[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Five
Title: For Love, For Glory
Author: bellanovaskies [shotgunsinlace]
Artist: unbearablebears
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural; Action/Adventure
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jessica, mentions of Charlie/Gilda, previous Dean/Lisa and one-sided Victor/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~84,000
Warnings: Violence, language, torture, racism, controversial political views, and sexual content.
Summary: It’s the 1940’s, the war is tearing Europe in half, and the Nazis have a plan to uncover an ancient weapon belonging to the Egyptian gods that can tip the scale in their favor. With the help of a librarian named Castiel, it’s up to Sam and Dean Winchester, respectively a professor of archaeology and treasure hunter, to get to the Lost City of Amun-Ra and stop the Third Reich from achieving world domination. But with a missing father, secret societies, and an unexpected romance, things get more than a little complicated in this race against time. Loosely based on the Indiana Jones franchise.
Dean had gotten a fractured nose and two swollen eyes out of the ordeal, and most likely a concussion with the dizziness and constant nausea he’s feeling, or that may as well be blamed on the bumpy road they’re taking to Berlin. Just to spite him, Mother Nature has granted him the first sunny day since arriving at the German border.
They leave the library at nine in the morning, giving them all some time to rest before their big rendezvous in the capital city. Sam snores for two hours, while Castiel does his best at keeping Dean awake (without falling asleep himself) out of fear of the aforementioned concussion. Frankly, neither of them are prepared for a six hour drive to Berlin, much less for navigating through a lair of vipers in search of John’s journal.
With Castiel behind the wheel, Sam sitting shotgun, and Dean lying down in the back seat of Balthazar’s Rolls-Royce Phantom, it’s one hell of a long drive, made more so by the thick silence between the three of them.
“Can I sleep now?” Dean says, and for a moment he thinks that his query has gone unnoticed under the loud purring of the engine.
Sam looks over his shoulder, then down at Dean, as if he’s only just realizing that he’s been stretched out uncomfortably over the leather upholstery. “As long as you wake up when we call you.”
Dean isn’t sure whether he replies or not, but before he knows it, Sam’s already shaking him awake.
❖
Berlin is bustling with activity at mid-afternoon, and under different circumstances, Sam would have laughed at Dean’s extreme edginess. Back straight and hand hovering over the handgun tucked beneath his bomber jacket, Dean looks about ready to jet at the smallest movement, like cornered prey waiting for the predator to make its move. Sam doesn’t blame him.
The cobblestoned streets are dry and clean, and the air smells sweet as local cafés bake their goods and place them on display. There’s laughter and lively chatter, music drifting through open windows and doors. The only difference from Delémont would be the amount of people running about. It reminds Sam of the Fourth of July back in Kansas, when John and Mary took him and Dean out for a picnic in the park. Celebration is in the air, and while Sam will always be inclined to enjoying cultural festivities, the red, white and black flags that are being mounted along the street make him uneasy.
The three of them go ignored by the pigtailed girls who run along the street, all but one, who accidentally bumps into Castiel. She gives him a polite smile and curtsies, and Sam sees the band around her right arm before she runs off to join with the rest. She can’t be more than fifteen, but Sam has read enough to understand the connotations of her outfit.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Sam hears Dean hiss at Castiel. “As if it isn’t bad enough, looks like the big cheese is going to be here.”
Castiel frowns at him, self-consciously fixing the lapels of his suit jacket. “Berlin isn’t as bad as you think it is,” he says, edging on annoyed. “Don’t you celebrate political campaigns in America?”
Dean looks scandalized. “You can’t possibly compare one thing with the other!”
“I can, too. Not every person in this country approves of the Reich’s practices, Dean. Stop acting like an immature, bigoted tourist.” Castiel accents his remark with a stern look, and Sam can’t help but nod his approval.
“We don’t murder people,” Dean continues like a petulant child. “We don’t rape, we don’t-don’t select who gets to live or how people should do so.”
Castiel comes to a stop in the middle of the street, looking Dean in the eye with as much anger as he can possibly express without physically lashing out. “When I was five years old, my sister was abducted from her school. It took six months before she returned home, three months for her to give birth, and years for her to look me in the eye and speak a single word. We lived in a small town in Virginia.”
The gravity of Castiel’s words grounds Sam, twisting his stomach in unpleasant knots and undoubtedly doing the same to Dean.
“I, by no means, approve of the Nazi party’s goals and beliefs. But they are not the only evil upon this earth, Dean Winchester. Don’t insult me.” Castiel takes a step back, pushing his glasses further up the ridge of his nose. He looks off balance for a brief second before clearing his throat. “I suggest we eat something before the establishments become too full.”
Sam isn’t surprised to see Dean nod in agreement, but he is surprised at the lack of enthusiasm at the mention of food. Then again, with their current surroundings, Sam understands where Dean’s mulishness comes from.
Castiel leads them to a charming brasserie just off the main street. There’s little debate on whether eating indoors would be more sensible than taking a seat at the small tables outside, especially with the increase of people making preparations for the festivities.
Beer and cold-cut sandwiches all around, they settle on the table farthest from the doors, away from the irritating ruckus.
Sam finds his black forest ham to be a little on the warm side, but he doesn’t complain. The lettuce is cold and crunchy, and the bread is soft and freshly baked. It’s a feast for the senses, and judging by the way Dean’s eyes close after his first bite, he seems to think so too. He doesn’t even complain about the greens.
“Your contact...” Sam says, carefully looking around to make sure no one is listening in. “Are you sure we can trust him?”
Placing the pint of beer back on the table, Castiel reaches for a napkin and dabs his mouth. “Ms. Bradbury is the most trustworthy person I know. At least where personal business is involved.”
“Wait, Bradbury’s a lady?” Dean says, speaking around a mouthful of pretzel. “And she’s a pilot, you said?”
“Her father was a deserter; served in the Air Force before he met his wife in Egypt. Ms. Bradbury took to the skies just like her father did. She’s been stationed in Austria these last couple of weeks, and I called in a favor.” Castiel’s smile is fond as he looks down at his sandwich. “She should be arriving shortly.”
A pilot who happens to be a lady. Sam chuckles to himself, and can’t help but think about how thrilled Jessica would be about that.
The amusement quickly gives way to nostalgia, thoughts of Jessica leaving him feeling lonely despite having Dean along for the ride. He misses the smell of her hair, and the softness of her cheeks when she presses them to his with a small and secretive laugh.
When he comes to, Sam is greeted with a grumbling Dean. He doesn’t ask what he’s complaining about, but if the annoyed look Castiel is sporting is anything to go by, Sam is sure Dean’s said something stupid yet again.
These two. Sam doesn’t really know what to make of them at that moment in time, other than if left alone, they would either kill each other or roll around the hay. The sandwich tastes none too good at the thought.
“All right, so our contingency plan consists on, what, exactly? Getting on a plane and leaving?” Sam pointedly says, trying to rescue an already awkward and tense day. “Does the word Luftwaffe mean anything in this context? We can’t exactly navigate German airspace without considering the possibility that they’ll already be airborne. They’ll shoot us down without a second thought.”
“Not if I can help it,” says a new voice.
Sam blinks up at the newcomer, and he has to admit that of all things to expect, this wasn’t exactly it.
“I can handle a plane better than any kraut between England and Australia,” she says with a flourish, flipping her long red hair. “Charlie Bradbury at your service.”
“Wow,” is all Dean offers, looking impressed and more than a little puzzled.
“Wow yourself, mister.” Charlie looks briefly to her side and says a handful of things in German to a person sitting at the neighboring table. When the man waves her off, she takes the available chair and pulls it to sit beside Sam.
She looks to be about his age, maybe a bit younger, but it’s really hard to tell. Small, thin, and lively, Charlie reminds Sam of the little sister he never had - and doesn’t really want. Judging by her smile alone, she looks to be quite the troublemaker; an annoying older brother is enough, please and thank you.
“Here for the debriefing, so you better make this quick. Wouldn’t be wise to be seen mingling with you lot.”
“Right,” Dean says, popping the last of his pretzel into his mouth and rudely sucking the salt from his fingertips. Sam makes sure not to glance at Castiel. “Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the righteous law of this place.”
Charlie smirks. “Mm, I’m not exactly bound to the law, Mr…?”
“Winchester.”
“You got a first name to go with that?”
Dean hesitates for a moment. “Dean. My name’s Dean.”
“Well, you see, Dean,” she begins, before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “I don’t have a firm nationality, so it’s not like I abide by much of the rules. I was raised living beneath the big man’s eye. Slipping in and out undetected? Practically my job description.”
Both Sam and Dean simultaneously turn from looking at Charlie, to looking at Castiel. “You get involved with shady people this frequently?” Sam asks, but there’s no malice behind it, just incredulous amusement.
“What is she, a coyote?”
“I’m right here. Plus, I prefer the term sky pirate.”
Dean raises his eyebrows, like he can’t believe a single thing he’s hearing. “A sky pirate?”
Charlie nods, and Castiel takes a swig of his beer. “I get around,” Castiel explains with a shrug.
“You what?” Dean nearly barks, but Charlie’s hand slaps his bicep.
“Relax, bucko. He doesn’t mean it that way. Castiel’s a good boy, and he’s not my type.”
Sam sees that Dean wants to say something else, but thankfully turns his attention to his drink without muttering a smart remark.
“The plan?” Charlie prods, looking over her shoulder for the third time.
“All you need to know about the plan,” Sam says, holding out his hands before him, “is that we have a one hour window to achieve it. We need you on standby.”
The problem lies within them having no actual plan. Without a heading, or the slightest clue as to where to start looking for the journal, they’re in the dark. Berlin is the only thing they’ve been given, and now they’re here. From there on, where they go is anybody’s guess.
“That’s it? You need me on standby? You gotta give me something, hombre.”
“A man named Victor has what we need,” Castiel says, covering whatever is left of his meal with a napkin and pushing away the red basket it’s served in. “Are you familiar with the name?”
Charlie sobers up at the name, and starts to nervously wring her hands. “Hawkins? Victor Hawkins?”
“He’s SS,” Sam offers. The man never gave his last name. “Green eyes, fair hair…”
“Scar on his left eye?” Charlie says, and sinks into her seat when Sam nods. “Boys, you’re in serious trouble.”
“What? Why?” Dean asks, leaning to listen at her lowered voice.
“Forget SS, Hawkins is Gestapo.” There’s a collective intake of breath around the table that makes Charlie shake her head. “The bloke used to be a part of the American military. Or so my sources say.”
“How can an American serve in the German military? That’s unheard of,” Castiel reasons, leaning forward against his elbows. “The Fuhrer wouldn’t have that.”
Charlie shrugs. “The man knows his way around the park. Invaluable knowledge of the enemy forces, no doubt. No one really knows how the Gestapo works.”
Dean mutters a curse as he sits back. “What do we do now? How the hell are we even going to get near him?”
“Well,” Charlie continues, “tonight at the square, he’ll be there.” She fidgets in her seat as she reaches for a lock of her hair and absently begins to twirl it. “They’re all going to be there. The SS, Luftwaffe, Hitler.”
“If this doesn’t smell rotten...” Sam mutters, more to himself than anything, but he sees Castiel nod out of the corner of his eye.
“The German Student Association…it’s a thing, now. The Fuhrer wants to grace the occasion.”
“A book burning,” Castiel says, his voice emotionless. “They’re preparing for a book burning.”
Charlie worries her bottom lip, before slowly nodding her head.
“They wouldn’t burn the journal, would they?” Sam doubts it, but the question is out before he can think better of it.
“I don’t think they’d risk it,” Castiel says.
“Unless they already have the translation,” Dean adds.
“Only suggestion I can make is to find Hawkins as soon as possible, somehow, magically, wrestle this journal off of him, and make for the clearing,” Charlie says. “Behind city hall, there’s a train graveyard, perfect hiding place in case anyone comes after you. Follow the pattern red-red-black-blue-red and it’ll lead you to a thick brush. You’ll come across a clearing after about a ten minute walk-I’ll be there.”
Before anyone can say another word, Charlie is already getting to her feet.
“Thank you, Ms. Bradbury,” Castiel says, subdued and troubled, but sounding grateful nonetheless. “In advance.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says with a wink. “I owed you one, Milton.” Fixing her military edition jacket, she gives them a small wave. “The… activity… begins tonight at eight. You have one hour to reach the clearing, or I’m gone.”
“Understood,” Sam says, reaching out to shake her hand.
Charlie beams at him, and firmly shakes his hand. “The best of luck to the three of you.” She turns with a flurry of red hair, and with her hands inside her pockets, she struts out through the front door.
“Okay, so this just went from bad to impossible,” Dean says, running a hand across his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell are we going to do?”
“We acquire the journal,” Castiel says, eyes hard on the table as he nods his head once, firmly. “And then we make it up as we go.”
“That’s insane,” Dean counters.
“Sure beats any other plan we’ve got. Which are all, at this point, nonexistent,” Sam says, grabbing his beer and tipping back the pint. He’s suddenly feeling very parched, mostly due to the anxiety of the situation.
“Get the journal, right. But first, how do you plan on slipping into a Nazi beehive unnoticed?” Dean is bordering on growling, lips pressed into a thin line even while speaking.
“I think I’ve got an idea,” Castiel mutters, almost absently.
Sam tries to follow his gaze, looking through a throng of people gathered on the street outside. What he spots, standing there in regal black, makes him smirk.
❖
The pyre’s snaps and crackles are drowned out by the live band that plays a spirited march.
A chorus of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of spectators join in on the celebration, all of them wearing joyful smiles and punching the air in a symbol of empowerment. Every youth and soldier carries the words ‘down with the un-German spirit’ emblazoned in their eyes and their fierce cries.
The unending clip-clop-clip-clop of boots thunder to the march’s rhythm, as thousands of SS officers and soldiers parade around the burning pyre of books with their flags and eagles held high.
It’s a spectacle meant to impress, and that it does, if it weren’t for the terrible message it stands for.
The night is humid, and the nearby fire only serves to make Dean more miserable.
“I hate you,” Dean says to Castiel as they hide behind a military issued tank. “I loathe you and every single twisted thought in that brainy head of yours.” He doesn’t really mean it, only he does, because Dean Winchester has never felt this conflicted about clothing in his life.
“Be quiet,” Castiel reprimands, pressing a finger to his lips.
They slink over to the corner of the tank, Castiel holding out a hand to balance against the gritty wheel. Dean keeps his distance out of fear of dirtying his outfit.
Under the cover of darkness, Dean trusts his cuts and bruises will go unnoticed by the sea of people.
“Do you see him?”
Castiel puts a hand to Dean’s shoulder to hold him back, keeping him hidden behind the tank. “I see Sam. Then again, he is really hard to miss.”
Dean shrugs at the obvious statement. “I mean Victor. Do you see Victor?”
“Not yet.” Castiel is quiet for a moment, before saying, “I see the Fuhrer.”
Curiosity getting the best of him, Dean sneaks closer. He’s aware that his chest is molded along Castiel’s back in order to catch a glimpse, but Dean is feeling too irritated to have any kind of bodily reaction. He’ll focus on being this close to Castiel when he’s not wearing a forcefully-attained Nazi uniform.
Dean should probably feel bad about the kid currently hogtied in the alley behind the shoe store, but he wants to call it payback for all of the terrible things the soldier has done, or probably would have done if left unchecked. The dick also punched Castiel across the jaw when Dean had moved in, and that didn’t sit too well with him.
Straightening up and keeping to the shadows, Dean finally catches a glimpse of the podiums set above the swirling mass of people. Standing there, with his hand outstretched towards his parade, is none other than the dictator himself.
“There!” Castiel calls out before he remembers himself. “Along the west hallway, see? He just disappeared behind the sixth pillar.”
Tearing his attention away from the Fuhrer, Dean quickly searches the shadowed corridor.
There is a small amount of people mingling between the towering pillars. Some of them are watching the parade while the others talk among themselves. It takes Dean a minute to distinguish Victor among them; the black uniforms all looking the same from this far a distance.
“You sure that’s him?” Dean asks, stepping back and nervously pulling at the ends of his jacket. “You really think he’ll have the journal on him?”
“Yes, and maybe,” Castiel answers without turning away from his spot. “The plan is to interrogate him, either way.”
“What about Charlie?”
Finally looking back at Dean, Castiel offers him a nice smile. “Despite Charlie’s warning, she won’t leave without us.”
Castiel is a terrible liar, Dean decides, but he’ll give the guy points for trying.
“Right, so, all I have to do is walk up to the guy, ask him what he knows, and then make it a run for it.” Dean runs a hand down his face in exasperation. “What can possibly go wrong?”
“A lot of things, if you want me to be honest.”
Despite the fact that he might be about to initiate a suicide mission, Dean can’t help but find Castiel’s inability to pick up on sarcasm endearing.
“Let’s hope nothing goes awry then,” Dean says, clearing his throat and flexing his fingers in preparation for what may be one of the craziest things he’s ever done in the name of archaeology. “Wish me luck?”
The look on Castiel’s face is torn between wonder and unease, with a soft smile that is accompanied by a wrinkled brow. It’s no different from the look Sam gives him every time Dean goes off on his own, but Sam is his brother, and they’ve been through Hell and back together. Castiel is virtually a stranger.
Or perhaps the look is that of general concern, and Dean is looking too far into things in hope of finding something good for once. Either way, now is not the time to be thinking about this sort of thing.
“Good luck,” Castiel says, and places a hand over Dean’s shoulder.
God does he try not to, but Dean’s eyes drift down to Castiel’s mouth for a split second before looking up at his eyes again. Dean was thinking more along the lines of a good luck kiss, and he’s willing to bet something grand that the same thought crosses Castiel’s mind, if the way those blue eyes stare at him so nakedly is anything to go by. The way Castiel licks his lips is a good indication too.
When Castiel’s hand drops away from his shoulder a moment later, Dean firmly nods his head in order to steel his thoughts. If he survives the night, he’ll kiss Castiel senseless.
A collective shout from the crowd startles them both, and once Dean realizes it’s just a part of the celebration, he takes it as his cue to set this not-plan into action.
Dean leaves Castiel hidden behind the tank as he makes his way through the cluster of spectators, muttering apologies in German as he tries and fails to not shove or step on people’s toes. Dean never considered himself to be claustrophobic, but the masses pushing and pulling and calling out chants he doesn’t understand half of are making him want to run as far away from this place as quickly as possible.
He tries to blend in and be inconspicuous, when he finally breaks free of the stench of beer and sweat surrounding him, reaching the marble steps leading to the lofty outdoors hallway.
His hands are sweaty and his knees feel unstable, but Dean pushes on with a steely face that betrays nothing of the internal rattling of nerves.
The thundering of boots sound louder here, clearer, with the absence of the crowds clamour. It’s a steady tempo that almost feels soothing, and Dean finds himself drumming his fingers to the beat against the stiff material over his thigh.
The fire is hotter, brighter, making the uniform stick uncomfortably to his skin and choke around his neck.
Overwhelmed, Dean stops between the first two pillars to catch his breath.
He’s conscious to keep his back straight and feet apart, hands clasped behind his back as he looks on at the festival. The swirling of black, red, and orange all mixing in spectacle makes his gut churn.
Out there, people are dying violent and bloody. Children, men, women. Unlike the Axis, bullets and bombs don’t discriminate.
Angered by the thought, Dean finds determination in his indignation. He has a job to do - they all have - and he’ll see it through to the end. They will find the artifact, and stop the bad guys from winning another fight.
Dean turns to look down the hallway in search of his target, across the striped shadows the columns cast across the marble floor. About a dozen people file out of a door Dean hadn’t noticed shrouded in the shadows, all of them talking in hushed voices. A woman says something in a hurry, and is quickly shushed by a man in civilian clothing.
Dean spots Victor slipping in through the door.
Discreetly placing a hand over the revolver tucked in his pocket, Dean hurriedly walks down the corridor, giving a curt nod to a woman who greets him as she briskly walks by.
He lingers outside for a short moment until the others have dispersed into heavy conversations, none of them paying Dean an ounce of attention as he inches closer to the door opened just a crack. Casting a wary glance to both sides, making sure that no one is watching, Dean creeps inside.
Two armed guards flank the door, and Dean only realizes this once he’s inside. They both turn to look at him.
Both guards look puzzled by his presence, but the one on the left startles Dean when a hint of recognition sparks on his face, and puzzlement morphs into severe alertness. Thinking fast, Dean throws them both off with a hurried “Hail Hitler!”.
The one guard who doesn’t recognize him is dumb enough to salute, and Dean makes quick of disarming him in two simple and swift motions. A hand to the muzzle, and one to the wrist, twisting both until the guard’s hold slackens enough for Dean to pull the rifle out of his hands. Dean jams the butt against the guard’s nose, making him take a dizzying step backwards. He swings around and aims the rifle at the second guard, who already has a handgun level to Dean’s forehead.
“Where is he?” Dean spits out, cocking the gun and taking a step back to keep both guards within sight. “Where’s Victor?”
“Du kannst mich mal,” the guard who recognized him, one of Victor’s cronies, grits out.
“No idea what you just said but screw you too, buddy.”
The guard with a now bleeding nose is muttering a string of what are probably profanities.
“Well, out with it,” Dean prompts, gesturing with the gun for them to tell him. “I haven’t got all night.”
“There is no rush, Herr Winchester,” Victor calls out as he enters the empty room, hands behind his back and a pleased smile on his face. “Let’s chat over a drink, shall we?”
Hesitating for a moment, Dean orders the guards to join Victor’s side. At Victor’s nod, they obey.
“I’m on official business,” Dean says, standing so that his back is facing the wall, near enough to the door in case he has to make a run for it. “Afraid I can’t stay long.”
The rattle of silverware draws all of their attention to the back of the room, where a young man walks in with a tray lavished with fruit and teacups. The young man murmurs an apology for interrupting as he sets the tray on the single square table in the room, before hurrying away.
Dean figures this room is just an antechamber of sorts.
“I’m going to have to insist,” Victor says, elegantly pointing his hand towards the table. “Come.”
Dean is ready to bet that the tea is poisoned. “And I’m going to have to decline,” he says mockingly, giving Victor a fake smile. “I’m here for the journal, so cough it up.”
Music drifts in from the outside, the smell of burning paper even stronger inside the tiny room they’re in.
Rifle held firmly in place, Dean watches as Victor turns towards the table and begins to prepare the tea. He’s tipping the pot over a tiny cup when he says, “The journal will be delivered to me shortly.” Dropping two sugar cubes into the cup, he gives it precisely two stirs before picking the saucer up from the tray and placing it on the table. “In the meantime, why not indulge me?”
When Dean doesn’t grace him with an answer, Victor continues.
“While reviewing your father’s annotations, I noticed a handful of amendments in the margins of the glyph segment. Along with the spare commentary written by Herr Milton, I’ve deduced that none of you poor bastards have any idea what you’re looking for. Am I right?”
Dean sneers, but otherwise doesn’t move from his spot against the wall. “Slow progress, but we’re getting there.”
“Tell me now, Herr Winchester. Are you familiar with the Ankh of Thoth?”
A muddled image half-forms in Dean’s mind. While he has no idea what Victor is talking about, he does know what an ankh is, and if memory serves him right, Thoth is the Egyptian god of the moon. In previous travels, Dean has heard of the Staff of Ra, but never of the Ankh of Thoth.
“Can’t say I am,” Dean says, and relaxes his finger off the trigger.
“The Ankh of Thoth is believed to be a key to a city of unimaginable riches, and power unlike the world has ever seen.” Victor goes along preparing his own cup of tea.
“That’s what you’re after? El Dorado?” Dean snorts at how ridiculous it sounds. “Better off looking for Atlantis, if you want my opinion.”
“Cities of ancient wisdom are prominent in plenty of cultures, not only in South America.” His voice is smooth like a parent gently warning their child. It makes Dean’s blood boil.
“Great, then what do you need us for? If you know what you’re after, then why have us translate the text?”
The way Victor sips his tea so calmly grates on Dean’s nerves. There’s something more to this, and Dean hates not knowing what that is. The Ankh of Thoth, a city of riches - what part do the Winchesters play into all of this? Victor seems to have what he needs, so why bother with the extra expense? Unless…
“It’s a map. The text is a map and you can’t read it,” Dean says, mouth curling at the sides in a triumphant smirk. But that still doesn’t explain it. Castiel is the translator, not them.
“No, we can’t. To right this, we lured you here.” Victor smiles and politely tips his head. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Dean shrugs, and moves his hands over the rifle as a reminder that he’s still armed and plenty dangerous. “Nah, not really. We knew it was a trap, you stupid son of a bitch.”
“I’m glad!” Victor’s voice booms out a laugh, and both guards join in. “I am really glad that you two decided to stick together. Thank you, Herr Winchester, for making this so much easier.”
Unsure of what he means, Dean takes a hesitant step forward, his finger back on the trigger and ready to retaliate if need be. However, before Dean can mutter a single word, the back door swings open again, and what he sees sends his heart racing with fear.
Two guards - bigger than the ones by Victor’s side - haul Castiel in and try to hold him still, with their meaty hands digging into his biceps. Castiel looks like a scrawny kid as he struggles between them, his glasses knocked askew on his nose. Dean sees a busted lip and a bloody nose.
“You have delivered, Dean,” Victor says, placing the teacup on the table. “And being the reasonable man that I am, I will give you something in exchange.”
One of the guards holding Castiel pulls the journal from the inside of his tunic, and hands it over to Victor, who absently takes it. Victor’s beady eyes are apprising Castiel in a way that makes Dean squirm uncomfortably where he stands by the door.
“I will trade you John Winchester’s journal, for the sweet engel. What do you say?” Victor cards his fingers through Castiel’s hair, before hooking them under his chin to tip up his head. He then straightens Castiel’s glasses.
The urge to vomit is strong in Dean’s stomach. “How about you give me both and we’ll call it a deal?”
“Let’s not be unfair, now. No harm will come to him, you have my word.”
Dean instinctively takes a step forward, and Victor’s guards mimic the movement. The previously disarmed guard now has a knife in his right hand and is inching closer to Dean as the conversation goes on.
“Let him go,” Dean says, voice hard and relentless. “Let him go, or so help me God I will put you all in the ground.”
Victor raises an amused eyebrow at the threat. “Protective - nearly possessive… my. Oh my, Herr Winchester. What have you gotten yourself into?”
Dean’s eyes turn quickly to Castiel, who is looking back with tight and well-masked curiosity.
He quickly turns his gaze back to Victor.
The addition of Castiel in Dean’s life is proving to be nothing but a distraction that can easily cost him the lives of many. Considering Dean’s luck, Castiel may be looking at a dark future as collateral damage.
“What can I say? The guy’s our key to finding this thing before you people do. Damn sure I’m gonna get possessive.” It’s a weak rationale, and Dean knows it.
An oppressing silence settles in the small room, one that’s only broken by the labored breathing of the guard with the broken nose, and the muted music outside the walls. Dean can see how Victor debates his next move, with his eyes shifting smoothly from Castiel to Dean, and lastly to the journal in his gloved hand.
“You could always have neither,” Victor says, holding the journal to his chest. “I can throw the journal into the pit, for all I care. I had a copy of the original text transcribed into my personal journal.” He smiles, and the gentle curve of his mouth is almost fatherly.
Dean’s fingers fidget on the rifle, unsure of what to do or say when they are all hanging precariously by a thread. A single misplaced breath can unravel what little progress they have made so far, and with both he and Castiel in such compromising positions, it’s hard not to hesitate.
But then Castiel catches his attention.
The movement is subtle, with Castiel slowly licking his lips in complete concentration.
Stunned, Dean immediately looks away, only to cast Castiel hesitant stares out of the corner of his eye. What Dean notices is a pattern, and he has to tamp down the new wave of excitement at the realization.
Dean sees it when Castiel minutely cants his head to the side.
There’s a clock on the wall, way up above him, and Dean’s hold on the gun tightens.
8:48 p.m.
The airplane.
Twelve minutes. They have twelve minutes to grab the journal, run through a swirling mass of Nazis, cross the clearing, and board the airplane. Time is running out, and Dean has no plan of action.
“It isn’t my intention to be rude,” Castiel says, his voice startling them all out of their respective reveries. “But I’m afraid I have an appointment.”
There’s a beat of silence, to which Victor answers with an incredulous laugh. “I beg your pardon?”
It’s a quick blur of movement when the other two guards step forward, both unsure on who to attack, and Dean does them the favor of opening fire towards the floor. Bullet meets marble with loud chinks and chips as Dean steps closer to the guards, driving them back, away from the front door.
Ears ringing once he runs out of bullets, Dean jams the butt of the rifle, again, into the guard’s already broken nose, earning him an agonized cry. He swiftly turns to roundhouse kick the second guard, sending him to the ground with a heavy thump that Dean feels rather than hears.
Looming over the fallen man, Dean kicks the pistol out of his hand and takes it, pulling out his own from inside his jacket as well. Once he makes sure that neither guard will be getting up any time soon, Dean turns to Victor.
Victor - who is wrestling the guard previously holding Castiel for his revolver - has a bleeding lip.
Dean doesn’t have time to laugh before Castiel is urgently pulling him by his sleeve towards the door. He has the journal clutched to his chest, and he’s saying something Dean can’t hear over the ringing, but after a split second, Dean realizes what it is.
“Others are coming,” Castiel’s lips say, and Dean doesn’t have to be told twice.
With Castiel close to his side, they bust out the door and into the crowded hallway.
The clock in Dean’s head starts ticking, and all he can think about is that they have ten minutes, perhaps even less to get to the field. With any luck, Sam is already there, helping Charlie get that engine running so they can make their escape as quickly as possible.
People stagger out of the way as Dean and Castiel both zigzag through the throng of teenagers and soldiers, leaving behind a cloud of confused and annoyed grunts in their wake. The festivities are in full swing, and the pyre is still blazing as the music punches through the dreadful night.
Dean chances a look over his shoulder, and he sees a dozen soldiers hot on their heels.
They cross their earlier hiding place, swiveling through cars and tanks alike as they take the long way around the plaza, away from the congregation of students and spectators. The scene melts away in blotches of red, black and orange, and they’re running down a dark alley when Dean’s ears finally pop, bringing in noise in a hot rush.
Taking a left, Dean swings Castiel close in a split second, holding him still with a hand over his mouth to keep his labored breathing from giving away their position.
Dean counts - ten seconds - and the men on the chase run right by them.
It is ten more seconds before Dean sags against the brick wall with a hushed exhale, struggling to gain his breath. He tries not to linger on the sight of Castiel standing pressed chest to chest, or the feeling of Castiel huffing and puffing against his neck as he tries to calm himself down.
Beside them, their hands are clasped together, the same way they were the moment they ran out of the claustrophobic room.
“The graveyard,” Castiel says, shakily. Their hands drift apart when Castiel moves away to give Dean the journal. “We don’t have much time.”
Dean mourns the loss of Castiel’s touch, but he nods his head, taking the journal and tucking it inside his breast pocket. “Red, red, black, blue, and red,” Dean recites, remembering the pattern Charlie had given them. “Should be over that wall.”
True enough, on the other side of the alley wall is what used to be a clearing, but has long since been littered with industrial waste.
Boxcars, gondolas, and cabooses; they all lie in various stages of ruin, spread out for miles on end over silver-green grass. The area is dark and quiet; the sounds of the festival locked away in a box of brick walls. Out here, it’s a small blip of wilderness amongst a city of giants.
The red boxcar is easier to find than Dean expected, as he and Castiel try to jog between dismantled leather and moldy carpets. It’s only a matter of seconds until they find the next one, and then the next - a coal hopper. This one, they walk around it.
The blue box car smells of tobacco and piss, and Castiel hesitates walking inside it, despite Dean’s insistence that it would be faster.
“Someone’s been here. Recently, too.”
“It was probably Sam,” Dean says, pulling himself up through the back door of the car lying on its side.
“I wasn’t aware Sam was fond of tobacco.”
“He’s not. I mean-” Dean is interrupted by the sound of gunfire, making him flinch when one ricochets near his head. “Shit!”
Grabbing Castiel by his vest, Dean helps him into the boxcar.
They break into a run again, their path made ten times harder by the debris on the ground, but the sound of an airplane’s engine gives Dean a stomach-churning sense of hope. Even with Gestapo on their tails, they’re almost there.
Castiel briefly loses his footing, but Dean pulls at his hand, not allowing him to fall back now that they are both so close.
An endless void of night swallows the clearing up, leaving it bare but for the tall blades of swaying grass. The night is filled with twinkling stars and a full moon, and were it not for the fact that Nazis are currently hunting Dean, he would have stopped to enjoy the view. Beside him, Castiel squeezes his hand.
The sight of Charlie’s airplane makes them run faster; Castiel limping but keeping up while refusing to loosen his hold on Dean’s hand.
Wind throws dirt and grit in Dean’s eyes as the propeller changes angle, the airplane beginning a slow taxi, ready to go airborne in seconds. In the roofless cockpit, Sam animatedly waves at Dean and Castiel to hurry up.
Dean doesn’t have time to linger on the thought that the biplane is a two-seater, and they are trying to shove four fully-grown adults into the small metal contraption. The only relief Dean finds is that it looks far sturdier than the one they took from the States, even with its smaller size.
Legs hurting and chest burning with exertion, and gunshots ringing dangerously close behind, Dean grabs hold of the rope ladder with his free hand, only letting go of Castiel’s when he’s certain that Castiel too has a hold on the ladder. He climbs up, scrambling with the metal ledge for purchase before Castiel pushes him into the seat.
Landing on his back with a huff, Dean hisses when his head collides with the side of the plane, and then groans when Castiel gracelessly lands on top of him. It’s ridiculous and childish, the two of them shuffling to right themselves - somehow - in the tiny space of a single seat, but Dean feels his heart drop when the biplane begins its ascent.
At a small attempt to be comforting, Castiel’s hand rests over Dean’s chest, keeping him pinned down as the long minutes slug by before reaching cruising altitude is reached.
He will deny it come daylight, the way Dean clings to Castiel’s body above him. Running on adrenaline eclipses the crippling fear of flying, but when the angry yelling and sharp sound of gunshots give way to the droning from the biplane’s engine, Dean feels the icy grip of fear.
But Castiel, either instinctively or accidentally, holds him tight until they’re smoothly soaring above Berlin’s darkened sky.
“Are you all right?” Castiel says beside Dean’s ear.
Clutching onto the jacket covering Castiel’s back, scared that the man will fly away, Dean reluctantly nods. “I’ll be fine.”
When Dean is calm enough to move with certainty that the airplane won’t fall from the sky, he nudges Castiel to move. It’s an awkward dance, a tangle of legs and elbows, and tailbones digging into thighs, as they both maneuver themselves into a comfortable position.
They decide, at last, to leave Dean on the seat, with Castiel halfway pinned between his thighs. The security his weight provides trumps the should-be-ashamed feeling Dean has towards the pleasant pressure on his crotch.
“You two in one piece?” Sam shouts from up front, where he sits behind the pilot’s seat.
“We’re alive,” Castiel calls back.
Dean gives Sam a thumbs up.
“Did you get the journal?”
Dean laughs when he watches Castiel fumble with his tunic, pulling out John’s weathered journal and waving it for the two of them to see. He hears Sam laugh with delight.
The night around them feels cold, and Castiel’s body is a solid wall of warmth as he leans back to rest against Dean’s chest. They’re both tired, sore, and badly beat up. It’s been one hell of a day, and Dean isn’t about to protest against Castiel’s weight.
The Luftwaffe doesn’t give chase, and Dean couldn’t be more relieved. The thought of having to out-fly the German air force makes him queasy. On land, he’ll take them all, hand-to-hand if need be. But in the heavens, Dean is out of his league.
“You lost your glasses,” Dean says after a beat of silence. He brings up a hand to wipe away the trail of blood that oozes from Castiel’s lip. The spot looks black against the white cotton of his gloves.
“And you lost your hat,” Castiel answers, tipping back his head so that it rests on Dean’s shoulder. “Nazi paraphernalia aside, you looked very handsome in it.”
At the reminder, Dean removes the armband from around his arm, and casts it out of the airplane. The uniform still feels small and stifling, even with the sharp air that whips and cuts so high above.
“I can guarantee you I look better with nothing on.” It’s a thoughtless quip, but Dean smiles when Castiel chuckles.
“Whatever will I do with you, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean doesn’t answer for a long while. He’s caught staring at Castiel’s eyes that look black under the cover of night. The moment feels soft, Dean thinks, and he likes it. Dean likes the gentle, barely-there smile Castiel is giving him as they cut across the sky.
“We’ll just have to find out,” Dean finally answers, but he is sure the motor’s noise stole the words away.
❖
Charlie lands the airplane at Englischer Garten just as the clock strikes midnight.
The four of them climb out, stiff and sore.
“Those were some pretty smooth moves you pulled back there,” Charlie says to Castiel, patting him on the back. “What happened to your ankle?”
“I think it’s sprained,” he says. He looks unfazed by it, until he tries setting his weight on his right foot. “Fairly certain, it is.”
Unbidden, Dean stands by his side for support. “We’ll get you patched up when we get back to the library,” Dean says, his tone giving no space for refusal. “You need to stay off it for a bit.”
“We can’t afford to lose time. Not when Victor is a step ahead.”
“What happened in there?” Sam asks, running a hand through his hair as he joins them. “You look just as banged up as Dean.”
Castiel shakes his head, pressing a hand to his split lip. “I got ambushed.”
He says no more, and Dean is wary of the haunted look in Castiel’s eyes.
“Long story short: the Ankh of Thoth,” Dean says, grabbing Castiel by the arm and pulling away to sit on the closest bench he can find. Castiel goes without protest.
Charlie slides in next to Castiel, tipping his head upward by the chin to inspect his injuries. “Sounds expensive,” she says idly. From inside her jacket pocket, she pulls a handkerchief and hands it to Castiel.
“What is it?” Sam pries, eyes going big with the kind of little-kid curiosity that could win any heart over.
Dean gives Castiel a questioning look. He’s been told before that Charlie is trustworthy, but with a title like ‘sky pirate’, one can’t be too sure about discussing great archaeological finds around her. At Castiel’s nod, Dean says, “The key to El Dorado.”
A boom of laughter escapes from Sam, startling them all. “You’re… Please tell me that you’re joking.”
“City of riches, gold, knowledge - you name it. According to Vic, this will give them the advantage they need to win the war,” Dean says. He runs a hand down his face and sighs. “He wanted Cas,” he adds, avoiding Sam’s eyes.
Those words feel charged and heavy on Dean’s tongue. Victor wants Castiel, and Dean feels disgusted that it may be for more than just translating the ancient text. The way those repugnant fingers had traced Castiel’s face, with almost a hint of false tenderness…
“So, what now?” Sam says. “We know what to look for, what it does, all we need is to find it, right?”
“Apparently,” Dean grumbles.
“Great. Any idea where to start?”
“Cairo,” Castiel mumbles, refraining from looking directly at any of them. “We’ll find the ankh in Cairo.”
The four of them sink into silence, and Dean doesn’t need the ability to read minds to know why. Castiel looks legitimately frightened, like a small animal that has had their tail stepped on. He’s beaten and bruised, and he knows more than any of those present.
Or maybe it’s just Dean who reaches this conclusion, because he saw the state Castiel was brought into the room in Berlin. Something else happened, and Dean hates himself for having left Castiel alone, instead of having him go with Sam.
What’s worse, Dean only just notices that Castiel is discreetly cradling his left hand - the hand Dean had yanked him along during their great escape.
Anger and uselessness suffocate him, and so Dean yanks off the tunic as he walks away from the group, and casts it into a manmade pond.
“I guess we’re going to Egypt then,” Dean hears Sam say.
“I can give you a lift,” Charlie says. “In fact, I insist. Anything to make it easier for you boys.”
No one says another word, and Dean knows they’re all waiting for him to agree or disagree. He’d rather drive anywhere, but the need to get out of Germany is so overwhelming that he’s nodding his head before he can give it a second thought. “We need to get to the library; get our stuff,” he says, numbly.
“Kaydet has a storage compartment,” Charlie says, presumably talking about the airplane. “If it isn’t much, I think we can pack her. Leave before morning.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sam says.
From somewhere behind, Dean hears Castiel hum in agreement.
Taking a deep breath, and trying really hard not to smash something against a wall, Dean slumps. “Fine,” he concedes. “But first I’m gonna need a drink.” If only to soothe his nerves for yet another long flight.
▲ previous chapter || chapter five || 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.
Dean had gotten a fractured nose and two swollen eyes out of the ordeal, and most likely a concussion with the dizziness and constant nausea he’s feeling, or that may as well be blamed on the bumpy road they’re taking to Berlin. Just to spite him, Mother Nature has granted him the first sunny day since arriving at the German border.
They leave the library at nine in the morning, giving them all some time to rest before their big rendezvous in the capital city. Sam snores for two hours, while Castiel does his best at keeping Dean awake (without falling asleep himself) out of fear of the aforementioned concussion. Frankly, neither of them are prepared for a six hour drive to Berlin, much less for navigating through a lair of vipers in search of John’s journal.
With Castiel behind the wheel, Sam sitting shotgun, and Dean lying down in the back seat of Balthazar’s Rolls-Royce Phantom, it’s one hell of a long drive, made more so by the thick silence between the three of them.
“Can I sleep now?” Dean says, and for a moment he thinks that his query has gone unnoticed under the loud purring of the engine.
Sam looks over his shoulder, then down at Dean, as if he’s only just realizing that he’s been stretched out uncomfortably over the leather upholstery. “As long as you wake up when we call you.”
Dean isn’t sure whether he replies or not, but before he knows it, Sam’s already shaking him awake.
❖
Berlin is bustling with activity at mid-afternoon, and under different circumstances, Sam would have laughed at Dean’s extreme edginess. Back straight and hand hovering over the handgun tucked beneath his bomber jacket, Dean looks about ready to jet at the smallest movement, like cornered prey waiting for the predator to make its move. Sam doesn’t blame him.
The cobblestoned streets are dry and clean, and the air smells sweet as local cafés bake their goods and place them on display. There’s laughter and lively chatter, music drifting through open windows and doors. The only difference from Delémont would be the amount of people running about. It reminds Sam of the Fourth of July back in Kansas, when John and Mary took him and Dean out for a picnic in the park. Celebration is in the air, and while Sam will always be inclined to enjoying cultural festivities, the red, white and black flags that are being mounted along the street make him uneasy.
The three of them go ignored by the pigtailed girls who run along the street, all but one, who accidentally bumps into Castiel. She gives him a polite smile and curtsies, and Sam sees the band around her right arm before she runs off to join with the rest. She can’t be more than fifteen, but Sam has read enough to understand the connotations of her outfit.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Sam hears Dean hiss at Castiel. “As if it isn’t bad enough, looks like the big cheese is going to be here.”
Castiel frowns at him, self-consciously fixing the lapels of his suit jacket. “Berlin isn’t as bad as you think it is,” he says, edging on annoyed. “Don’t you celebrate political campaigns in America?”
Dean looks scandalized. “You can’t possibly compare one thing with the other!”
“I can, too. Not every person in this country approves of the Reich’s practices, Dean. Stop acting like an immature, bigoted tourist.” Castiel accents his remark with a stern look, and Sam can’t help but nod his approval.
“We don’t murder people,” Dean continues like a petulant child. “We don’t rape, we don’t-don’t select who gets to live or how people should do so.”
Castiel comes to a stop in the middle of the street, looking Dean in the eye with as much anger as he can possibly express without physically lashing out. “When I was five years old, my sister was abducted from her school. It took six months before she returned home, three months for her to give birth, and years for her to look me in the eye and speak a single word. We lived in a small town in Virginia.”
The gravity of Castiel’s words grounds Sam, twisting his stomach in unpleasant knots and undoubtedly doing the same to Dean.
“I, by no means, approve of the Nazi party’s goals and beliefs. But they are not the only evil upon this earth, Dean Winchester. Don’t insult me.” Castiel takes a step back, pushing his glasses further up the ridge of his nose. He looks off balance for a brief second before clearing his throat. “I suggest we eat something before the establishments become too full.”
Sam isn’t surprised to see Dean nod in agreement, but he is surprised at the lack of enthusiasm at the mention of food. Then again, with their current surroundings, Sam understands where Dean’s mulishness comes from.
Castiel leads them to a charming brasserie just off the main street. There’s little debate on whether eating indoors would be more sensible than taking a seat at the small tables outside, especially with the increase of people making preparations for the festivities.
Beer and cold-cut sandwiches all around, they settle on the table farthest from the doors, away from the irritating ruckus.
Sam finds his black forest ham to be a little on the warm side, but he doesn’t complain. The lettuce is cold and crunchy, and the bread is soft and freshly baked. It’s a feast for the senses, and judging by the way Dean’s eyes close after his first bite, he seems to think so too. He doesn’t even complain about the greens.
“Your contact...” Sam says, carefully looking around to make sure no one is listening in. “Are you sure we can trust him?”
Placing the pint of beer back on the table, Castiel reaches for a napkin and dabs his mouth. “Ms. Bradbury is the most trustworthy person I know. At least where personal business is involved.”
“Wait, Bradbury’s a lady?” Dean says, speaking around a mouthful of pretzel. “And she’s a pilot, you said?”
“Her father was a deserter; served in the Air Force before he met his wife in Egypt. Ms. Bradbury took to the skies just like her father did. She’s been stationed in Austria these last couple of weeks, and I called in a favor.” Castiel’s smile is fond as he looks down at his sandwich. “She should be arriving shortly.”
A pilot who happens to be a lady. Sam chuckles to himself, and can’t help but think about how thrilled Jessica would be about that.
The amusement quickly gives way to nostalgia, thoughts of Jessica leaving him feeling lonely despite having Dean along for the ride. He misses the smell of her hair, and the softness of her cheeks when she presses them to his with a small and secretive laugh.
When he comes to, Sam is greeted with a grumbling Dean. He doesn’t ask what he’s complaining about, but if the annoyed look Castiel is sporting is anything to go by, Sam is sure Dean’s said something stupid yet again.
These two. Sam doesn’t really know what to make of them at that moment in time, other than if left alone, they would either kill each other or roll around the hay. The sandwich tastes none too good at the thought.
“All right, so our contingency plan consists on, what, exactly? Getting on a plane and leaving?” Sam pointedly says, trying to rescue an already awkward and tense day. “Does the word Luftwaffe mean anything in this context? We can’t exactly navigate German airspace without considering the possibility that they’ll already be airborne. They’ll shoot us down without a second thought.”
“Not if I can help it,” says a new voice.
Sam blinks up at the newcomer, and he has to admit that of all things to expect, this wasn’t exactly it.
“I can handle a plane better than any kraut between England and Australia,” she says with a flourish, flipping her long red hair. “Charlie Bradbury at your service.”
“Wow,” is all Dean offers, looking impressed and more than a little puzzled.
“Wow yourself, mister.” Charlie looks briefly to her side and says a handful of things in German to a person sitting at the neighboring table. When the man waves her off, she takes the available chair and pulls it to sit beside Sam.
She looks to be about his age, maybe a bit younger, but it’s really hard to tell. Small, thin, and lively, Charlie reminds Sam of the little sister he never had - and doesn’t really want. Judging by her smile alone, she looks to be quite the troublemaker; an annoying older brother is enough, please and thank you.
“Here for the debriefing, so you better make this quick. Wouldn’t be wise to be seen mingling with you lot.”
“Right,” Dean says, popping the last of his pretzel into his mouth and rudely sucking the salt from his fingertips. Sam makes sure not to glance at Castiel. “Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the righteous law of this place.”
Charlie smirks. “Mm, I’m not exactly bound to the law, Mr…?”
“Winchester.”
“You got a first name to go with that?”
Dean hesitates for a moment. “Dean. My name’s Dean.”
“Well, you see, Dean,” she begins, before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “I don’t have a firm nationality, so it’s not like I abide by much of the rules. I was raised living beneath the big man’s eye. Slipping in and out undetected? Practically my job description.”
Both Sam and Dean simultaneously turn from looking at Charlie, to looking at Castiel. “You get involved with shady people this frequently?” Sam asks, but there’s no malice behind it, just incredulous amusement.
“What is she, a coyote?”
“I’m right here. Plus, I prefer the term sky pirate.”
Dean raises his eyebrows, like he can’t believe a single thing he’s hearing. “A sky pirate?”
Charlie nods, and Castiel takes a swig of his beer. “I get around,” Castiel explains with a shrug.
“You what?” Dean nearly barks, but Charlie’s hand slaps his bicep.
“Relax, bucko. He doesn’t mean it that way. Castiel’s a good boy, and he’s not my type.”
Sam sees that Dean wants to say something else, but thankfully turns his attention to his drink without muttering a smart remark.
“The plan?” Charlie prods, looking over her shoulder for the third time.
“All you need to know about the plan,” Sam says, holding out his hands before him, “is that we have a one hour window to achieve it. We need you on standby.”
The problem lies within them having no actual plan. Without a heading, or the slightest clue as to where to start looking for the journal, they’re in the dark. Berlin is the only thing they’ve been given, and now they’re here. From there on, where they go is anybody’s guess.
“That’s it? You need me on standby? You gotta give me something, hombre.”
“A man named Victor has what we need,” Castiel says, covering whatever is left of his meal with a napkin and pushing away the red basket it’s served in. “Are you familiar with the name?”
Charlie sobers up at the name, and starts to nervously wring her hands. “Hawkins? Victor Hawkins?”
“He’s SS,” Sam offers. The man never gave his last name. “Green eyes, fair hair…”
“Scar on his left eye?” Charlie says, and sinks into her seat when Sam nods. “Boys, you’re in serious trouble.”
“What? Why?” Dean asks, leaning to listen at her lowered voice.
“Forget SS, Hawkins is Gestapo.” There’s a collective intake of breath around the table that makes Charlie shake her head. “The bloke used to be a part of the American military. Or so my sources say.”
“How can an American serve in the German military? That’s unheard of,” Castiel reasons, leaning forward against his elbows. “The Fuhrer wouldn’t have that.”
Charlie shrugs. “The man knows his way around the park. Invaluable knowledge of the enemy forces, no doubt. No one really knows how the Gestapo works.”
Dean mutters a curse as he sits back. “What do we do now? How the hell are we even going to get near him?”
“Well,” Charlie continues, “tonight at the square, he’ll be there.” She fidgets in her seat as she reaches for a lock of her hair and absently begins to twirl it. “They’re all going to be there. The SS, Luftwaffe, Hitler.”
“If this doesn’t smell rotten...” Sam mutters, more to himself than anything, but he sees Castiel nod out of the corner of his eye.
“The German Student Association…it’s a thing, now. The Fuhrer wants to grace the occasion.”
“A book burning,” Castiel says, his voice emotionless. “They’re preparing for a book burning.”
Charlie worries her bottom lip, before slowly nodding her head.
“They wouldn’t burn the journal, would they?” Sam doubts it, but the question is out before he can think better of it.
“I don’t think they’d risk it,” Castiel says.
“Unless they already have the translation,” Dean adds.
“Only suggestion I can make is to find Hawkins as soon as possible, somehow, magically, wrestle this journal off of him, and make for the clearing,” Charlie says. “Behind city hall, there’s a train graveyard, perfect hiding place in case anyone comes after you. Follow the pattern red-red-black-blue-red and it’ll lead you to a thick brush. You’ll come across a clearing after about a ten minute walk-I’ll be there.”
Before anyone can say another word, Charlie is already getting to her feet.
“Thank you, Ms. Bradbury,” Castiel says, subdued and troubled, but sounding grateful nonetheless. “In advance.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says with a wink. “I owed you one, Milton.” Fixing her military edition jacket, she gives them a small wave. “The… activity… begins tonight at eight. You have one hour to reach the clearing, or I’m gone.”
“Understood,” Sam says, reaching out to shake her hand.
Charlie beams at him, and firmly shakes his hand. “The best of luck to the three of you.” She turns with a flurry of red hair, and with her hands inside her pockets, she struts out through the front door.
“Okay, so this just went from bad to impossible,” Dean says, running a hand across his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell are we going to do?”
“We acquire the journal,” Castiel says, eyes hard on the table as he nods his head once, firmly. “And then we make it up as we go.”
“That’s insane,” Dean counters.
“Sure beats any other plan we’ve got. Which are all, at this point, nonexistent,” Sam says, grabbing his beer and tipping back the pint. He’s suddenly feeling very parched, mostly due to the anxiety of the situation.
“Get the journal, right. But first, how do you plan on slipping into a Nazi beehive unnoticed?” Dean is bordering on growling, lips pressed into a thin line even while speaking.
“I think I’ve got an idea,” Castiel mutters, almost absently.
Sam tries to follow his gaze, looking through a throng of people gathered on the street outside. What he spots, standing there in regal black, makes him smirk.
❖
The pyre’s snaps and crackles are drowned out by the live band that plays a spirited march.
A chorus of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of spectators join in on the celebration, all of them wearing joyful smiles and punching the air in a symbol of empowerment. Every youth and soldier carries the words ‘down with the un-German spirit’ emblazoned in their eyes and their fierce cries.
The unending clip-clop-clip-clop of boots thunder to the march’s rhythm, as thousands of SS officers and soldiers parade around the burning pyre of books with their flags and eagles held high.
It’s a spectacle meant to impress, and that it does, if it weren’t for the terrible message it stands for.
The night is humid, and the nearby fire only serves to make Dean more miserable.
“I hate you,” Dean says to Castiel as they hide behind a military issued tank. “I loathe you and every single twisted thought in that brainy head of yours.” He doesn’t really mean it, only he does, because Dean Winchester has never felt this conflicted about clothing in his life.
“Be quiet,” Castiel reprimands, pressing a finger to his lips.
They slink over to the corner of the tank, Castiel holding out a hand to balance against the gritty wheel. Dean keeps his distance out of fear of dirtying his outfit.
Under the cover of darkness, Dean trusts his cuts and bruises will go unnoticed by the sea of people.
“Do you see him?”
Castiel puts a hand to Dean’s shoulder to hold him back, keeping him hidden behind the tank. “I see Sam. Then again, he is really hard to miss.”
Dean shrugs at the obvious statement. “I mean Victor. Do you see Victor?”
“Not yet.” Castiel is quiet for a moment, before saying, “I see the Fuhrer.”
Curiosity getting the best of him, Dean sneaks closer. He’s aware that his chest is molded along Castiel’s back in order to catch a glimpse, but Dean is feeling too irritated to have any kind of bodily reaction. He’ll focus on being this close to Castiel when he’s not wearing a forcefully-attained Nazi uniform.
Dean should probably feel bad about the kid currently hogtied in the alley behind the shoe store, but he wants to call it payback for all of the terrible things the soldier has done, or probably would have done if left unchecked. The dick also punched Castiel across the jaw when Dean had moved in, and that didn’t sit too well with him.
Straightening up and keeping to the shadows, Dean finally catches a glimpse of the podiums set above the swirling mass of people. Standing there, with his hand outstretched towards his parade, is none other than the dictator himself.
“There!” Castiel calls out before he remembers himself. “Along the west hallway, see? He just disappeared behind the sixth pillar.”
Tearing his attention away from the Fuhrer, Dean quickly searches the shadowed corridor.
There is a small amount of people mingling between the towering pillars. Some of them are watching the parade while the others talk among themselves. It takes Dean a minute to distinguish Victor among them; the black uniforms all looking the same from this far a distance.
“You sure that’s him?” Dean asks, stepping back and nervously pulling at the ends of his jacket. “You really think he’ll have the journal on him?”
“Yes, and maybe,” Castiel answers without turning away from his spot. “The plan is to interrogate him, either way.”
“What about Charlie?”
Finally looking back at Dean, Castiel offers him a nice smile. “Despite Charlie’s warning, she won’t leave without us.”
Castiel is a terrible liar, Dean decides, but he’ll give the guy points for trying.
“Right, so, all I have to do is walk up to the guy, ask him what he knows, and then make it a run for it.” Dean runs a hand down his face in exasperation. “What can possibly go wrong?”
“A lot of things, if you want me to be honest.”
Despite the fact that he might be about to initiate a suicide mission, Dean can’t help but find Castiel’s inability to pick up on sarcasm endearing.
“Let’s hope nothing goes awry then,” Dean says, clearing his throat and flexing his fingers in preparation for what may be one of the craziest things he’s ever done in the name of archaeology. “Wish me luck?”
The look on Castiel’s face is torn between wonder and unease, with a soft smile that is accompanied by a wrinkled brow. It’s no different from the look Sam gives him every time Dean goes off on his own, but Sam is his brother, and they’ve been through Hell and back together. Castiel is virtually a stranger.
Or perhaps the look is that of general concern, and Dean is looking too far into things in hope of finding something good for once. Either way, now is not the time to be thinking about this sort of thing.
“Good luck,” Castiel says, and places a hand over Dean’s shoulder.
God does he try not to, but Dean’s eyes drift down to Castiel’s mouth for a split second before looking up at his eyes again. Dean was thinking more along the lines of a good luck kiss, and he’s willing to bet something grand that the same thought crosses Castiel’s mind, if the way those blue eyes stare at him so nakedly is anything to go by. The way Castiel licks his lips is a good indication too.
When Castiel’s hand drops away from his shoulder a moment later, Dean firmly nods his head in order to steel his thoughts. If he survives the night, he’ll kiss Castiel senseless.
A collective shout from the crowd startles them both, and once Dean realizes it’s just a part of the celebration, he takes it as his cue to set this not-plan into action.
Dean leaves Castiel hidden behind the tank as he makes his way through the cluster of spectators, muttering apologies in German as he tries and fails to not shove or step on people’s toes. Dean never considered himself to be claustrophobic, but the masses pushing and pulling and calling out chants he doesn’t understand half of are making him want to run as far away from this place as quickly as possible.
He tries to blend in and be inconspicuous, when he finally breaks free of the stench of beer and sweat surrounding him, reaching the marble steps leading to the lofty outdoors hallway.
His hands are sweaty and his knees feel unstable, but Dean pushes on with a steely face that betrays nothing of the internal rattling of nerves.
The thundering of boots sound louder here, clearer, with the absence of the crowds clamour. It’s a steady tempo that almost feels soothing, and Dean finds himself drumming his fingers to the beat against the stiff material over his thigh.
The fire is hotter, brighter, making the uniform stick uncomfortably to his skin and choke around his neck.
Overwhelmed, Dean stops between the first two pillars to catch his breath.
He’s conscious to keep his back straight and feet apart, hands clasped behind his back as he looks on at the festival. The swirling of black, red, and orange all mixing in spectacle makes his gut churn.
Out there, people are dying violent and bloody. Children, men, women. Unlike the Axis, bullets and bombs don’t discriminate.
Angered by the thought, Dean finds determination in his indignation. He has a job to do - they all have - and he’ll see it through to the end. They will find the artifact, and stop the bad guys from winning another fight.
Dean turns to look down the hallway in search of his target, across the striped shadows the columns cast across the marble floor. About a dozen people file out of a door Dean hadn’t noticed shrouded in the shadows, all of them talking in hushed voices. A woman says something in a hurry, and is quickly shushed by a man in civilian clothing.
Dean spots Victor slipping in through the door.
Discreetly placing a hand over the revolver tucked in his pocket, Dean hurriedly walks down the corridor, giving a curt nod to a woman who greets him as she briskly walks by.
He lingers outside for a short moment until the others have dispersed into heavy conversations, none of them paying Dean an ounce of attention as he inches closer to the door opened just a crack. Casting a wary glance to both sides, making sure that no one is watching, Dean creeps inside.
Two armed guards flank the door, and Dean only realizes this once he’s inside. They both turn to look at him.
Both guards look puzzled by his presence, but the one on the left startles Dean when a hint of recognition sparks on his face, and puzzlement morphs into severe alertness. Thinking fast, Dean throws them both off with a hurried “Hail Hitler!”.
The one guard who doesn’t recognize him is dumb enough to salute, and Dean makes quick of disarming him in two simple and swift motions. A hand to the muzzle, and one to the wrist, twisting both until the guard’s hold slackens enough for Dean to pull the rifle out of his hands. Dean jams the butt against the guard’s nose, making him take a dizzying step backwards. He swings around and aims the rifle at the second guard, who already has a handgun level to Dean’s forehead.
“Where is he?” Dean spits out, cocking the gun and taking a step back to keep both guards within sight. “Where’s Victor?”
“Du kannst mich mal,” the guard who recognized him, one of Victor’s cronies, grits out.
“No idea what you just said but screw you too, buddy.”
The guard with a now bleeding nose is muttering a string of what are probably profanities.
“Well, out with it,” Dean prompts, gesturing with the gun for them to tell him. “I haven’t got all night.”
“There is no rush, Herr Winchester,” Victor calls out as he enters the empty room, hands behind his back and a pleased smile on his face. “Let’s chat over a drink, shall we?”
Hesitating for a moment, Dean orders the guards to join Victor’s side. At Victor’s nod, they obey.
“I’m on official business,” Dean says, standing so that his back is facing the wall, near enough to the door in case he has to make a run for it. “Afraid I can’t stay long.”
The rattle of silverware draws all of their attention to the back of the room, where a young man walks in with a tray lavished with fruit and teacups. The young man murmurs an apology for interrupting as he sets the tray on the single square table in the room, before hurrying away.
Dean figures this room is just an antechamber of sorts.
“I’m going to have to insist,” Victor says, elegantly pointing his hand towards the table. “Come.”
Dean is ready to bet that the tea is poisoned. “And I’m going to have to decline,” he says mockingly, giving Victor a fake smile. “I’m here for the journal, so cough it up.”
Music drifts in from the outside, the smell of burning paper even stronger inside the tiny room they’re in.
Rifle held firmly in place, Dean watches as Victor turns towards the table and begins to prepare the tea. He’s tipping the pot over a tiny cup when he says, “The journal will be delivered to me shortly.” Dropping two sugar cubes into the cup, he gives it precisely two stirs before picking the saucer up from the tray and placing it on the table. “In the meantime, why not indulge me?”
When Dean doesn’t grace him with an answer, Victor continues.
“While reviewing your father’s annotations, I noticed a handful of amendments in the margins of the glyph segment. Along with the spare commentary written by Herr Milton, I’ve deduced that none of you poor bastards have any idea what you’re looking for. Am I right?”
Dean sneers, but otherwise doesn’t move from his spot against the wall. “Slow progress, but we’re getting there.”
“Tell me now, Herr Winchester. Are you familiar with the Ankh of Thoth?”
A muddled image half-forms in Dean’s mind. While he has no idea what Victor is talking about, he does know what an ankh is, and if memory serves him right, Thoth is the Egyptian god of the moon. In previous travels, Dean has heard of the Staff of Ra, but never of the Ankh of Thoth.
“Can’t say I am,” Dean says, and relaxes his finger off the trigger.
“The Ankh of Thoth is believed to be a key to a city of unimaginable riches, and power unlike the world has ever seen.” Victor goes along preparing his own cup of tea.
“That’s what you’re after? El Dorado?” Dean snorts at how ridiculous it sounds. “Better off looking for Atlantis, if you want my opinion.”
“Cities of ancient wisdom are prominent in plenty of cultures, not only in South America.” His voice is smooth like a parent gently warning their child. It makes Dean’s blood boil.
“Great, then what do you need us for? If you know what you’re after, then why have us translate the text?”
The way Victor sips his tea so calmly grates on Dean’s nerves. There’s something more to this, and Dean hates not knowing what that is. The Ankh of Thoth, a city of riches - what part do the Winchesters play into all of this? Victor seems to have what he needs, so why bother with the extra expense? Unless…
“It’s a map. The text is a map and you can’t read it,” Dean says, mouth curling at the sides in a triumphant smirk. But that still doesn’t explain it. Castiel is the translator, not them.
“No, we can’t. To right this, we lured you here.” Victor smiles and politely tips his head. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Dean shrugs, and moves his hands over the rifle as a reminder that he’s still armed and plenty dangerous. “Nah, not really. We knew it was a trap, you stupid son of a bitch.”
“I’m glad!” Victor’s voice booms out a laugh, and both guards join in. “I am really glad that you two decided to stick together. Thank you, Herr Winchester, for making this so much easier.”
Unsure of what he means, Dean takes a hesitant step forward, his finger back on the trigger and ready to retaliate if need be. However, before Dean can mutter a single word, the back door swings open again, and what he sees sends his heart racing with fear.
Two guards - bigger than the ones by Victor’s side - haul Castiel in and try to hold him still, with their meaty hands digging into his biceps. Castiel looks like a scrawny kid as he struggles between them, his glasses knocked askew on his nose. Dean sees a busted lip and a bloody nose.
“You have delivered, Dean,” Victor says, placing the teacup on the table. “And being the reasonable man that I am, I will give you something in exchange.”
One of the guards holding Castiel pulls the journal from the inside of his tunic, and hands it over to Victor, who absently takes it. Victor’s beady eyes are apprising Castiel in a way that makes Dean squirm uncomfortably where he stands by the door.
“I will trade you John Winchester’s journal, for the sweet engel. What do you say?” Victor cards his fingers through Castiel’s hair, before hooking them under his chin to tip up his head. He then straightens Castiel’s glasses.
The urge to vomit is strong in Dean’s stomach. “How about you give me both and we’ll call it a deal?”
“Let’s not be unfair, now. No harm will come to him, you have my word.”
Dean instinctively takes a step forward, and Victor’s guards mimic the movement. The previously disarmed guard now has a knife in his right hand and is inching closer to Dean as the conversation goes on.
“Let him go,” Dean says, voice hard and relentless. “Let him go, or so help me God I will put you all in the ground.”
Victor raises an amused eyebrow at the threat. “Protective - nearly possessive… my. Oh my, Herr Winchester. What have you gotten yourself into?”
Dean’s eyes turn quickly to Castiel, who is looking back with tight and well-masked curiosity.
He quickly turns his gaze back to Victor.
The addition of Castiel in Dean’s life is proving to be nothing but a distraction that can easily cost him the lives of many. Considering Dean’s luck, Castiel may be looking at a dark future as collateral damage.
“What can I say? The guy’s our key to finding this thing before you people do. Damn sure I’m gonna get possessive.” It’s a weak rationale, and Dean knows it.
An oppressing silence settles in the small room, one that’s only broken by the labored breathing of the guard with the broken nose, and the muted music outside the walls. Dean can see how Victor debates his next move, with his eyes shifting smoothly from Castiel to Dean, and lastly to the journal in his gloved hand.
“You could always have neither,” Victor says, holding the journal to his chest. “I can throw the journal into the pit, for all I care. I had a copy of the original text transcribed into my personal journal.” He smiles, and the gentle curve of his mouth is almost fatherly.
Dean’s fingers fidget on the rifle, unsure of what to do or say when they are all hanging precariously by a thread. A single misplaced breath can unravel what little progress they have made so far, and with both he and Castiel in such compromising positions, it’s hard not to hesitate.
But then Castiel catches his attention.
The movement is subtle, with Castiel slowly licking his lips in complete concentration.
Stunned, Dean immediately looks away, only to cast Castiel hesitant stares out of the corner of his eye. What Dean notices is a pattern, and he has to tamp down the new wave of excitement at the realization.
Dean sees it when Castiel minutely cants his head to the side.
There’s a clock on the wall, way up above him, and Dean’s hold on the gun tightens.
8:48 p.m.
The airplane.
Twelve minutes. They have twelve minutes to grab the journal, run through a swirling mass of Nazis, cross the clearing, and board the airplane. Time is running out, and Dean has no plan of action.
“It isn’t my intention to be rude,” Castiel says, his voice startling them all out of their respective reveries. “But I’m afraid I have an appointment.”
There’s a beat of silence, to which Victor answers with an incredulous laugh. “I beg your pardon?”
It’s a quick blur of movement when the other two guards step forward, both unsure on who to attack, and Dean does them the favor of opening fire towards the floor. Bullet meets marble with loud chinks and chips as Dean steps closer to the guards, driving them back, away from the front door.
Ears ringing once he runs out of bullets, Dean jams the butt of the rifle, again, into the guard’s already broken nose, earning him an agonized cry. He swiftly turns to roundhouse kick the second guard, sending him to the ground with a heavy thump that Dean feels rather than hears.
Looming over the fallen man, Dean kicks the pistol out of his hand and takes it, pulling out his own from inside his jacket as well. Once he makes sure that neither guard will be getting up any time soon, Dean turns to Victor.
Victor - who is wrestling the guard previously holding Castiel for his revolver - has a bleeding lip.
Dean doesn’t have time to laugh before Castiel is urgently pulling him by his sleeve towards the door. He has the journal clutched to his chest, and he’s saying something Dean can’t hear over the ringing, but after a split second, Dean realizes what it is.
“Others are coming,” Castiel’s lips say, and Dean doesn’t have to be told twice.
With Castiel close to his side, they bust out the door and into the crowded hallway.
The clock in Dean’s head starts ticking, and all he can think about is that they have ten minutes, perhaps even less to get to the field. With any luck, Sam is already there, helping Charlie get that engine running so they can make their escape as quickly as possible.
People stagger out of the way as Dean and Castiel both zigzag through the throng of teenagers and soldiers, leaving behind a cloud of confused and annoyed grunts in their wake. The festivities are in full swing, and the pyre is still blazing as the music punches through the dreadful night.
Dean chances a look over his shoulder, and he sees a dozen soldiers hot on their heels.
They cross their earlier hiding place, swiveling through cars and tanks alike as they take the long way around the plaza, away from the congregation of students and spectators. The scene melts away in blotches of red, black and orange, and they’re running down a dark alley when Dean’s ears finally pop, bringing in noise in a hot rush.
Taking a left, Dean swings Castiel close in a split second, holding him still with a hand over his mouth to keep his labored breathing from giving away their position.
Dean counts - ten seconds - and the men on the chase run right by them.
It is ten more seconds before Dean sags against the brick wall with a hushed exhale, struggling to gain his breath. He tries not to linger on the sight of Castiel standing pressed chest to chest, or the feeling of Castiel huffing and puffing against his neck as he tries to calm himself down.
Beside them, their hands are clasped together, the same way they were the moment they ran out of the claustrophobic room.
“The graveyard,” Castiel says, shakily. Their hands drift apart when Castiel moves away to give Dean the journal. “We don’t have much time.”
Dean mourns the loss of Castiel’s touch, but he nods his head, taking the journal and tucking it inside his breast pocket. “Red, red, black, blue, and red,” Dean recites, remembering the pattern Charlie had given them. “Should be over that wall.”
True enough, on the other side of the alley wall is what used to be a clearing, but has long since been littered with industrial waste.
Boxcars, gondolas, and cabooses; they all lie in various stages of ruin, spread out for miles on end over silver-green grass. The area is dark and quiet; the sounds of the festival locked away in a box of brick walls. Out here, it’s a small blip of wilderness amongst a city of giants.
The red boxcar is easier to find than Dean expected, as he and Castiel try to jog between dismantled leather and moldy carpets. It’s only a matter of seconds until they find the next one, and then the next - a coal hopper. This one, they walk around it.
The blue box car smells of tobacco and piss, and Castiel hesitates walking inside it, despite Dean’s insistence that it would be faster.
“Someone’s been here. Recently, too.”
“It was probably Sam,” Dean says, pulling himself up through the back door of the car lying on its side.
“I wasn’t aware Sam was fond of tobacco.”
“He’s not. I mean-” Dean is interrupted by the sound of gunfire, making him flinch when one ricochets near his head. “Shit!”
Grabbing Castiel by his vest, Dean helps him into the boxcar.
They break into a run again, their path made ten times harder by the debris on the ground, but the sound of an airplane’s engine gives Dean a stomach-churning sense of hope. Even with Gestapo on their tails, they’re almost there.
Castiel briefly loses his footing, but Dean pulls at his hand, not allowing him to fall back now that they are both so close.
An endless void of night swallows the clearing up, leaving it bare but for the tall blades of swaying grass. The night is filled with twinkling stars and a full moon, and were it not for the fact that Nazis are currently hunting Dean, he would have stopped to enjoy the view. Beside him, Castiel squeezes his hand.
The sight of Charlie’s airplane makes them run faster; Castiel limping but keeping up while refusing to loosen his hold on Dean’s hand.
Wind throws dirt and grit in Dean’s eyes as the propeller changes angle, the airplane beginning a slow taxi, ready to go airborne in seconds. In the roofless cockpit, Sam animatedly waves at Dean and Castiel to hurry up.
Dean doesn’t have time to linger on the thought that the biplane is a two-seater, and they are trying to shove four fully-grown adults into the small metal contraption. The only relief Dean finds is that it looks far sturdier than the one they took from the States, even with its smaller size.
Legs hurting and chest burning with exertion, and gunshots ringing dangerously close behind, Dean grabs hold of the rope ladder with his free hand, only letting go of Castiel’s when he’s certain that Castiel too has a hold on the ladder. He climbs up, scrambling with the metal ledge for purchase before Castiel pushes him into the seat.
Landing on his back with a huff, Dean hisses when his head collides with the side of the plane, and then groans when Castiel gracelessly lands on top of him. It’s ridiculous and childish, the two of them shuffling to right themselves - somehow - in the tiny space of a single seat, but Dean feels his heart drop when the biplane begins its ascent.
At a small attempt to be comforting, Castiel’s hand rests over Dean’s chest, keeping him pinned down as the long minutes slug by before reaching cruising altitude is reached.
He will deny it come daylight, the way Dean clings to Castiel’s body above him. Running on adrenaline eclipses the crippling fear of flying, but when the angry yelling and sharp sound of gunshots give way to the droning from the biplane’s engine, Dean feels the icy grip of fear.
But Castiel, either instinctively or accidentally, holds him tight until they’re smoothly soaring above Berlin’s darkened sky.
“Are you all right?” Castiel says beside Dean’s ear.
Clutching onto the jacket covering Castiel’s back, scared that the man will fly away, Dean reluctantly nods. “I’ll be fine.”
When Dean is calm enough to move with certainty that the airplane won’t fall from the sky, he nudges Castiel to move. It’s an awkward dance, a tangle of legs and elbows, and tailbones digging into thighs, as they both maneuver themselves into a comfortable position.
They decide, at last, to leave Dean on the seat, with Castiel halfway pinned between his thighs. The security his weight provides trumps the should-be-ashamed feeling Dean has towards the pleasant pressure on his crotch.
“You two in one piece?” Sam shouts from up front, where he sits behind the pilot’s seat.
“We’re alive,” Castiel calls back.
Dean gives Sam a thumbs up.
“Did you get the journal?”
Dean laughs when he watches Castiel fumble with his tunic, pulling out John’s weathered journal and waving it for the two of them to see. He hears Sam laugh with delight.
The night around them feels cold, and Castiel’s body is a solid wall of warmth as he leans back to rest against Dean’s chest. They’re both tired, sore, and badly beat up. It’s been one hell of a day, and Dean isn’t about to protest against Castiel’s weight.
The Luftwaffe doesn’t give chase, and Dean couldn’t be more relieved. The thought of having to out-fly the German air force makes him queasy. On land, he’ll take them all, hand-to-hand if need be. But in the heavens, Dean is out of his league.
“You lost your glasses,” Dean says after a beat of silence. He brings up a hand to wipe away the trail of blood that oozes from Castiel’s lip. The spot looks black against the white cotton of his gloves.
“And you lost your hat,” Castiel answers, tipping back his head so that it rests on Dean’s shoulder. “Nazi paraphernalia aside, you looked very handsome in it.”
At the reminder, Dean removes the armband from around his arm, and casts it out of the airplane. The uniform still feels small and stifling, even with the sharp air that whips and cuts so high above.
“I can guarantee you I look better with nothing on.” It’s a thoughtless quip, but Dean smiles when Castiel chuckles.
“Whatever will I do with you, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean doesn’t answer for a long while. He’s caught staring at Castiel’s eyes that look black under the cover of night. The moment feels soft, Dean thinks, and he likes it. Dean likes the gentle, barely-there smile Castiel is giving him as they cut across the sky.
“We’ll just have to find out,” Dean finally answers, but he is sure the motor’s noise stole the words away.
❖
Charlie lands the airplane at Englischer Garten just as the clock strikes midnight.
The four of them climb out, stiff and sore.
“Those were some pretty smooth moves you pulled back there,” Charlie says to Castiel, patting him on the back. “What happened to your ankle?”
“I think it’s sprained,” he says. He looks unfazed by it, until he tries setting his weight on his right foot. “Fairly certain, it is.”
Unbidden, Dean stands by his side for support. “We’ll get you patched up when we get back to the library,” Dean says, his tone giving no space for refusal. “You need to stay off it for a bit.”
“We can’t afford to lose time. Not when Victor is a step ahead.”
“What happened in there?” Sam asks, running a hand through his hair as he joins them. “You look just as banged up as Dean.”
Castiel shakes his head, pressing a hand to his split lip. “I got ambushed.”
He says no more, and Dean is wary of the haunted look in Castiel’s eyes.
“Long story short: the Ankh of Thoth,” Dean says, grabbing Castiel by the arm and pulling away to sit on the closest bench he can find. Castiel goes without protest.
Charlie slides in next to Castiel, tipping his head upward by the chin to inspect his injuries. “Sounds expensive,” she says idly. From inside her jacket pocket, she pulls a handkerchief and hands it to Castiel.
“What is it?” Sam pries, eyes going big with the kind of little-kid curiosity that could win any heart over.
Dean gives Castiel a questioning look. He’s been told before that Charlie is trustworthy, but with a title like ‘sky pirate’, one can’t be too sure about discussing great archaeological finds around her. At Castiel’s nod, Dean says, “The key to El Dorado.”
A boom of laughter escapes from Sam, startling them all. “You’re… Please tell me that you’re joking.”
“City of riches, gold, knowledge - you name it. According to Vic, this will give them the advantage they need to win the war,” Dean says. He runs a hand down his face and sighs. “He wanted Cas,” he adds, avoiding Sam’s eyes.
Those words feel charged and heavy on Dean’s tongue. Victor wants Castiel, and Dean feels disgusted that it may be for more than just translating the ancient text. The way those repugnant fingers had traced Castiel’s face, with almost a hint of false tenderness…
“So, what now?” Sam says. “We know what to look for, what it does, all we need is to find it, right?”
“Apparently,” Dean grumbles.
“Great. Any idea where to start?”
“Cairo,” Castiel mumbles, refraining from looking directly at any of them. “We’ll find the ankh in Cairo.”
The four of them sink into silence, and Dean doesn’t need the ability to read minds to know why. Castiel looks legitimately frightened, like a small animal that has had their tail stepped on. He’s beaten and bruised, and he knows more than any of those present.
Or maybe it’s just Dean who reaches this conclusion, because he saw the state Castiel was brought into the room in Berlin. Something else happened, and Dean hates himself for having left Castiel alone, instead of having him go with Sam.
What’s worse, Dean only just notices that Castiel is discreetly cradling his left hand - the hand Dean had yanked him along during their great escape.
Anger and uselessness suffocate him, and so Dean yanks off the tunic as he walks away from the group, and casts it into a manmade pond.
“I guess we’re going to Egypt then,” Dean hears Sam say.
“I can give you a lift,” Charlie says. “In fact, I insist. Anything to make it easier for you boys.”
No one says another word, and Dean knows they’re all waiting for him to agree or disagree. He’d rather drive anywhere, but the need to get out of Germany is so overwhelming that he’s nodding his head before he can give it a second thought. “We need to get to the library; get our stuff,” he says, numbly.
“Kaydet has a storage compartment,” Charlie says, presumably talking about the airplane. “If it isn’t much, I think we can pack her. Leave before morning.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sam says.
From somewhere behind, Dean hears Castiel hum in agreement.
Taking a deep breath, and trying really hard not to smash something against a wall, Dean slumps. “Fine,” he concedes. “But first I’m gonna need a drink.” If only to soothe his nerves for yet another long flight.
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