I could.”
“If you two need a moment,” Sam interrupts, fighting back a smirk. “I’m going to be over there, helping Balthazar clean up.”
Sam scurries off, shaking his head all the way until he meets up with Balthazar at the far end of the room.
Dean lapses into silence, glaring at the ceiling he only just realizes is hand-painted. The mural depicts small cherubs sitting on round clouds, some picking grapes and others playing tiny harps. On the corner, he sees the beginning of a Greek temple with hanging mounds of flowers, but the image fades into white mist, having apparently been abandoned before the mural was completed.
“Me and Sam will go to Berlin, grab the journal and come back here.”
“Dean-”
“We know how to deal with this type of situation. They get messy sometimes, violent, even.”
“I’m going with you two,” Castiel says, decisive and final. “I am now a part of this venture, and I refuse to sit back and allow you to do the dirty work.”
Dean laughs, humorless as he finally sets his eyes on Castiel. “Tell me, Cas. Have you ever fired a gun?”
Tension settles along Castiel’s jaw line as he clenches it, cheekbones shifting under scruffy cheeks. There’s a coldness in his eyes that makes Dean’s stomach flip.
“No,” he answers, and although it isn’t exactly a lie, Dean can tell that it isn’t the plain truth either. “That doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself. Besides, what if they deciphered it? You’d only be wasting time by driving back here for me to have another look at the text.”
After twenty-four hours of shameless gallivanting, that first sliver of doubt finally rears its ugly head. Call it a hunch, or maybe it’s just common sense, considering that Dean doesn’t know the first thing about Castiel - the stranger with the lovely blue eyes. It isn’t the lethal kind of mistrust Dean normally feels towards everyone he doesn’t know, but it’s a nagging sensation at the back of his mind. He shouldn’t trust so explicitly this early on, anyways.
“They destroyed my home,” Castiel mumbles, taking Dean completely unawares. And suddenly, Dean understands where he’s coming from.
Sighing with defeat, Dean relents to Castiel’s request. “You do as I say at all times. If I say you stay in the car, then you stay in the damn car. I say run, you run and you don’t look back. If I say shoot…” Dean leaves the sentence hanging, licking his lips as he locks eyes with Castiel, willing him to understand.
Thankfully, Castiel nods tersely. “I understand.”
“Good.” Dean struggles to sit up again, trying to fight off vertigo. “I’d kill for some coffee.”
“Aaron is out fetching us a medic. I’ll ask him to make some once he gets back.” With a minute smile, Castiel shifts on the floor so that he’s facing Dean, and dabs at the crusted blood on the corner of his mouth. “God knows we all need some.”
It’s still dark out, and Dean feels like Death incarnate, but with Castiel looking at him like his being alive is God’s most precious gift, Dean can’t help but smile back, but he disguises it with a cough.
▲ previous chapter || chapter four || next chapter ▲
Author: bellanovaskies [shotgunsinlace]
Artist: unbearablebears
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural; Action/Adventure
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jessica, mentions of Charlie/Gilda, previous Dean/Lisa and one-sided Victor/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~84,000
Warnings: Violence, language, torture, racism, controversial political views, and sexual content.
Summary: It’s the 1940’s, the war is tearing Europe in half, and the Nazis have a plan to uncover an ancient weapon belonging to the Egyptian gods that can tip the scale in their favor. With the help of a librarian named Castiel, it’s up to Sam and Dean Winchester, respectively a professor of archaeology and treasure hunter, to get to the Lost City of Amun-Ra and stop the Third Reich from achieving world domination. But with a missing father, secret societies, and an unexpected romance, things get more than a little complicated in this race against time. Loosely based on the Indiana Jones franchise.
The day flows by in a slow shade of gray, the rain having scared off any students or tourists, with the exception of two individuals who frequent the library on a weekly basis. Thunder rumbles in the near distance as rain continues to patter the windows, filling the hollow silence with a sense of homeliness that makes Castiel want to hum as he sorts the philosophy shelf at the very back of the room. Humming is better than thinking, and right now he would rather not think about the trouble that may be brewing just down the hall.
He’s a librarian, not a soldier. Castiel knows many languages, as well as mathematics, science and philosophy. He’s a scholar who looks at the world through the colored panes of his library, and nothing else. Observation without interference. The thought of having Nazis at his doorstep sets a chill to his bones. He wants nothing to do with this situation, so he’ll do nothing to encourage it. The Winchesters will get all of the information that is at his disposal, and then they’ll be on their way. By the end of the week, they will be nothing but a bad memory.
“What are your thoughts on this?”
Balthazar’s voice breaking the deep silence startles Castiel, and he clings to the rolling ladder for dear life, willing his heart to calm down. “Don’t do that.”
“Do you really think that letter was a forgery? That you’ve been cast into this intentionally?”
Lodging the last two books into place, Castiel descends from the ladder to place a hand over Balthazar’s shoulder. “I’m not sure of anything, so far. This could very well be a coincidence, but…”
“It may not.”
Castiel side-eyes the men sitting at the tables they had convened at earlier, and on a hunch, drives Balthazar further away from them for the sake of privacy. “What I think is that we should be ready for anything while they remain here. Aaron may need to be confined to the grounds until we’re well out of their attention. We have to play it safe, especially if Eckhart has already infiltrated several of the bases.”
“How can we possibly be ready when we don’t know what we should expect?” Balthazar grabs Castiel by the elbow and pulls him close enough to whisper, “John Winchester was here, you spoke with him. If there is anything I should know, Castiel-”
“I would have told you. I would have told them. I’ve dealt with enough to continue dallying in the game of secrets. It will only get you so far.” Secrets and lies had cost him his parents’ life, and now Castiel wishes to have nothing to do with them. Omitting John’s visit is something he is still debating whether to reveal or not.
“Well then,” Balthazar says, clearing his throat and tugging at the hem of his vest. “I see we have no other option other than to wait.”
“And hope we don’t get the answers too late,” Castiel adds, anxiously running his thumb through the grooves of his pocket watch.
The rain falls harder, echoing through the stone hallways like a haunting melody. Both peaceful and unnerving, it feels like a portent. Whether good or bad, Castiel can’t really decide.
“He looks to be a nice fellow,” Balthazar says, seemingly as a nonchalant afterthought, but Castiel knows him far too well.
“Who does?”
“Don’t play coy with me, mein liebling.”
“I will not engage you in this conversation, Balthazar. We’ve been through this enough times.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Balthazar chuckles. “It’s just that, with the way you two were gazing into each other’s eyes, I thought there had been some sort of connection.” His words drip a certain kind of sarcasm that is probably meant to edge Castiel on, or call him out on it.
It takes Castiel a moment to realize that Balthazar isn’t talking about Sam. He feels the tip of his ears warm, but he’s certain it has more to do with indignation rather than embarrassment. “As I’ve told him, I have this thing called ‘standards’,” he makes a point to air-quote the word. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of the word?”
“Oh ho!” Balthazar calls out, but flinches when someone shushes him from the main floor. “He’s handsome, and seems to have a wonderful personality.” His words are almost melodious.
“He a treasure hunter, which means he’s a brute. That man wouldn’t know erudition if it was delivered to him on a silver platter. He belched,” Castiel says, scandalized by the idea of even being seen with someone so… so uncouth. “He’s nothing but this roguish drugstore cowboy with a slight hint of charm to his name. It will certainly take more than lovely eyes and a handsome face to… to…” Castiel searches for a way to complete that sentence, but only draws up a blank. “I’m not interested.”
But Balthazar is grinning from ear to ear. “No need to be defensive.”
“I’m not being defensive,” Castiel says coolly, grabbing the lapels of his suit and tugging them fiercely, before flattening them down with his palm. “And that’s the end of it. I am a professional, and I want nothing to do with these men.”
He pretends that he doesn’t trip on a step as he makes his way back onto the main floor.
“Live a little, Castiel. There’s no need to conquer the world when you haven’t taken the chance to walk away from your doorstep.”
“This conversation is over,” Castiel says, walking away to man the front desk.
❖
As the day slowly goes by, the Winchesters fade from Castiel’s mind, the name being replaced with those of books such as Gone With the Wind, Brave New World, and The Grapes of Wrath, while he sits behind his desk and marks dates off a tally as they’re gradually returned. He doesn’t normally take the front desk, but with Miss Talbot out of the country, they’ve found themselves short of staff. Besides, there is really no need to summon anyone else into a cold, rainy day. Three people can run the library very easily when visitors are scarce.
Manning the front desk also places Castiel on a vantage point, allowing him to keep an eye on the front doors and the strange gentlemen who continue leafing through books and looking over their shoulders. Normally, Castiel would wander over and ask if they were in need of assistance, but with a brewing situation at hand, he let Balthazar take care of it.
They leave an hour before closing, when the moon spills in whenever the doors swing open, taking the stagnant stench of suspicion with them.
Perhaps it’s all in Castiel’s mind. The talk of conspiracy and danger may be adding a layer of paranoia he can very well do without. It may be harmless at the very moment, probably it won’t even have a purpose, but he’s now carrying a shadow of nervousness and anxiety he doesn’t need. He’s just a librarian, after all. He doesn’t need any excitement in his life.
“Let’s close up for the night,” Balthazar calls out from down the hall, rapping his fist against a wooden column. “Make sure to double lock those doors.”
Castiel files away today’s papers and organizes all returned books by segments, setting them into a neat stack before closing the library. Three padlocks the size of his fist, and a deadbolt. He draws the curtains, cutting off the outside lighting.
Gathering the books, Castiel crosses the main floor, walks by Aaron who is sweeping up the dirt dragged in throughout the day, but stops at the table they had huddled over just this morning. He sets the books down in favor of looking through the ones the two strange men had spent the entire day looking through.
“They’re just journals,” Aaron says, shrugging when he stops sweeping. “Personal research?” He doesn’t sound too convinced.
“I don’t know.” Castiel checks the log information engraved in the leather, and finds that it’s missing a publishing date and the author’s name. The pages are worn and yellowing with age, but the content is just senseless rambling of magic tricks. “Spies?”
“They had SS badges.”
Castiel looks up, alarmed. “How do you know?”
“I caught a glimpse of it earlier. It was hidden under the blonde one’s collar, saw it when he moved to pull out another book from his satchel.” Aaron rubs his nose with the back of his hand - a nervous gesture Castiel has picked up on. “You think they’re here for the Americans?”
Castiel tried to kid himself into thinking he’s had time to plot a course of action, if the need arose. And all this time, the enemy has already been sitting inside of his home. Heaven knows how far along they already are.
“Cassie?” Balthazar emerges through the archway, pointedly looking at Aaron and waving him off. “Summon the Winchesters. We’re going out for dinner this evening.”
“Surprising for someone as stingy as you,” Aaron counters, pulling a scornful face in Balthazar’s direction before turning into the left corridor, towards the living quarters. “Keep an eye on the short one for me,” Aaron shouts over his shoulder, his chuckle reverberating through the hallway.
“Why should I?” Castiel murmurs to himself, his colleagues’ humor lost on him.
❖
“Wow, Dean. You’re looking dapper,” Sam says, whistling an impressed note in his brother’s direction, who is standing in front of a body-length mirror and adjusting the knot on his silk tie.
Dean beams, moving his hand to fix the top button of his waistcoat and dusting off the dust motes on his jacket. Bringing his expensive suit was by far the best decision he’d made before leaving the States, because in his personal opinion, with hair slicked into place and a dash of cologne, he looks and feels like a million bucks and ready to come face to face with any lucky contender.
Sam is dressed a bit more casually, and for a moment Dean wonders if he’s overdressed and trying too hard to impress. His first impression failed to do so, with stained slacks and smelling like old cheese, hence the choice for dressing the slightest bit over the top for dinner this evening.
“I might just give Bogart a run for his money tonight, don’t you think?”
Sam doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and grabs his jacket, which he’d left hanging from the back of a chair when they had first walked in the room a few hours ago.
They’re very much fatigued, jet-lagged and drowsy, even after getting several hours of sleep, but Dean is at least hoping that a night out in the cold German air might be able to shake him awake and sweat off the rust in his bones. A few beers here, and a hearty meal there, some lovely nurses singing show tunes while fawning over… him, really, given that Sam insists on being a one-woman guy. However, rather than broadening that thought on nurses, Dean’s mind zeros in on a specific pair of baby-blues he’d like to call his.
“You ready?” Sam says, opening the door without bothering to wait for an answer.
Giving himself one last once-over, Dean nods his head and grabs his coat.
❖
Zum Anbeißen is a small restaurant that stands nestled in a corner between a bakery and a shoe shop just a twenty minute walk from the library. It’s loud and merry, with native music bursting from a live band as lovely ladies in white, brown and green dirndls serve the tables. The smell of roasting meat and crisp beer is strong in the air, mingling with the pungent smell of cigar smoke.
It’s far too rowdy, and Dean is dandified, but he can’t stop laughing raucously at Balthazar’s anecdotes. By all means, he doesn’t like the man, his accent and attitude making him seem shady, but aided by the warmth in his belly the beer has provoked, Dean can’t be bothered to hold anything against him. Similarly, Sam is coughing into a napkin after coming down from a high of guffaws.
Castiel doesn’t appear to be amused. He’s sitting at the end of the table, nudging the last bite of seasoned potatoes around his plate with a fork. He looks bored, and toeing the line of irritation. Dean feels sorry for him. Judging by his quiet disposition back in the library, it’s easy to tell that these kinds of joints aren’t his thing.
“But then I asked him,” Balthazar says, leaning against his elbow on the table, “if you had to choose a weevil…” He stops to snicker into his hand. “Which would you choose? And do you know what he answered?” Both Winchesters inch closer. “He said, ‘well that’s easy - I’d choose the lesser of two weevils’!”
Castiel rubs at his temples when they burst out in another wave of laughter.
“The bloke was pissed off his rocker, let me tell you. But weevils!”
Dean’s belly hurts from the exercise it’s getting, and he has to dab a napkin across his forehead after a while. The restaurant is stuffy, and with the amount of layers he has on, he feels about ready to melt. He considers taking off his jacket, but thinks better of it once he remembers about the gun strapped to his lower back.
“All right, all right, but really. How on Earth did you end up in Germany, of all places?” Sam says, taking a sip from his lager.
Sitting back in his chair, Balthazar worries his lower lip in thought. Several huffs of laughter continue to ebb their way out of his chest, but he eventually settles down. “Ah, let’s see. My usual story narrates the events of a young bachelor who came for the culture and stayed for the damen; voluptuous and amatory, the lot of them. But in truth, I stayed only for one.”
“Isn’t that romantic,” Dean says, mockingly.
“It’s always a lady, isn’t it,” Sam adds with the hint of a sigh, staring down at his pint with a longing expression.
“Looks like our dear professor has sipped the love juice.” Balthazar leans forward again, this time lacing his fingers together and resting his chin over them. “Tell me about her.”
Sam smiles, his eyes turning soft as he averts them down to the table. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat as he looks for where to start. “She’s a teacher,” he says. “We plan on getting married in June of next year.”
Dean grins at hearing Sam’s elation. “Always a lady,” Dean says without much thought. It isn’t always true, but it’s the easiest thing to say in a restaurant full of men, in a country where admitting to any kind of deviancy can get you killed.
The scraping of a chair dragging across the floor makes them all look up at Castiel, who is gathering his jacket. “I need a bit of air,” he announces quietly, and says nothing else as he hurriedly navigates his way through the crowd and out the door.
“This sweetheart of yours,” Balthazar continues, as if not caring that Castiel just left in a hurry. “Her name?”
“You’re just going to let him run off?” Dean interrupts, already straightening up in his seat.
“He’s a grown man, liebling. I’m sure he can take care of himself.” Balthazar raises an amused eyebrow as Dean stands up. He smiles up at him, knowingly, but doesn’t say another word.
“I’ll meet you back in the library,” Dean says, nodding his head at Sam, who waves him off with a smirk.
Dean makes his way through the throng of people and steps outside, taking a deep breath of cold air that is soothing in more ways than one. The rain has stopped but it’s still cloudy, and thunder still rumbles in the distance.
Fixing his jacket, he looks down both sides of the sidewalk, trying to spot a glimpse of Castiel amongst the scarce amount of people. He sees him shortly after he starts walking in the opposite direction of the library, mumbles a ‘good evening’ to a couple getting into a car that are polite enough to smile at him.
Dean isn’t sure if Castiel did it on purpose, but he can’t help but feel a surge of hope when Dean sees him enter a modest looking bar with barely any patrons. With a bounce in his step, Dean follows.
Much smaller and quieter than the previous establishment, the bar smells of polished wood and fresh pastry. To the left, a man sits behind a grand piano, stroking keys to a smooth rhythm that would lull anyone to sleep. It’s cozy, and he hesitates at the sight of Castiel sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of liquor.
Snapping his fingers, Dean catches the piano man’s attention. He walks over to him and asks, “Do you know Sinatra?”
The piano man, who can’t possibly be old enough to even be inside a bar, gives him a nod and a flourish of keys that sets into a familiar tune. Satisfied, Dean drops a few coins into the tip jar.
Running his hands over suit jacket, and straightening out his waistcoat, Dean makes his way to the bar and smoothly slips onto the stool beside Castiel. He knocks on the bar top, orders whatever’s on tap, and at the confused look the bartender gives him, Castiel is kind enough to step in and translate the request into German.
“Thanks,” Dean says, settling himself into a comfortable position, while still being able to face Castiel.
“You’re welcome,” Castiel offers in return, tipping back his glass, eyes steady on the ice cubes that chink against it.
Dean takes a moment to admire the angular features of his profile, from the perfectly straight nose to the oddly flat lips, and the way his hair curls just behind his ear. Maybe it’s the glasses that make him look endearing, but Dean wishes to see Castiel without them, just to be able to appreciate how handsome he truly is.
He looks away when the bartender puts the glass of beer in front of him, and Dean mumbles a “danke”.
“I’m here,” Castiel says, stating the obvious. He finally turns to look at Dean with a serious expression that makes Dean worry.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“Impress me.” Castiel twines his fingers together, the tension around his eyes melting into something more expectant.
Dean drums his fingers against the bar top, smiling incredulously at the man sitting beside him. Impress me. Dressed in his finest outfit, hair combed, and zero belching-Dean isn’t sure what else he can do. He isn’t sure whether or not he should do anything. What makes Castiel so special, that it would merit Dean’s best effort in wooing?
Licking his lips, Dean decides that he doesn’t know. There’s nothing to set Castiel apart from the endless amount of people Dean’s found worth casting a second glance to, but there’s something there that makes him want to win him over. Maybe it’s his good looks, or maybe that slight intellectual arrogance; maybe it’s nothing at all and for once, it isn’t the bit between his legs doing the thinking for him.
“I’m afraid I got nothing to brag about,” Dean offers, turning his eyes to the glass he’s holding. “What you see is all I’ve got to offer.” And it’s the truth. The luxuries he enjoys aren’t his to show off.
Castiel’s eyes, so intensely blue, stare curiously at Dean. “You don’t seem to be a modest kind of man. I do believe that, once again, you’re trying too hard.”
“Hardly trying, actually,” Dean says, smirking around the rim of the glass as he takes a swig. “I got nothing but the clothes on my back, a heap of junk for a car back home, and my good looks. Everything else is courtesy of Sam’s good graces.”
There is a moment of silence that makes Dean fidget in his seat, eyes locked onto Castiel’s like magnets unable to be pulled apart. Thrill surges and scorches his blood when Castiel finally breaks the gaze in favor of looking over Dean’s form with an arched eyebrow. He hums a note that Dean figures is appreciative, before turning back to his drink.
“It’s a very nice suit,” Castiel says, his tone serious and unaffected. Dean’s grip on his glass tightens when the tip of Castiel’s tongue surfaces to lick along his lips. “You look swell.”
Dean’s stomach makes a pleasant flip. “You’re not so bad yourself, Cas,” he says, while attempting to sound casual and not at all affected by the admission.
The bartender has drifted along to serve the only two patrons aside from them, granting them a moment of privacy Dean wishes he could take advantage of. But for what? He’s determined not to destroy this tumultuous acquaintanceship they’ve formed over the course of a day… a day.
The realization leaves Dean reeling. It’s only been a day and yet it’s felt like weeks since he’d first laid eyes on Castiel. Thoughts that Castiel’s detachment is just a side effect of being courted by a stranger suddenly dawns on him, and Dean nearly laughs out in relief.
“How did you end up all the way Germany?” Dean says. He has made the split decision to act like an adult, and he’ll win Castiel over the old-fashion way: by taking the time to get to know him. Patience isn’t his strong point, but for a gentleman like Castiel Milton, he’s willing to give it a try. “You don’t sound very European.”
Castiel looks mildly surprised by the turn the conversation has taken, but his shoulders sag and the corners of his mouth tip slightly upward. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but the tension from back at the restaurant seems to have melted away.
“I’m from Illinois,” Castiel begins to explain, pausing to remove his glasses. Dean watches him clean them with a napkin, blow them, and then put them back on. “My father’s business forced my parents to move to England when I was five. I became interested in history by the time I began secondary school, after visiting several castles. Germany has been my home for the past fifteen years, having moved to Berlin by myself to continue my studies. When the war broke out, Balthazar offered me a job at the library.”
“Huh. So I’m guessing you’ve done some traveling.”
“Oh, no, hardly. I know it’s a terrible excuse, but I’m terrified of flying,” Castiel says, shyly attempting to suppress a chuckle. “If humans were meant to take to the skies-”
“We’d have wings! Exactly!” Dean exclaims with a bought of delighted laughter. They have something in common, and it’s a better start than anything Dean would have hoped for.
Castiel is smiling now, big and brilliant before clearing his throat and fixing his bow tie. His cheeks are tinged pink, but Dean can’t tell if that’s a result of the alcohol or something else entirely.
The music changes into something slower, the familiar tune of Sinatra’s As Time Goes By drifting through the mellow air of the bar. The patrons have drifted away, maybe to a table or elsewhere, but Dean doesn’t bother to check.
Too enraptured by Castiel’s smile, he lifts his glass.
“A toast,” Dean announces.
Swiveling towards Dean, Castiel raises his glass. “To the expedition,” he offers.
Dean considers him for a moment, tracing the sharp slopes of Castiel’s face with his eyes before he says, “To the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Their glasses chink.
❖
“I met John Winchester a matter of months ago,” Castiel says during their walk back to the library. He has his hands deep in his coat’s pockets in an attempt to fend off the sharp cold of the rainy night.
Beside him, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
“He came looking for me, asking if I could translate the glyphs.” Shrugging deeper into his coat, Castiel turns his face skyward. The sky is inky, with every star hidden behind pregnant rainclouds. “You have his eyes.”
“And my mother’s mouth, so I’ve been told,” Dean says. He gives Castiel a sly grin. “But the rest belongs to you.”
Ducking his head to hide a smile, Castiel clears his throat. “It looks like all the best parts are already spoken for.”
Dean’s laugh is deep and rich, honest like a child’s and just as loud. His green eyes gleam under the streetlights, and once the laughter dies down to a pleasant smile, Castiel can feel his innards being suspended in mid-air. It’s a strange kind of excitement that keeps him on his toes, and maybe it’s just the lager, but Castiel can swear Dean looks twice as dashing than when they first met.
“Aren’t you a rascal?”
“I have my moments,” Castiel says, sidestepping a puddle on the sidewalk.
“Oh? Go on. Tell me about your conquests.”
“Hardly anything memorable, I assure you.”
“Come on, Cas. A creature like you? I’m shocked you aren’t wearing anyone on your arm. Such a waste.”
Castiel bites his lower lip, basking in the attention. It’s been so long since anyone has shown such a blatant interest in him, and he fears that the night may take a turn into dangerous territory. Standards be damned, Dean is playing him like an instrument, with skillful fingers sinfully strumming his rusted chords.
“It’s difficult to find someone who is willing to give a boring man a chance,” Castiel says, and holds up his hand before Dean can retort. “It’s always the soldiers and the adventurers who get the girl, not the stunted librarian who is afraid of heights and would rather stay in.”
“But you can talk dirty in fifteen different languages,” Dean says suggestively.
Castiel laughs, but it’s humorless.
They walk quietly until the library is in view, the towering structure ominous and imposing as thunder rumbles overhead. This is Castiel’s fortress, and he feels relieved to be home after a long night. He’s feeling tired, and a bit hot under the collar thanks to Dean’s crass teasing.
“Two lonely strangers in the night,” Dean suddenly says, making Castiel falter.
“Excuse me?”
“Just an observation.”
Castiel’s lips part when Dean reaches for him, firmly grabbing his elbow in a gesture meant to reassure. Their eyes briefly meet, but Castiel quickly looks away, afraid of what he may see in them.
The Winchesters will only be here for a couple of days. Once they’ve decoded the text, they will be well on their way to God knows where. Dean Winchester is a passing fancy, the promise of danger and excitement proving an intoxicating mix that is getting under his skin. Getting attached to a cocky wanderer won’t do Castiel any good; it will only cause him heartache once the time comes for them to move on with their quest.
With a soft sigh, Castiel pushes the library door open and steps inside, only to find the others already present and convened at the tables. Dean comes in shortly after, standing close enough to Castiel’s body that his heat bleeds in beneath his clothing. Shivering, Castiel walks towards the table, away from the comforting heat while shedding his coat.
“Glad you two finally decided to join us,” Balthazar quips from where he stands, hunched over a variety of books.
Across from him sits Sam, casting both Dean and Castiel an amused look Castiel doesn’t bother looking into.
“It’s raining,” Dean says, walking past Castiel to take the seat next to Sam’s. “Was just waiting for the downpour to let up before we risked the walk back.” Removing his coat and unceremoniously casting it aside, Dean drops onto the chair with a huff. “Can’t afford to catch a cold. Ain’t that right, Cas?”
Both Sam and Balthazar turn to look at Castiel with their eyebrows raised in question.
Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, Castiel nervously clears his throat. “Yes, of course. Why else would we take so long?” He doesn’t meet Balthazar’s eyes as he takes the book from underneath him, scared that the heat on his cheeks and ears will be too obvious. “What have you two been up to in our absence?”
“Attempting to decode this mess,” Balthazar says, waving both hands above his head in exasperation. “I’ve gone through every bloody book and journal we own on the subject of dead languages - but so far I’ve got zilch.”
Conflicted emotions play out inside of Castiel’s mind, both relief and trepidation wreaking havoc as he schools in his features for the blank look he feels safer behind. More of the same questions dance around as he thinks deeper into the problem, and tries to bring up a rational and suitable answer for it. But maybe the rational is the wrong approach when talk of the occult comes into play.
Castiel reaches for a loose piece of paper and the first pen he finds. “There has to be a way,” he says, running a hand over his face.
“Well, you can tell me if you’ve found it in the morning. I’m far too tired and far too old to keep on playing Scrabble at one in the morning.” Balthazar straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck with a groan. “I trust you gentlemen to behave yourselves while I’m gone.”
As discreetly as possible, Castiel contemplates his pocket watch and is surprised to find that he did spend more than two hours having a pleasant chat with Dean at the bar. He’s grateful that he stopped drinking after his second glass, favoring to turn his attention towards a more fascinating vice.
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Sam says.
Castiel pointedly ignores the suggestiveness of his words.
“Have a nice beauty sleep, old man,” Dean says with a wave. “We’ll make sure not to wake you.”
Balthazar leaves with a fake salute and a bow before waltzing down the hall that leads to the library’s living quarters.
Maybe it’s just Castiel thinking too much, but the atmosphere takes a turn for the awkward. With Sam fiddling with the dirt under his nails and Dean watching Castiel with enough attention to make goosebumps erupt along his skin, he’s ready to crawl underneath the table in order to continue his research.
Palms sweating, Castiel turns away from the table and into the library hall without a word. He decides to focus on the task at hand and nothing else, because stopping the SS from whatever it is they’re planning is undoubtedly more important that hesitatingly stealing glances at Dean’s lovely eyes, or daydreaming about rough fingers tenderly carding through his hair.
He’s just a passing fancy, Castiel thinks for the umpteenth time that evening.
Sighing, he grabs the first journal he sees.
In the main room, the Winchesters are discussing something in voices far too hushed for Castiel to hear. Dean sounds defensive at one point, and Castiel can pick up Sam’s tired sigh. He briefly wonders if they’re talking about him, or maybe their current predicament with the untranslatable text. A hint of sadness reminiscent of melancholy edges its way into his chest, for reasons Castiel doesn’t want to acknowledge at the moment, or anytime in the foreseeable future for that matter.
When he walks back into the main floor, Castiel notices that Dean has moved to inspect a suit of armor along the east wall, while Sam remains in the same chair as before, inspecting a book Balthazar must have brought in earlier.
“Have you made any progress at all?” Castiel says, just to break the tension that is thick enough to choke on.
Sam looks up from his book, and shakes his head. “No, not really. So far I’ve ruled out Anglo-Saxon, Romanic and Oanish.”
“I really don’t think it’s Scandinavian,” Castiel mutters, for what he’s sure is already the fifth time. “The style is far more similar to Hebrew, actually, but not quite.”
“It would make a lot more sense, if so.”
Castiel frowns as he leans down against the table, holding himself upright by his elbows, but immediately straightens up when the pressure proves too much for his back. Stretching himself out, the fatigue of a long day finally setting in, he notices that Dean is looking at him, unabashed, a slight curl in the corner his lip. It takes him a moment to realize that the position he was just in had been this side of provocative, if not lewd when taken into the wrong context.
Huffing out a breath, Castiel focuses on the text beneath his nose. No more bending over the table.
Dean finally approaches the table again, after a few minutes of aimless drifting along the library, and settles next to Castiel, looking down at the symbols he’s transcribing onto a blank piece of paper.
Neither of them talks for a short while, all three of them lost in their own thoughts and calculations. The storm picks up again, sporadic bolts of lightning making the lights within the library flicker every so often. The tension eventually fades away into somber stillness as the clock ticks on, the night quiet when the hour hand hits two in the morning.
It becomes surprisingly easier to understand the strange glyphs with Dean sitting by his side. He’s wide awake, humming to a song Castiel recognizes but can’t put a name to, and the concoction alleviates the headache that is maddeningly pressing against Castiel’s temples. It may also be lulling him off to sleep, when his eyelids begin dropping upon half-formed words he isn’t aware how he understands enough to translate. Castiel is unsure about their origin, but with the peace Dean offers, he can almost understand them enough to get what the message means.
A hand on his arm startles him, and Castiel blinks blearily at Dean, who is giving him a gentle smile. “You’re out of it, Cas. You should probably get some sleep.”
Sam isn’t sitting across from them anymore, and Castiel vaguely wonders where he’s gone. “What time is it?”
“Almost three,” Dean says, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “Let’s call it a night. You look like you’re about to pass out there.”
Castiel tries to wave him off, but Dean isn’t having any of it by the way he grips Castiel’s forearm and tugs him to his feet. Grumbling, Castiel slips the half-translated page into John Winchester’s journal before allowing Dean to drag him away.
“Where’s Sam?” Castiel asks, removing his glasses to rub at the corner of his eyes.
“Going through the books he brought from home. He thinks Dad probably left something behind: a clue for us to follow. There’s gotta be something we’re missing.”
“You think Mr. Winchester would have done so?”
“Not a chance,” Dean says, wryly. “But if it’ll set Sam’s mind at ease, then let him scavenge everything. He’s an archeologist; it’s kind of his job to do that.”
Castiel hums his agreement. “But you’re the treasure hunter. Shouldn’t you be helping him? It’s kind of your job to do that,” he says with a chuckle.
They take a turn as they step out of the hall with the Grimm tapestries, and going down the short flight of stairs. Castiel takes a moment to dim the gaslights, and it isn’t until they’re standing in front of his door that Dean sheepishly answers. “I was doing my job.”
“How so?”
“I was looking after treasure.”
Furrowing his brow, it’s only a moment later that Castiel realizes what Dean means. He inhales, sharply, and averts his eyes, but there’s the beginning of a smile that insists on tugging the corner of his mouth. “Oh.” Placing a hand on the doorknob, Castiel can’t bring himself to put a door between them.
It’s ridiculous, silly and unheard of. But Heavens, it makes Castiel’s heart race.
Dean’s face, half obscured in shadow, twitches in what looks to be hesitation. His hand comes up, maybe to touch Castiel’s elbow again, but it jerkily drops away. “Goodnight, Cas,” he says at last, and before Castiel can respond, his back is already retreating into the darkness of the hallway.
They’re both toeing a line that shouldn’t be crossed, but at this very moment, Castiel isn’t sure he’ll be able to continue ignoring it.
Opening his bedroom door, Castiel steps inside to call it a night.
❖Sam drags in his duffel bag and drops it on the table with a grunt. His room is too dark to scour for potential clues, so he decides to bring them into the main area, where light and a brother can help him out. So far, there isn’t a brother or a librarian in sight.
He doesn’t worry about it, not in the sense of there being a threat, but he does worry about how Dean is handling the situation. Not one for words, Dean’s actions have always spoken the loudest, and the way he looks at Castiel like he’s one of the world’s Seven Wonders has Sam on edge. Granted, Dean is his own man, capable of making his own decisions and dealing with the consequences, but it’s Sam’s responsibility to look after him if he refuses to do so himself.
After the incident with Lisa - Dean’s former lady friend - Sam has learned to stay out of the affairs of the heart. Always one to abide to his little brother’s wishes, Dean had smiled, tipped his hat, and attempted to settle down and have a life that didn’t include hard liquor, willingly dangling over the ledges of temples, and the monthly stay in the big house.
If he’s completely honest with himself, Sam can take the blame for Dean’s bitterness over the past few days. While most of the people they know label Dean’s wandering eye as a sickness, Sam once bought in on that too, insisted that Dean focus on the ladies and to stop acting out. And so Dean listened. They never spoke of that conversation again, but it’s obvious that it didn’t work out.
Dean isn’t in it for the good times, he isn’t doing it just to spite everyone he knows and calls him a menace to society - Dean just… Hell, he can’t even explain what Dean is after. Acceptance? Love? Not that he will ever admit any of this, Sam knows all too well.
But with Castiel, Dean has thrown Sam into one hell of a doozy.
One day, one single day and Dean’s eyes are already softening around their edges, wrinkling whenever he smiles at the sight of ruffled hair and blue eyes. But it was the touches that had given him away. Sam noticed the way Dean keeps touching Castiel’s elbow, or his back when they walked down to dinner earlier that night. He sees it in the way Dean bites back his lewd remarks, and Sam also noticed the way Castiel’s eye seems to twitch.
Maybe Dean’s attention makes him uncomfortable, but Castiel is no small man. If a simple no wouldn’t suffice, Castiel can bodily reject Dean’s advances very well - much like other men have done before. Not that Dean would ever force himself on Castiel… Strangely enough, Castiel gracefully takes Dean’s tacit attempt at flirting and reciprocates it an oddly muted fashion.
From Sam’s vantage point, Dean and Castiel are polar opposites, but hell if there isn’t something there, something powerful enough that in just twelve hours their worlds were flipped upside down by the laws of attraction.
Running a hand through his hair, Sam leans against the ledge of the table, his rear too sore to continue sitting. He vaguely thinks that his sleeping pattern has been shot to hell, and that it’ll be a hassle to get it back to normal, before focusing on one of the books he’s brought along.
It’s a hopeless idea and he knows it, but Sam holds on to that last bit of faith that John left behind a trail of breadcrumbs for them to follow. There’s nothing as he flips through his books, not a single note in sight. Sam drops the last of his books back into his duffle with a defeated sigh.
Sam jumps up from his place against the table when the deathly silence of the library is interrupted by a hurried knock on the door.
Instinctively, he moves towards the knocking, but then thinks better of it. It’s three in the morning, and while Sam is sure that Munich isn’t under curfew, most civilians know better than to walk the streets at this ungodly hour.
When the knocking grows in intensity, rapid and demanding, Sam inches away and immediately rummages through duffle bag for the knife he knows is hidden at the very bottom. Removing a false flap, Sam quickly grabs the knife and stashes in his pant pocket just as the front doors suddenly creak and slam open.
Sam takes several steps back, alarmed by the group of men who spill into the receiving lobby of the library. He thinks about hiding, maybe ducking into one of hallways and looking for Dean to back him up, but one of the men has already spotted him. “Shit.” And unlike their arrival to the German border, there are now six swastikas in the same room as him.
Two officers stand guard at the door, and the other four advances towards Sam with a calculated single-mindedness that puts a chill to Sam’s bones. He warily watches as three of the soldiers rummage through the books on the table, picking and casting aside everything that isn’t of interest, ripping papers or throwing them in piles onto the floor.
Sam feels his stomach give when he sees John’s journal out of the corner of his eye, pinned beneath the heavier tome Castiel had been translating a few hours ago. The corner of the paper he had been writing on sticks out of the cover, and Sam prays that they won’t notice.
The last of the soldiers, the only one who isn’t getting his hands dirty with the bust, approaches Sam with a sincere smile that reminds him of a rabid hound. Long hair, sunken eyes that look haunted and cold, skin pale - the man makes Sam ill. The badges on his black tunic are plenty, and he wears his SS badge with a stale kind of pride.
“It is an honor to meet you, Herr Winchester,” the man says, holding out his hand. He tucks it away behind his back when Sam stares him down. “I’m here for the translation of the text, as I’m sure you know.”
They had been right all along.
Sam lifts his chin in defiance, and makes little move to acknowledge the movement he sees in the shadows of the left hall. He knows Dean is now there, watching the exchange, and waiting for the opportune moment to intervene.
“Terribly rude of me, my apologies. My name is Victor. My intention isn’t to cause any sort of harm, just to take that which we are owed.”
“I owe you nothing,” Sam says, taking a daring step forward. He’s by no means scared of the man, or the fact that may be outgunned.
Victor, who looks more like a man destined to be at home with his wife and children, frowns. He sighs and reaches inside his tunic, pulling out a small revolver that looks too small in his hand. “Professor, give us the text, and we’ll be on our way. There is no need for an altercation unless you wish to become acquainted with my Walther.”
“There is no translation to the text,” Sam says, tersely, as he instinctively flexes his fingers. He’s aware that he’s brought a knife into a gunfight, but that’s never put him off before.
Victor laughs, and it’s a sudden burst of sound that carries on around the room when the others join in. The cocking of guns soon follows when the other five SS draw their arms.
“Herr Milton has had enough time,” Victor says. Raising his gun, he levels it with Sam’s forehead. “You have ten seconds to give it to me…” He moves his hands to the left, aiming the pistol in the direction of the hall. “Or your brother gets a hole in his head.” He maneuvers the gun to tap his own forehead, making sure Sam gets the gravity of the situation.
Shoulders tensing and sweat forming on the back of his neck, Sam stomps down on the urge to shuffle his feet. He’s not scared, but a distinct hint of anxiety is trying to wedge its way in. A military upbringing had John teaching his boys how to react in the face of immediate danger; keeping a level head and never showing all of your cards are two of the most important lessons he could have taught them.
“My brother isn’t here.”
“Oh, come now. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”
Victor pulls the trigger, and in that same second Sam reaches for his knife. He moves fast, not sparing a thought at the other men who are now yelling out in a flourish of German, and grabs a firm hold of Victor’s wrist and twists. The gun doesn’t fall away, much to Sam’s dismay, and instead he’s met with an elbow to the nose. Sam stumbles a few steps back, feeling blood all the way down past his lip.
Adrenaline peaks, and there’s nothing but a sharp whistle in his ears when several guns go off at once. He hits the floor and rolls underneath the table for cover. From there he can see Dean’s feet swiftly move across the floor, disabling one of the soldiers who have opened fire.
Sam springs to his feet again, grabbing the closest chair and swinging it with so much force he can feel a muscle cramp along his neck, but the thick wood collides with another soldier’s back with a satisfying crunch. The man hits the floor with a heavy thump, immobile.
Victor is nowhere to be seen when Sam frantically scans the plume of dust as bullets pulverize the marble of the desk and floor. There are shards of wood and flying papers, but Sam catches the handgun Dean throws his way with little effort. They open fire, aiming at the feet, for their intention is to disable and not kill. Not yet.
Another soldier howls out in pain and doubles over, and Sam throws a quick glance to his side. His blood runs cold when he sees yet another nameless soldier knock Dean to the floor.
“Dean!” But Victor is there again, catching Sam off guard and head butting him so hard that he’s left reeling in place.
Sam’s fist connects with Victor’s jaw, and he can feel the sharp give of bone beneath his knuckles. For a brief moment, he can see Dean pinned to the floor, receiving punch after punch to his face, blood splattering the dusty floor. Sam goes to move, pull the son of a bitch off his brother, but Victor is still on him, anger and hatred blinding him.
Height advantage be damned, Sam grunts when a sharp pain shoots down his spine. Distress strikes him when he feels a rush of cold liquid gush down his back, and the moment of hesitation costs him a kick to the back of his knee, making him plummet to the floor. A boot digs into his spine as he struggles to get free, but the last thing Sam sees is Dean’s bloodied face, before a blow to the back of his head renders him unconscious.
❖
A faint throb, cracking skin, something cold and hard pressing to his nose - or is it his cheek? Sounds are muffled. His eyelids have an orange backdrop as bursts of light and color flutter around aimlessly, and Dean overall feels like he’s been repeatedly run over by a tank. There isn’t a single bone in his body that doesn’t hurt, or a single muscle that doesn’t cramp in protest of him moving.
There’s a hand carding through his hair, and then lightly tapping at his cheek. A voice calls to him, and it almost sounds like whoever is speaking is underwater. That can’t be good.
Dean moans when he finally decides to open his eyes, but he’s still seeing orange, even when Castiel’s worry-creased face comes into view. “Hey gorgeous,” Dean croaks, sinking back into whatever softness has been placed behind his head. A pillow, most likely.
Then it’s Sam who pops up, opposite of Cas, staring down at Dean with a frown that can rival any child he’s ever been faced with. There’s a cut on his lip, and his left eye looks swollen, but there isn’t a speck of blood on him. Dean blows out a relieved sigh.
“How’re you feeling?” Sam ventures into asking, only to crack a smirk when Dean gives him a dirty look. At least, he tries to give him a dirty look, especially with how disproportionate his face currently feels.
“I’m alive.” Dean swats Castiel’s hand away, which insists on pressing ice to his forehead. “What the hell happened?”
Castiel sits back on his haunches, giving Dean the space he needs in order to sit up. “I came when I heard the gunfire. The man named Victor ordered them to cease fire the moment I walked in. He didn’t mutter a single word,” Castiel says, nearly whispering as he swabs Dean’s cheek with a damp towel. “They left. Just like that. All this chaos and destruction and then they just… they just left.”
Dean nods his head when he sees Castiel’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears. As he averts his eyes elsewhere, Dean realizes the reason for Castiel’s distraught countenance.
The floor is littered with bullet holes, the marble crushed to the point where the polished surface has turned gritty and rough. The old suits of armor that stood guard along the library walls have been decimated to heaps of dented rubble strewn over the dusty floor. Tapestries have been torn to shreds, windows shattered, and books were made holey by the merciless rain of bullets. Not even the table they had convened at was spared, having had its legs hacked off, and the word Berlin carved into it. They also carved swastikas on every corner of the table.
It had been an act of cruelty and spite, and Dean can’t bury the bubbling loathing he feels threatening to spill out of his stomach. His breath turns labored, ears red hot, because they didn’t just destroy a library - they destroyed a part of Castiel.
“Calm down,” Castiel says, his voice soft and soothing as he tries to push Dean back onto the pillow. They’re sitting on the floor, amongst the chaos. “What matters is that you’re both all right.”
“They do anything to you?” Dean isn’t sure if his question is directed at either Sam or Castiel, but he figures he’ll take both answers. Two birds with one stone.
“I got a busted lip, probably a few fractured ribs,” Sam answers, shifting into a more comfortable position. “Other than that, I think I’ll live to see another day.”
Dean turns his eyes to Castiel, and waits for his answer.
“I’m fine. A bit shaken, but I guess that’s to be expected.”
Satisfied, Dean shuts his eyes and asks, “This Victor jobbie, you know him?”
“No,” Castiel says. “Sam had told me his name. He introduced himself when he asked for the translated text.”
Dean opens his eyes. “I knew it. I knew this was a fucking trap from the beginning, didn’t I tell you, Sam? Goddamn Nazi motherfuckers!” Not thinking the action all the way through, Dean slaps a hand over his face, only to wince and tense under the colorful burst of pain. “They took it, didn’t they?”
The stony silence in the library is all the answer he needs.
“Fuck!”
“Our best guess,” Sam explains, “is that they took the journal to Berlin. Why else would they write the word on the table? More sloppy clues, which means it’s probably another trap.” Sam sounds tired, his voice hoarse.
“A trap we can do nothing other than walk right into,” Castiel says. “Without the text, there will be nothing we can do. We still don’t know what they’re after, or how powerful this artifact may be.”
“Right, yeah. You expect us to walk right into a Nazi den? Are you freaking nuts?”
“I don’t see any other options, Dean. If you do, then please enlighten me.”
“Gee, Cas, I don’t know. If you’d give me a chance to come up with something other than tying the knot on my own noose, then probably I could.”
“If you two need a moment,” Sam interrupts, fighting back a smirk. “I’m going to be over there, helping Balthazar clean up.”
Sam scurries off, shaking his head all the way until he meets up with Balthazar at the far end of the room.
Dean lapses into silence, glaring at the ceiling he only just realizes is hand-painted. The mural depicts small cherubs sitting on round clouds, some picking grapes and others playing tiny harps. On the corner, he sees the beginning of a Greek temple with hanging mounds of flowers, but the image fades into white mist, having apparently been abandoned before the mural was completed.
“Me and Sam will go to Berlin, grab the journal and come back here.”
“Dean-”
“We know how to deal with this type of situation. They get messy sometimes, violent, even.”
“I’m going with you two,” Castiel says, decisive and final. “I am now a part of this venture, and I refuse to sit back and allow you to do the dirty work.”
Dean laughs, humorless as he finally sets his eyes on Castiel. “Tell me, Cas. Have you ever fired a gun?”
Tension settles along Castiel’s jaw line as he clenches it, cheekbones shifting under scruffy cheeks. There’s a coldness in his eyes that makes Dean’s stomach flip.
“No,” he answers, and although it isn’t exactly a lie, Dean can tell that it isn’t the plain truth either. “That doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself. Besides, what if they deciphered it? You’d only be wasting time by driving back here for me to have another look at the text.”
After twenty-four hours of shameless gallivanting, that first sliver of doubt finally rears its ugly head. Call it a hunch, or maybe it’s just common sense, considering that Dean doesn’t know the first thing about Castiel - the stranger with the lovely blue eyes. It isn’t the lethal kind of mistrust Dean normally feels towards everyone he doesn’t know, but it’s a nagging sensation at the back of his mind. He shouldn’t trust so explicitly this early on, anyways.
“They destroyed my home,” Castiel mumbles, taking Dean completely unawares. And suddenly, Dean understands where he’s coming from.
Sighing with defeat, Dean relents to Castiel’s request. “You do as I say at all times. If I say you stay in the car, then you stay in the damn car. I say run, you run and you don’t look back. If I say shoot…” Dean leaves the sentence hanging, licking his lips as he locks eyes with Castiel, willing him to understand.
Thankfully, Castiel nods tersely. “I understand.”
“Good.” Dean struggles to sit up again, trying to fight off vertigo. “I’d kill for some coffee.”
“Aaron is out fetching us a medic. I’ll ask him to make some once he gets back.” With a minute smile, Castiel shifts on the floor so that he’s facing Dean, and dabs at the crusted blood on the corner of his mouth. “God knows we all need some.”
It’s still dark out, and Dean feels like Death incarnate, but with Castiel looking at him like his being alive is God’s most precious gift, Dean can’t help but smile back, but he disguises it with a cough.
▲ previous chapter || chapter four || next chapter ▲