[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Six
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.
It’s the first day of June and Egypt is, as anyone would guess, hot.
Rather than complain about the heat and fatigue after two very long days, Castiel decides to lose himself in the dreamlike scenery that develops around him instead.
The initial impression Cairo leaves is of the heat and sand; hues of brown and yellow and red. What Castiel hadn’t expected is how alive and booming the city actually was. Photographers and scholars usually spoke of desert and camels, but those two elements aren’t the only remarkable things worth admiring.
Casks among casks filled with spices line the streets in shades of green, orange, red, and even violet. Pyramids made of fresh fruits and vegetables tower well above Castiel’s head. There are stands with live animals: sheep, hogs, chickens, and the occasional monkey.
To Castiel’s left is an assortment of silk, cotton and wool fabrics, both crude and decorated, ready for sale. Clothing, rugs, sheets; all of them accentuated with exotic patterns and detailed embroidery.
Men and women call out to potential buyers, beckoning people towards their stands. Castiel sees plenty of soldiers of American, British and French nationalities, threading through the heavy throng of locals.
Castiel’s stomach rumbles at the smell of warm food in the air.
Beside him, Sam is purchasing a basket of fruit.
“Any idea where Charlie went?” Dean asks, going through the hand-woven basket with a frown. He eventually settles on a fig.
“She’s getting us a place to stay,” Sam says, holding the basket for Castiel to pick something.
Deciding on a Chinese gooseberry, Castiel mutters a “thank you.”
“I guess SS hospitality ended in Germany.” Dean pulls his Swiss knife from his pocket, and smoothly slices the fig in half. He then hands half over to Castiel. “Well they can take their fancy wine bottles and shove it.”
“I don’t think they intended for us to make it out alive,” Castiel says, grimly.
Holding the gooseberry in his right hand, he slices it open and tries not to wince when his wrist sends a jolt of pain all the way up to his shoulder. Castiel feels considerably better than he did two days ago, but the graver sprains are still evident when he moves the wrong way.
Without looking at Dean, he hands the knife back.
Something is looming, but no one is willing to breach the subject just yet. Castiel is grateful for it, as he is still unable to voice the things that had transpired in the dark room in Berlin. He figures he’ll talk about it when the time comes, and the time may be soon, judging by the heavy looks Dean continues casting him.
“The Ankh of Thoth,” Sam says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I understand why it would be Egypt, but what’s so special about Cairo?”
“You tell us.” Dean gives Sam a smirk. “You’re the one with the doctorate.”
Sam makes a face at Dean, and Castiel almost laughs at it.
They walk down the street, passing in front of a vendor claiming that his jewels are made of real rubies, before Sam answers. “We’re awfully close to the pyramids, but if that would be it, it’d be Giza. Cairo is ripped in half by the Nile, but that’s about it. It’s not even that ‘pure’, culturally and economically speaking. If there was anything worth sacking, the Ottomans would have taken it, or Great Britain, after that.”
“Cairo will lead to the city,” Castiel says, stopping to look at a stack of clothing. He likes a blue tunic in particular that is tucked beneath a tower of neatly folded pants. Despite being made of cotton, the fabric looks thin and fresh.
Dean guides him away before the vendor can make his way to them.
“You said the ankh would be here,” Dean says, his voice deliberately sweet, forcing a calm that isn’t there.
Castiel shakes his head. “Victor referred to Cairo as the ‘heart’ of the expedition. The ankh might as well be elsewhere, but it should be near enough.”
“Maybe there’s something in Dad’s journal?” Sam chips in with a hopeless shrug.
“The text is a map to the city,” Dean explains, aggressively shoving his finger into the fig. “To get to the city, we need the key.”
Castiel watches Dean pick at the fruit, oddly fascinated by the repetitive motion of it. His eyes drift from Dean’s hands to focus on his face instead. Words are frequently clumsy and inappropriate when they escape Dean’s mouth, but Castiel has come to learn that he has other ways of communicating how he feels and what he thinks. Like the current pinch between Dean’s eyebrows means that he is deep in thought, for example. Actions. Dean is a man of actions.
Castiel has to look away when Sam tugs at his arm, telling him to take a seat while they wait for Charlie. Curious as he is, Castiel doesn’t protest. They’re all tired, and exploring the market can wait until later.
“We’re in the right place,” Dean suddenly says, gaining both Castiel’s and Sam’s attention. “I’m sure.”
“Dean?” Sam takes a seat on the wooden bench, and leans across the table to listen to what Dean has to say. “Fresh pair of eyes; tell me what you’re thinking.”
“An ankh symbolizes eternal life,” Dean says. He begins to drum his fingers over the table top. Castiel watches intently as he casts a look around them. “It also symbolizes the key to the Nile.”
“So…” Castiel begins, taking a moment to process what Dean just said. “The city is in the Nile?”
Dean snorts, pointing at Cas while grinning at Sam. “Get it? He said ‘in the…’” Dean stops himself when Sam gives him a this is serious face. “Right, no,” Dean continues, clearing his throat. “Not in it, but it might lead to it.”
“Follow the Nile, great,” Sam says, not sounding very convinced. “That still doesn’t tell us where the ankh is.”
“It’s Thoth’s ankh.” Dean grins, switching his gaze from Sam to Castiel. “Nothing yet?” At the collective shaking of their heads, Dean huffs. “Thoth was believed to the scribe of the gods, the original author of the Book of the Dead. I mean, it’s probably a long shot, but it’s better than nothing, right?”
Castiel tilts his head, not following at all. “I’ve followed up on research with less,” he says, giving Dean a soft smile of encouragement.
Nodding his head, Dean continues. “The Book of Thoth was a tome belonging to Ancient Egypt; it’s where they kept all the complex rituals, spells and philosophies jotted down. There’s dozens of stories about it, most of them saying how the knowledge of the gods isn’t meant for humans. But the most popular one talks about…uh…” Dean thinks for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Nef… eh, Nefer… Neferkaptah.”
Both Sam and Castiel continue to stare at him, still lost as to what Dean is getting at.
“This prince once stole the book from where Thoth had stashed it at, and when he died, he was buried along with it.”
“But we’re not looking for a book,” Castiel says, slowly.
“No, we’re not. But Thoth, god of balance, always kept things in twos,” Dean says, leaning back against the wall his bench is propped against. His smile is smug. “When Neferkaptah found the book in one of the two boxes that were guarded by serpents, he left the other one alone, for whatever reason.”
“Huh.” Sam runs a hand across his mouth. “You think the ankh’s in the other box?”
“Yup.”
“Did the legend say where the boxes were?” Castiel asks, breathlessly intrigued.
“I’ll give you one guess.”
“The Nile,” Castiel mutters, his mind glittering with an overwhelming sense of amazement.
“Now we just gotta find where along the Nile,” Sam adds, looking off into the distance, presumably piecing the bits Dean has said into a single image.
But Dean clears his throat again, bringing their attention back to him. “A little place called Coptos might be it.”
“Coptos,” Sam echoes. “I’ll need a map, and probably a local historian to translate from Ancient Egyptian.” He sounds determined.
“I still don’t understand how Cairo fits into the legend,” Castiel says.
His back is beginning to sweat due to the sweltering sun beating over his head, and secretly envies Dean for having remembered to bring his fedora.
“Perfectly, buddy. Cairo fits perfectly.” Dean raps his knuckles on the table. “In Cairo rests Neferkaptah’s tomb.”
Castiel slowly nods his head, furrowing his brow. “In his tomb, the book lies, but not the ankh.”
It hits him like a lightning bolt, but Sam says it before Castiel does. “They’re looking in the wrong place!”
“And ain’t that swell,” Dean says, his eyes shining with a hint of pride.
“Dean, that’s… I mean… how the heck did you manage to put that together?” Sam demands, seconds away from jumping up and down on his seat like a little boy. “Jeez, I don’t even remember reading anything about that.”
Dean shrugs, casual and cool as he tips his fedora. “I’ve picked up a book or two, Sammy. Do you honestly think I dive headfirst into your expeditions without snooping around first? I don’t want to waltz into Imhotep’s tomb and come out cursed.”
“We have a heading,” Castiel says, with a sort of subdued happiness. “And we have the upper hand.”
“I say we catch some shuteye, and we’ll set off first thing tomorrow,” Dean says, and they all agree.
A splendor of youth shines on Dean’s face, a bout of brilliance that not even Sam with his extensive knowledge of the archaeological world could compete with. No, Dean isn’t a man of words, but he’s brilliant and wonderful all the same. This realization moves Castiel so much, that he has to take a moment to reprimand himself for thinking that Dean was in any way lesser the very first time they met. He can feel his cheeks warm in embarrassment by the harsh judgment he had wrongfully imposed.
Bursts of warmth sporadically bloom within Castiel’s chest, sending out vibrant signals that reach the very tips of his fingers, making them tingle. The joy Dean’s smile elicits in him is bright and colorful, much like a sun after a stormy night. It is pure, smelling of fresh nature, and intoxicating like the best spirits. Dean is synonymous with adventure and the thrill of a chase.
Enamored is the only word in Castiel’s extensive vocabulary that can accurately summarize it all. And God help him, for Castiel is enamored.
“All right, gentlemen,” Charlie’s voice calls out, startling Castiel out of his thoughts.
She’s wearing a faded blue porkpie atop of her red curls, and a pair of loose-fitting trousers that sharply contrast with her black jacket. She wears it well, despite the terrible midday heat.
“I got some good news, and I got some good news. Kinda,” she says, rubbing her hands together like she’s about to spill a scandalous secret. “I got us lodging in the most inconspicuous place imaginable.”
“Well?” Dean says as he stands up, removing his hat in favor of fanning himself with it.
“It’s a brothel.” Eyebrows rise all around the moment she lets the words drop. “What? Seriously? I thought you fellas would appreciate it. It’s either that, or you can sleep out on the street.”
“We’ll take it,” Sam says, looking uncomfortable.
Castiel isn’t fond of the idea himself.
“The girls are really nice,” Charlie tries to assuage the grimaces. “They won’t try anything unless you pay upfront.” She deflates after a few seconds, rubbing at her temples. “Sorry I couldn’t land anything better.”
“You did the best you could,” Dean says. He pats her shoulder reassuringly. “Now let’s get a move on before I melt on the spot.”
Flashing them a grin, Charlie goes off to lead the way, with Sam close on her heels.
Dean soon follows, but Castiel stops with a hand to his shoulder. He doesn’t know why he does this, his mind going blank when Dean looks at him with a concerned expression.
“Dean-”
“What is it, Cas?”
His eyes, however green, look like rich honey under the sun. Even a hint of freckles paint Dean’s cheeks. Without giving it another thought, Castiel leans up, pressing his lips to Dean’s mouth in a light kiss, before pulling away.
Castiel isn’t sure what the kiss is for, if he even has to give it a reason, but it’s out there now.
Dean blinks owlishly, looking stunned.
“I-I’m sorry,” Castiel murmurs, suddenly stricken with the idea that maybe these feelings only go one way. There’s a sliver of panic as he begins to pull away, adamant to go after Charlie and not look back on what just transpired.
But Dean’s hand finds his elbow, pulling him close and sealing a kiss of his own over Castiel’s lips.
It’s chaste and gentle, and Castiel fights the urge to continue. They’re in the market with locals, tourists and soldiers milling around them, all of them wrapped up in their own business. Sure, they pay Dean and Castiel no heed, but this is an affair better tended to in private.
“Let’s get going, yeah?” Dean says, unwillingly pulling away from Castiel.
Castiel absently nods his head, and it isn’t until Sam calls for them that they rush off after a chortling Charlie, leaving their fruit basket forgotten on the table.
❖
The brothel is, dare Castiel say it, exquisite.
The building is reminiscent of a sultan’s palace, though windowless and ancient as it stands nestled between much smaller buildings. Expensive rugs line the stone floor, and colored cloths hang and drape down from the ceiling in a feast for the eyes. It’s beautiful, as are the women who flock to them in greeting.
Castiel clears his throat, ducking his head in embarrassment when two ladies thread their fingers with his, giggling in his ear behind their veils. One of them cards her fingers through his hair, before she’s politely asked by Dean to stop.
Dean’s eyes do stray to the lithe figures in harem pants, their clothing modest but revealing in the way the women move. Castiel is surprised that he doesn’t feel the least bit of jealousy; not that he has the right to.
A string of Arabic words sends the women away speaking in hushed whispers amongst themselves. From behind a thick cover, another woman emerges, this one dressed in a tight black dress that reaches her knees. Her skin is the color of cinnamon, and her black hair falls in luscious curls well past her shoulders. She gives them a bright smile that somehow enhances the smokiness of her eyes.
Castiel thinks she might be one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen.
“Welcome,” the woman says, taking Sam’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “I take it that you are the Winchesters, yes?” Her English is crisp and clear, with just a slight hint of an accent lingering underneath. “My name is Portia, and I run the House.”
“I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean, and this is Castiel,” Sam introduces, and she moves to shake their hands as well.
“It’s so nice to have company after so long. Charlie said you three were splendid entertainers.”
“Entertainers?” Dean asks, turning to give Charlie a sharp look, only to see that she’s nowhere in sight.
“Oh, no, no, that’s what we call our guests,” Portia clarifies. She moves to take a bronze bowl from a small round table. “Dates?”
When no one moves, Castiel takes a step forward and takes some to not be rude. “Thank you,” he says, earning himself a smile.
“A room for each one,” she says, turning her back to them and canting her head for them to follow. “I wasn’t told how much space you would need, but I thought it would only be fair, considering our business.”
They cross a narrow hallway with windows that face the market, filling the building with natural light. Dilapidated fans creak and groan as they spin over their heads.
“I also expect to have you all for dinner.”
There is a sense of disbelief as Castiel walks through the halls, seeing opened bedrooms with beds and chairs. Some of them are richly decorated, but others are simple and organized. The place looks more like a home rather than a brothel, and he understands now why it’s called the ‘House’.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Sam says, his tone saturated with earnest. “We truly appreciate it.”
“Anything for the cause,” Portia says, waving a hand beside her head. “Charlie explained the urgency, and it is nothing short of an honor to have you gentlemen with us. So long as you all behave yourselves.”
“Oh, we will.” Dean speaks up for the first time, looking at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. “One of us is betrothed, after all.”
Sam scratches the back of his neck, grinning soppily at the mention. “My brother’s right.”
“Love is an amazing thing, isn’t it?” Portia says as she turns to them, giving Sam a big smile.
She then looks to Dean, and then Castiel. Her mouth opens to say something, but she seems to think better of it before opting to shake her head instead. There is mirth in her eyes, however.
“These last three doors will be your rooms during your stay. The wash room is on the first floor, towards the back, in case any of you wish to freshen up. Supper is served at five.”
The three of them say their nth round of ‘thank you’ as she walks away, disappearing into the front room.
“First time for everything,” Dean says, choosing the middle door, and walking inside.
Sam chooses the right door, and Castiel takes the left.
The room is small, just big enough to accommodate a bed and a dresser, one on either side of the window. It’s better than anything Castiel had been expecting, and at least he has a pillow to lay his head on tonight.
Nothing can compare to home, his quaint bedroom back in the library, but there is a quest he needs to complete before he can rest. The fate of the world hangs on a balance, a race against time, and he couldn’t just stay hidden behind his old books. This includes him now, whether he likes it or not, and he will see it through to the end. He might as well enjoy the ride.
Sitting on the bed, Castiel looks at the bare walls that painfully remind him of the room in Berlin. He instinctively clutches his hand, even when the action sends pain coursing through him.
Biting down on his lip, Castiel forces himself to think of other things.
Dean’s lips on his own, soft and dry under the scorching sun. Castiel can’t remember when the last time he had been kissed was, but he is certain that it didn’t feel half as gratifying as this.
Hand on his lips, Castiel lets out a soft breath and smiles against his own fingers. It had felt wonderful and-
“Son of a bitch!”
Castiel is startled when Dean storms down the hall, and he quickly makes his way to the door, where Sam too is peeking out.
“What’s gotten into him?” Sam says, looking at Castiel.
“We left our luggage in Charlie’s airplane!” Dean shouts back, and both Sam and Castiel try really hard not to laugh.
❖
Dean couldn’t eat another piece of bread if he tried.
He’s not sure what he just finished eating - a sort of casserole - but it is perhaps the most delicious thing he’s had in a while. Being a picky eater usually makes his travels a pain, opting to stick to the American classics wherever he goes, but he has to admit that the cook really has outdone themselves.
There’s a hefty amount of bread and cheese still on his plate, accompanied by wine and the strong smell of the coffee Castiel is contently sipping on. The atmosphere is pleasant, with good conversation and the sound of music wafting in from the market through the windows.
Sam talks about himself quite a bit, detailing his line of work, and his engagement to Jessica. Castiel, too, however briefly, gives Portia a summary of himself, and life in Munich.
When she reaches Dean, she considers him with a curious tilt of the head, much in the same fashion that Castiel does. “Tell me about yourself, Dean; such a strapping young lad.”
Dean takes his wine glass and sloshes around the crimson substance. “I enjoy long walks on the beach.”
Portia laughs, high and loud. “Oh, no, that won’t do. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a treasure hunter,” he says, and it isn’t a lie, despite her unconvinced smile.
“A treasure hunter, I see. You and your brother work together, if I assume correctly?” Dean nods his head once. “And yet you aren’t in the same field.”
“Dean is good when it comes to tracking down artifacts. He has this…uh…intuition. He always comes through, even with the most difficult of tasks,” Sam says, taking a drink from his coffee. “He’s the best.”
“You’re brains, he’s the brawn. You two work in tandem.”
“Dean is brilliant as well,” Castiel says, lips hovering above the rim of his mug. He’s looking at Portia with an intense calm that gives his words a gravity of passive-aggression.
Dean’s fingers stop tapping against the tabletop as he turns to look at Castiel with a stunned sort of amazement. His chest tightens at the implication. There is something there, between him and Castiel, and for once it isn’t just his mind imagining things.
“I’m also the good-looking one,” Dean says with a chuckle, just to lighten up the mood.
Portia’s dark eyes go from Castiel to Dean, before she leans back with an airy “ah.”
Beside Dean, Sam is digging his fingers into the corner of his eyes, as if he has a headache.
Whatever it is between Dean and Castiel is no longer a secret.
“Enough about us,” Sam says, trying to ease the heavy atmosphere. “Tell us about you, Madam.”
“There’s not much to say, I’m afraid. Since I was a little girl, I liked to help people, and so I did.”
“By running a brothel?” Dean says. He doesn’t mean to be rude, although he may come across as such. It’s an honest question.
“There is a reason why I call it a House. You see, all of my ladies need a place to stay, much like you. Some of them have made these walls their permanent home, and some of them wish to pay me back whichever ways they can. They aren’t obligated to work, which is why it is forbidden for men to simply lay hands on the first girl they come across when entering through my doors.” Portia takes a sip of her wine, running a hand through her long hair and settling on curling the end of a strand.
“I run a very tight ship, gentleman, and no harm will come to these girls.” Her words are a warning, and Dean understands that she isn’t talking about the three of them.
Trailing behind them is a plume of evil, and by granting them lodging, Portia is putting the lives of these people at risk.
“We understand,” Sam says with a firm nod. “We won’t allow any harm.”
“Good,” Portia says, her smile sliding back as she raises her glass. “How are you enjoying the sights? Especially you, Castiel. Charlie tells me you don’t get out much?”
“It’s amazing,” he answers, putting down his mug. “A lot more vivid than I expected it to be. I really like it.”
“Always happy to hear that.” The wink she gives him makes Castiel duck his head, which Dean finds amusing. “Will you three be heading out tonight? I heard there will be a band playing in the square. It’s some good fun if you are looking for a nice time.”
“I don’t think we’ll be doing so, no,” Dean says, looking at Sam and Castiel for their agreement. “These past couple of days have been gruesome, and I speak for all of us when I say we need a long rest.”
Before any of them move, Portia leans forward on the table, and picks a round fruit from the centerpiece. She spins the sphere in her hand, looking at it with careful concentration before she taps it against her chin.
“The pomegranate is a very rich fruit,” she says, and runs her nails across its surface. “Rich in legend and myth, and potent in its aphrodisiac properties. The Greeks saw it as a symbol of birth and death. The ancient Persians said it symbolized invincibility in battle. All of them had different stories, but no one really speaks of Ancient Egypt.”
Taking a dinner knife, Portia slices the fruit open, and it bleeds down her elegant fingers, staining her palms and arms. “They do speak of the Greek pantheon, but they never say how they took our gods and renamed them as their own. In the end, the stories were always the same. Athena once called it the forbidden fruit. Judeo-Christians call it the fruit that led Adam and Eve to sin.”
Her eyes linger on Dean as she bites into it, then drift to Castiel as she pulls it away, her lips staining red. “It’s always sex,” Portia says, smiling when Castiel looks away. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking the pleasure and warmth of another body. Isn’t that right Sam?”
Sam sputters something unintelligible, and Dean understands that they are all feeling incredibly awkward about this.
Portia laughs as she pulls her chair away, taking a small towel with her to wipe the stains from her skin. “Just a little food for thought, yes? Goodnight, gentleman.”
They all mumble their goodnights, but none of them really moves, too stunned by the sudden subject discussion.
Even Dean, with his expansive knowledge, is left with burning ears.
“Okay,” Dean says, awkwardly clearing his throat as he shuffles to his feet. “I guess we should go ahead and turn in.”
“Sounds like a plan, yeah,” Sam agrees, following Dean’s motions and standing up as well.
“Cas, you coming?”
Castiel blinks up at Dean, blue eyes a little dazed before he nods. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
The walk up to their rooms is silent, only the heels of their shoes echoing against the carpeted floors. Up ahead, Sam absently hums a tune Dean recognizes but doesn’t remember the words.
Dean looks at Castiel out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing about how their hands touch as they walk side by side.
Music from the market fills the halls with an exotic tempo of heavy percussion and desert sounds, and the beat makes Dean’s stomach stir with a kind of heat he really shouldn’t be enjoying. Not when his brother is just five steps ahead.
“I’m going to try and see if I can decipher where Coptos is before I head to bed,” Sam announces out of the blue, stopping before his room and opening the door with a soft creaking sound. “If I’m able to find it tonight, we can head out tomorrow, bright and early. Get a head start.”
Dean yawns loudly, and pats Sam on the shoulder as he goes by. “Sounds good to me, Sammy. Don’t stay up too late.”
Sam mumbles something before saying, “Goodnight, Cas.”
To which Castiel replies with, “Have a good night, Sam.”
Dean lingers at his own door with a hand on the doorframe, his thumb feeling the uneven grain of the chipped wood. He waits until Sam has closed his own door, before looking up at Castiel with a hesitant smile.
The sun has already set; the sky a bruised purple with the beginning of dusk lingering over the horizon. Lamps have been lit across the hall, and Dean is surprised by the lack of bugs and mosquitoes.
Castiel leans against the wall, his brow furrowed curiously as he stares at Dean, unabashed. Dean figures that the need to be discreet about appraising each other is no longer needed. He can’t help but smile at the thought.
But Castiel chuckles despite that, and fondly shakes his head as he approaches Dean. “After you, Mr. Winchester.”
Back against his door, Dean fumbles blindly for the doorknob, too busy looking into Castiel’s eyes to pay much attention to what he is trying to do. “Please, call me Dean,” he says, and nearly yelps when he manages to open the door and nearly fall back on his ass.
❖
Unraveling the map Portia had gotten him, Sam lays it over his bed. He sets John’s journal over one of the corners to keep it from rolling itself up, before moving to pull a lamp closer to his impromptu work area.
He moves to the window to shut the curtain in an attempt to block out the music, but the twirling of fabrics and glimmer of gold just outside distract him momentarily.
There are people dancing to the jaunty tune, clapping their hands and singing along, and it looks like a good amount of fun. But there is one girl, in spite of Sam being too far up to properly see her face, which reminds him of Jessica. Her hair is yellow even under the gray light of a young night, and her laughter chimes sweetly in his ears.
Words cannot begin to fathom how much Sam misses her - her smile and her lips upon his cheek. His heart twists and aches at the mere thought of her.
He, Dean, and Castiel still have a dangerous road ahead, and they all need to focus. They need to work towards the goal and not stop until the deed is done, even if it kills them. There’s still John to find, and a war to stop.
Sam sighs, tired and lonely, and turns towards the map.
❖
Castiel’s mouth tastes of spice, a delicious mixture of exotic and erotic that prompts Dean to swipe and wrap his tongue around Castiel’s as they clumsily walk towards the bed. He’s handsy, too, alternating between tugging and pawing at Dean’s chest through the thin cotton of his shirt.
There is no hurry, something that contradicts the frantic kiss, but Dean’s hand on Castiel’s back slowly kneads its way downward to playfully cup Castiel’s ass. Castiel gasps into his mouth.
It’s teasing, slow; a simmering heat that licks at the pit of Dean’s stomach, sparking hints of arousal. They press their bodies together in the dimly lit room, swatting away the hanging decorative cloths before Dean sits on the end of the bed.
Standing between his knees, Castiel leans over to spread kisses along Dean’s face, over the scars and bruises Munich and Berlin left behind. His lips feel warm and adoring, hesitant but attentive as they brush over a healing cut along Dean’s jaw line, then move to a particular tender spot at the corner of his right eye, near his temple. Dean licks his lips, breathing out with pleasure when Castiel runs finger through short hair, resting at the back of his head to gently massage the scalp.
Warmth twists and writhes in Dean’s chest, but it has little to do with the arousal that has him hard beneath his belt. The tender attention Castiel is giving him makes him want to fully surrender, offering his hands for Castiel to take. For the first time in a very long time, Dean feels safe, and it is nothing like the fake security he had tried to create the last time he attempted to settle down.
“Dean?”
“Hm?”
Dean looks up with glazed eyes, mouth parted in anticipation, and Castiel gives him the pleasure of another kiss.
“Would you mind settling down? On the bed?”
The question is so hushed and embarrassed that Dean can’t do anything but smile fondly and nod his head. “Of course,” he says, and clumsily scoots himself up the bed, laying his head on the pillow.
He watches as Castiel crawls onto the mattress, on all fours, before kneeling between Dean’s feet. It’s probably an inappropriate thought, but Dean thinks Castiel looks submissive as he kneels there, hands on his thighs as he ponders something Dean can’t guess. But then he moves, and his fingers begin to unlace Dean’s boots.
Dean watches attentively at how graceful Castiel’s fingers work, before lifting his leg just a bit to remove the boot and sock. He then repeats the movement, patient as a saint, on the other one.
All the while, Dean’s heart is beating a rapid tattoo against his chest. He’s pretty certain he’s had sex less intimate than this.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Castiel says, startling Dean when his voice interrupts the stillness, “how I ended up here. Balthazar couldn’t get me too far away from the library, and yet, here I am; miles away from home, in a distant land where legend and myth may be a reality.” Castiel’s fingers squeeze and rub at Dean’s calves over the fabric of his pants, massaging their way upwards.
Dean moans unashamed, worrying his bottom lip as Castiel dishes out the blissful torture. He’s torn between melting into the bed and sleeping for week, and shoving his hands down his pants to get off. Castiel is both an oasis and a bolt of lightning, and Dean isn’t sure to which one he wants to succumb to.
Castiel’s hands move to Dean’s shins, their fingertips skimming their way upward, past the knee and thigh, and up Dean’s stomach.
“What convinced you to come along?” Dean asks in a hushed tone, dabbing his lips to Castiel’s when they are face to face again - chest to chest, and a tangle of legs. “I mean, besides world order hanging on a thread and Nazis being bigger dicks than usual.”
Castiel pretends to think for a second before saying, “A handsome adventurer happened, and he promised me the adventure of a lifetime.”
“Huh. Funny, since I don’t remember saying anything like that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Castiel brings up his hand to touch Dean’s cheek, his thumb caressing the prickly hairs of his stubble. “You’ve made my life awfully exciting.”
Dean overlaps Castiel’s hand with his own, holding it there for a moment longer. The touch is tender, and Dean mourns that he can’t bask in it forever. “You know, you’re not so bad… for a librarian.”
Castiel pouts at him, and damn if that isn’t the most adorable thing. “Do not misinterpret my diplomacy for fragility.”
“Never did. I was convinced you could hold your ground back in Berlin. Those were some pretty smooth moves.” The way Castiel had so easily maneuvered himself free and fought until he was well outside harm’s way is something that will always linger in Dean’s thoughts. He had moved with the utmost grace and skill. “Where’d you learn to do that, anyway?”
“Can’t say I’m sure,” Castiel says, and Dean watches as he leans away from him to pluck a fruit from the bowl Dean hadn’t noticed on the bedside table. “It came naturally. Perhaps it was just a freak bout of adrenaline.”
Between Castiel’s hands is a pomegranate, and Dean can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, and that is reciprocated by a smug-looking Castiel. Portia had noticed it before they did, and this is probably meant as a nudge in the right direction. Dean could have done without having the talk in front of his brother though.
“The fruit of sin,” Castiel continues, his voice a marveled murmur as he spins the pomegranate in his fingers. He looks at Dean with eyes at half-mast, a tongue wetting his lips, and Dean knows it’s an invitation. One he wouldn’t dream of rejecting.
Castiel shifts his position, making himself comfortable as he straddles Dean’s hips. The dim light of the lamps bathe Castiel’s face in shadows, but Dean can still see the bruises along his cheek and lip. He wasn’t the only one who had gotten beat up pretty bad, but the only difference is that Castiel won’t talk about it, either out of stubbornness or trauma.
And as desperate as Dean is to have him, he can’t bring himself to touch Castiel with something so heavy burdening his chest.
“How’s your hand?” Dean asks, tentatively placing his hands over Castiel’s. It is nowhere near enough, but it’s a start.
“Better,” Castiel says, offering Dean a smile. “I probably just sprained it while we ran for the airplane, but it’s feeling better.”
But when Dean’s thumb strokes Castiel’s knuckles, he tries to pull away.
A dense silence fills the room, with Castiel expressionlessly looking down at the fruit within their joined hands. Dean feels the world turn a bit colder.
“Talk to me, Cas.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
Dean manages to pry Castiel’s fingers away from the fruit, and brings the injured hand closer to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the wrist, applying soft pressure around it in search of anything broken. A sprain looks more likely, so Dean nods his head in concession. But there is something else, something that makes Dean’s heart sink unpleasantly into his stomach.
As Dean touches along the soft skin of Castiel’s fingers, he’s met with more flesh rather than a nail at the end. He repeats the process five times, only to find that three nails are missing from Castiel’s hands.
Taking deep breaths, Dean calms himself before he can lash out with anger.
All John ever did was yell at him and Sam whenever they got hurt, and a lot of good it did them.
He gives Castiel a moment to collect himself, because behind the blank face Dean knows is a storm of fear and turmoil.
They stay quiet for what seems like hours, before Castiel finally speaks up. “They wanted me to translate the text. I told them I’d rather die than give them what they wanted.”
“But you didn’t know how to translate it,” Dean says between the kisses he is now peppering across the skin of Castiel’s hands.
Castiel makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. “My father always said I was a defiant creature.”
Dean busies himself with lavishing Castiel’s fingers with attention, twirling his tongue around them and gently suckling at their fleshy sides. Above him, Castiel shifts and lets go of a breathy sigh, his free hand resting over Dean’s chest. Maybe Dean won’t be able to erase the things that were done to Castiel, but he can sure as hell try to alleviate their burden.
“There’s something else,” Castiel whispers, and Dean almost misses it, were he not focused on Castiel’s face.
Letting go of his hands when Castiel pulls back, Dean holds his breath as Castiel unbuttons his shirt. He’s hesitant, but Dean touches along his thigh, gesturing for him to continue.
At first, Dean doesn’t know what he’s meant to be looking at; a nice chest, maybe, too well-formed for a librarian, but his eyes dart to something else, something ugly and gut-wrenching that triggers a ball of bile. He bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from saying anything inappropriate, but Castiel most likely got it, judging by the way he’s wrapping himself in his shirt again.
“It’s disgusting,” Castiel says, and he sounds a cross between indignant and broken.
An angry red swastika stands out beneath his ribs, on the left side of his midriff. They branded him.
The injury is still raw, red, and secreting, but there is ointment dabbed on it and along the surrounding area. It will heal, but the scar will be something that will haunt Castiel for as long as he lives.
Dean shuts his eyes, squeezing them hard as if it will be enough to erase that knowledge from his memory. The anger, the ire that courses through his veins is overwhelming and terrifying, and God help him, because he won’t rest until every single one of those motherfuckers are buried six feet under. That is, after he plucks off their fingernails and brands them all like cattle.
Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, Dean breathes in deep, and exhales long and slow. “I’ll tend to that,” he says, pulling his hands away and looking up at Castiel with a promise. “I’ll tend to your wounds.”
His words are raw, clumsy on his tongue. Dean isn’t a man of words, but he’s a man of feeling.
Castiel breathes out, shakily, while nodding his head. Never before has he looked like such a lonely child, and it breaks Dean’s heart that the man above him, so cunning and kind, has been brought down to this.
“C’mere,” Dean says, and holds out his arms.
Castiel moves himself, lying down on top of Dean. He settles his head on Dean’s chest, nose pressed to Dean’s neck as their legs move to get comfortable. Castiel is heavy, but it’s a pleasant sort of weight, so Dean doesn’t complain as he wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist, mindful of the wound.
It’s too hot, so they don’t bother with the covers. The music in the market has faded into blissful silence, and the moonlight spills in through the windows to illuminate the stone floor of the room. For the time being, they’re safe, and that is all that matters.
Dean’s hand caresses Castiel’s hair, and enjoys how his hair smells of soap. He extends a grateful thought for their hostess for having given them a chance to bathe before dinner.
It doesn’t take too long for Castiel’s breathing to even out, giving in to the calm cover of sleep while wrapped in Dean’s arms.
Dean waits until the moon is higher in the night sky, until the sound of a snore nearly makes him chuckle, before he presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. Tomorrow is another a day, another long one, but right now he wants to take a moment for himself. Dean wants to bask in the fact that he’s holding Castiel close, wants to cling at the miracle that Castiel actually reciprocates his feelings. For the first time in a long time, Dean is content in holding someone while they sleep.
❖
“I got it! Dean! It’s Qift! Qift stands where Copto’s once was! We’re literally a boat ride away from the city!” Sam calls out, muffled, excitedly knocking on Dean’s door. “I spoke to Portia, she helped with the translations and…” The door cracks, its hinges creaking. “-Jesus, Dean!”
Sam’s voice sounds dreamlike, and Dean groans tiredly, wiping the drool off the side of his mouth pressed to the pillow with the back of his hand. The sun hits his eyes and he instinctively tries to roll over, but something pins him in place.
A sea of voices drifts in through the window, as well as the bray of camels, the snort of pigs, and the cluck of chickens. Sounds pull Dean away from the borders of jumbled unconsciousness, and into the land of the waking. An arm squeezing his middle and a huff of breath tickling the back of his neck may have helped, too.
It takes him a moment to realize what’s going on.
He’s laying on his side and Castiel, God help him, is spooning him with an iron grip.
Sam is also in the bedroom with them, looking halfway between fatigued and mentally scarred for the rest of his long years.
“Shit,” is the only word Dean can remember, but at least he and Castiel are semi-clothed.
“Get out,” he says next, because he has the mind to not move after all. Apparently, a night of Castiel unintentionally rubbing his crotch against Dean’s ass had a bigger, unfinished effect than he had expected.
“Right,” Dean hears Sam mumble, before the door closes safely between the two of them and the world.
Dean groans again as he tries to wrestle himself free of Castiel’s hold, which is proving impossible because the guy is awfully strong for someone so averagely built. Failing the attempt to pry the arm wrapped around his waist away, it wraps itself tighter, pulling Dean until his back is flush to Castiel’s chest - but Castiel isn’t asleep.
Lips play against the nape of Dean’s neck, nose nuzzling and breath tickling the skin there. Castiel moves his kisses downward, spreading them along Dean’s shoulders before flipping him onto his back. Dean lets himself be manhandled, spreading himself out for Castiel to take.
“Good morning,” he says when Castiel begins to nibble on his chin. “I really need to piss.”
“Hold it,” Castiel says, running a hand down Dean’s chest. “I’m not done with you.”
“You never even started,” Dean retorts, biting his bottom lip when the hand trails lower, but groaning in annoyance when it deliberately avoids the desired area. “Come on, man. Give a guy a hand.”
And Castiel does. He cups Dean on the way up, and Dean doesn’t bother holding back the way he bucks into the touch, desperate for more. But Castiel is already rolling out of bed with a smile Dean can only describe as evil.
“You may use the bathroom once I’m done with it,” Castiel announces, buttoning up his shirt as he makes for the door. “I heard Sam found the artifact’s resting place. We shouldn’t waste time.”
Dean lifts his head from the pillow, still in the ungraceful sprawl Castiel left him in. “You son of a bitch.”
Castiel laughs, and heads out the door, closing it quietly behind him.
Hot, bothered, and desperately needing to pee, Dean lets his head fall back onto the pillow with an incredulous snort.
“What a fucking tease.”
What a way to start the day.
❖
Two hours later finds them standing on the brothel’s doorstep, waiting for the bus that’ll take them to the dock. Portia has been kind enough to supply them with transportation and a day’s worth a food for their trip down the Nile.
The market around them is just as lively as it was yesterday, the hustle and bustle impervious to the storm clouds overhead, the thunder promising bad weather for later in the day. Dean can handle a boat; it’s Sam that he’s worried about. He made sure to pack some extra lemons for the trip.
Sam and Castiel are already standing by the curb, satchels and bags by their feet as they chat btween themselves, waiting for their ride to come trudging through the dense crowd.
Dean adjusts his fedora to better cover his eyes when the last rays of sun to be devoured by the oncoming storm momentarily blind him. The day is humid, and it makes sweat gather at the base of his neck and the hollow of his back.
But despite the discomfort, he’s well rested, and he’s faced worse in far more terrible conditions. So far there haven’t been any leeches sucking at his heels, or scorpions the size of his thumb ready to sink one in him, or snakes coiling to squeeze the last bits of life out of him. There’s no yellow fever, malaria or dysentery determined to put him out for good. He’s healthy as a peach, Sam is with him, and Castiel keeps sneaking peeks at him with a knowing smile. Despite the inevitable trouble ahead, Dean is feeling good.
“There is a full moon tonight,” Portia says, emerging from behind a plum-colored cloth. “Be sure to make good use of it once you find the ankh.”
Dean turns to her with a short nod. “You really think those two are connected?”
“The gods of old had a vital connection with the celestial bodies. Thoth, before taking the burden of wisdom, was tied to the moon. I don’t believe in coincidences, Dean.”
She has a point, all things considered. The ankh will be the key to the city, but they still have to decipher the text in the journal. They will have to use their time on the boat to approximately estimate the location, in case the full moon does turn out to be necessary. The clock is still ticking, but time is slipping by too quickly.
The creak and sputter of the approaching bus makes Dean look away for a brief moment, before turning back to Portia to say his goodbye, but he pauses when her hand cups his cheek. “You will find your father. I am sure of it.”
Dean opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again, nodding instead. He figures she and Sam spoke about more than just their quest for the ankh, and he feels guilty about not having been there. He’s not sure if Sam even got a wink of sleep last night.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Dean says, hoping that those few short words convey everything he wishes to say. Thank you for keeping Sam company, thank you for giving them shelter, and thank you for giving this thing he has with Cas a well-needed push.
Portia’s smile is beautiful, all straight white teeth and glimmering dark eyes. “May whichever god you pray to be with you,” she says, placing a hand over Dean’s shoulder, and directing him towards the bus.
Sam is already settled inside, but Castiel is still standing on the curb, waiting for Dean to join him. When he does, Castiel gives him a soft smile.
Dean places his hand on Castiel’s arm, but he doesn’t pull or push. He’s comfortable about casually touching him, just to make sure that he’s there. His cotton shirt is soft to the touch.
“Ready to go?” Dean asks, realizing that there’s a new pair of glasses perched on Castiel’s nose.
“Of course,” Castiel answers, before turning to give Portia a parting wave. “There’s no time to waste.”
“I wonder where Charlie ran off to,” Dean says, almost as an afterthought while walking across the street with Castiel by his side. “She just disappeared last night.”
Castiel reaches the bus first, jumping up onto the first step and lingering. “She has a tendency to do that at times. She fears that attachments will only cause her trouble,” he says, causing Dean to chuckle. “What’s so funny?”
“Naw, it’s nothing.” Dean pushes at Castiel’s hip, prompting him to get inside already. “Guess I just know how she feels.”
Castiel looks at him for a beat of a moment, a frown marking his forehead before conceding a nod. “Don’t we all?”
Dean is left staring even after Castiel has disappeared in between the aisle of seats.
He’s not the only one. Dean isn’t alone in this lonely feeling that he’s unable to quench, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he simply can’t.
“Sir?” the bus driver says, his accent too thick for his English to be clearly understood.
Shaking his head, Dean climbs inside.
It’s only the three of them on the bus, whose bare floor and coverless seats are ancient and rusted. He sits opposite Sam, who has his nose stuck in the journal, looking ready to fall over due to exhaustion. In the seat in front of him, Castiel is staring longingly at the vendors through the dirty window.
Looking out his own window, Dean spots Portia speaking to a man standing on the brothel’s doorstep. The man is wearing a black suit and a gray fedora. They shake hands before Portia invites him in with a hand on his back.
Maybe Dean isn’t that well rested after all, because for the briefest of seconds, he could have sworn the man looked exactly like John. But it’s impossible. The window is dirty, the sun is in his eyes, and his thoughts are elsewhere.
Dean pulls his hat to cover his eyes when the bus lurches forward.
He dwells on the meaning of Castiel’s words, on the obvious connection and the shitty excuses. The inability to bond with people no longer deserves the old ‘job description’ excuse; it isn’t a dent caused by his lifestyle. The introverted librarian and the extroverted adventurer share the same fluke. The polar opposites share a common denominator.
Castiel is just as damaged as he is, and Dean isn’t sure whether to be pleased or feel sorry for the both of them. But a common fault means understanding, something Dean hasn’t found in his years of joint-hopping and bed-warming.
There’s comfort here, gentleness, and tender touches. They share shy kisses and relieved sighs - and it’s only been a day since the fuse of the tipping point had been sparked.
This thing between them is new, not to mention dangerous, and it will probably burn them both beyond healing if something goes wrong. But Dean is an adventurer, he lives on the border of danger, and it may not be as exciting and sensational as it sounds, but it’s what keeps his blood going. Dean lives for the thrill; it keeps him sane, grounded, and human.
Licking his lips, Dean moves without giving it much thought.
Grabbing his satchel, he slides out of his seat and ignores Sam’s questioning look. He also ignores the bus driver’s muttering.
Dean plops down onto the worn leather, next to Castiel, and gives him a shrug when he gets a raised eyebrow. “Less sun,” Dean lies, and shimmies down the seat until he’s comfortable, tipping down his hat again.
The sky is dark now, the sun long gone behind black clouds, but he imagines he’s in the clear since Castiel doesn’t call him out on it.
The minutes tick by, the sound of Sam scribbling on the journal behind them has long since stopped, and only the soft pinpricks of raindrops against the bus windows, and the sporadic muttering of Arabic disturb the silence.
Dean is close to falling asleep when a hand gently lands on his thigh.
He waits just a breath before covering Castiel’s hand with his own, and delicately squeezes it, mindful of his fingernails.
Dean may never recover from the burn, but Castiel is one adventure he’s unwilling pass up.
▲ previous chapter || chapter six || 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.
It’s the first day of June and Egypt is, as anyone would guess, hot.
Rather than complain about the heat and fatigue after two very long days, Castiel decides to lose himself in the dreamlike scenery that develops around him instead.
The initial impression Cairo leaves is of the heat and sand; hues of brown and yellow and red. What Castiel hadn’t expected is how alive and booming the city actually was. Photographers and scholars usually spoke of desert and camels, but those two elements aren’t the only remarkable things worth admiring.
Casks among casks filled with spices line the streets in shades of green, orange, red, and even violet. Pyramids made of fresh fruits and vegetables tower well above Castiel’s head. There are stands with live animals: sheep, hogs, chickens, and the occasional monkey.
To Castiel’s left is an assortment of silk, cotton and wool fabrics, both crude and decorated, ready for sale. Clothing, rugs, sheets; all of them accentuated with exotic patterns and detailed embroidery.
Men and women call out to potential buyers, beckoning people towards their stands. Castiel sees plenty of soldiers of American, British and French nationalities, threading through the heavy throng of locals.
Castiel’s stomach rumbles at the smell of warm food in the air.
Beside him, Sam is purchasing a basket of fruit.
“Any idea where Charlie went?” Dean asks, going through the hand-woven basket with a frown. He eventually settles on a fig.
“She’s getting us a place to stay,” Sam says, holding the basket for Castiel to pick something.
Deciding on a Chinese gooseberry, Castiel mutters a “thank you.”
“I guess SS hospitality ended in Germany.” Dean pulls his Swiss knife from his pocket, and smoothly slices the fig in half. He then hands half over to Castiel. “Well they can take their fancy wine bottles and shove it.”
“I don’t think they intended for us to make it out alive,” Castiel says, grimly.
Holding the gooseberry in his right hand, he slices it open and tries not to wince when his wrist sends a jolt of pain all the way up to his shoulder. Castiel feels considerably better than he did two days ago, but the graver sprains are still evident when he moves the wrong way.
Without looking at Dean, he hands the knife back.
Something is looming, but no one is willing to breach the subject just yet. Castiel is grateful for it, as he is still unable to voice the things that had transpired in the dark room in Berlin. He figures he’ll talk about it when the time comes, and the time may be soon, judging by the heavy looks Dean continues casting him.
“The Ankh of Thoth,” Sam says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I understand why it would be Egypt, but what’s so special about Cairo?”
“You tell us.” Dean gives Sam a smirk. “You’re the one with the doctorate.”
Sam makes a face at Dean, and Castiel almost laughs at it.
They walk down the street, passing in front of a vendor claiming that his jewels are made of real rubies, before Sam answers. “We’re awfully close to the pyramids, but if that would be it, it’d be Giza. Cairo is ripped in half by the Nile, but that’s about it. It’s not even that ‘pure’, culturally and economically speaking. If there was anything worth sacking, the Ottomans would have taken it, or Great Britain, after that.”
“Cairo will lead to the city,” Castiel says, stopping to look at a stack of clothing. He likes a blue tunic in particular that is tucked beneath a tower of neatly folded pants. Despite being made of cotton, the fabric looks thin and fresh.
Dean guides him away before the vendor can make his way to them.
“You said the ankh would be here,” Dean says, his voice deliberately sweet, forcing a calm that isn’t there.
Castiel shakes his head. “Victor referred to Cairo as the ‘heart’ of the expedition. The ankh might as well be elsewhere, but it should be near enough.”
“Maybe there’s something in Dad’s journal?” Sam chips in with a hopeless shrug.
“The text is a map to the city,” Dean explains, aggressively shoving his finger into the fig. “To get to the city, we need the key.”
Castiel watches Dean pick at the fruit, oddly fascinated by the repetitive motion of it. His eyes drift from Dean’s hands to focus on his face instead. Words are frequently clumsy and inappropriate when they escape Dean’s mouth, but Castiel has come to learn that he has other ways of communicating how he feels and what he thinks. Like the current pinch between Dean’s eyebrows means that he is deep in thought, for example. Actions. Dean is a man of actions.
Castiel has to look away when Sam tugs at his arm, telling him to take a seat while they wait for Charlie. Curious as he is, Castiel doesn’t protest. They’re all tired, and exploring the market can wait until later.
“We’re in the right place,” Dean suddenly says, gaining both Castiel’s and Sam’s attention. “I’m sure.”
“Dean?” Sam takes a seat on the wooden bench, and leans across the table to listen to what Dean has to say. “Fresh pair of eyes; tell me what you’re thinking.”
“An ankh symbolizes eternal life,” Dean says. He begins to drum his fingers over the table top. Castiel watches intently as he casts a look around them. “It also symbolizes the key to the Nile.”
“So…” Castiel begins, taking a moment to process what Dean just said. “The city is in the Nile?”
Dean snorts, pointing at Cas while grinning at Sam. “Get it? He said ‘in the…’” Dean stops himself when Sam gives him a this is serious face. “Right, no,” Dean continues, clearing his throat. “Not in it, but it might lead to it.”
“Follow the Nile, great,” Sam says, not sounding very convinced. “That still doesn’t tell us where the ankh is.”
“It’s Thoth’s ankh.” Dean grins, switching his gaze from Sam to Castiel. “Nothing yet?” At the collective shaking of their heads, Dean huffs. “Thoth was believed to the scribe of the gods, the original author of the Book of the Dead. I mean, it’s probably a long shot, but it’s better than nothing, right?”
Castiel tilts his head, not following at all. “I’ve followed up on research with less,” he says, giving Dean a soft smile of encouragement.
Nodding his head, Dean continues. “The Book of Thoth was a tome belonging to Ancient Egypt; it’s where they kept all the complex rituals, spells and philosophies jotted down. There’s dozens of stories about it, most of them saying how the knowledge of the gods isn’t meant for humans. But the most popular one talks about…uh…” Dean thinks for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Nef… eh, Nefer… Neferkaptah.”
Both Sam and Castiel continue to stare at him, still lost as to what Dean is getting at.
“This prince once stole the book from where Thoth had stashed it at, and when he died, he was buried along with it.”
“But we’re not looking for a book,” Castiel says, slowly.
“No, we’re not. But Thoth, god of balance, always kept things in twos,” Dean says, leaning back against the wall his bench is propped against. His smile is smug. “When Neferkaptah found the book in one of the two boxes that were guarded by serpents, he left the other one alone, for whatever reason.”
“Huh.” Sam runs a hand across his mouth. “You think the ankh’s in the other box?”
“Yup.”
“Did the legend say where the boxes were?” Castiel asks, breathlessly intrigued.
“I’ll give you one guess.”
“The Nile,” Castiel mutters, his mind glittering with an overwhelming sense of amazement.
“Now we just gotta find where along the Nile,” Sam adds, looking off into the distance, presumably piecing the bits Dean has said into a single image.
But Dean clears his throat again, bringing their attention back to him. “A little place called Coptos might be it.”
“Coptos,” Sam echoes. “I’ll need a map, and probably a local historian to translate from Ancient Egyptian.” He sounds determined.
“I still don’t understand how Cairo fits into the legend,” Castiel says.
His back is beginning to sweat due to the sweltering sun beating over his head, and secretly envies Dean for having remembered to bring his fedora.
“Perfectly, buddy. Cairo fits perfectly.” Dean raps his knuckles on the table. “In Cairo rests Neferkaptah’s tomb.”
Castiel slowly nods his head, furrowing his brow. “In his tomb, the book lies, but not the ankh.”
It hits him like a lightning bolt, but Sam says it before Castiel does. “They’re looking in the wrong place!”
“And ain’t that swell,” Dean says, his eyes shining with a hint of pride.
“Dean, that’s… I mean… how the heck did you manage to put that together?” Sam demands, seconds away from jumping up and down on his seat like a little boy. “Jeez, I don’t even remember reading anything about that.”
Dean shrugs, casual and cool as he tips his fedora. “I’ve picked up a book or two, Sammy. Do you honestly think I dive headfirst into your expeditions without snooping around first? I don’t want to waltz into Imhotep’s tomb and come out cursed.”
“We have a heading,” Castiel says, with a sort of subdued happiness. “And we have the upper hand.”
“I say we catch some shuteye, and we’ll set off first thing tomorrow,” Dean says, and they all agree.
A splendor of youth shines on Dean’s face, a bout of brilliance that not even Sam with his extensive knowledge of the archaeological world could compete with. No, Dean isn’t a man of words, but he’s brilliant and wonderful all the same. This realization moves Castiel so much, that he has to take a moment to reprimand himself for thinking that Dean was in any way lesser the very first time they met. He can feel his cheeks warm in embarrassment by the harsh judgment he had wrongfully imposed.
Bursts of warmth sporadically bloom within Castiel’s chest, sending out vibrant signals that reach the very tips of his fingers, making them tingle. The joy Dean’s smile elicits in him is bright and colorful, much like a sun after a stormy night. It is pure, smelling of fresh nature, and intoxicating like the best spirits. Dean is synonymous with adventure and the thrill of a chase.
Enamored is the only word in Castiel’s extensive vocabulary that can accurately summarize it all. And God help him, for Castiel is enamored.
“All right, gentlemen,” Charlie’s voice calls out, startling Castiel out of his thoughts.
She’s wearing a faded blue porkpie atop of her red curls, and a pair of loose-fitting trousers that sharply contrast with her black jacket. She wears it well, despite the terrible midday heat.
“I got some good news, and I got some good news. Kinda,” she says, rubbing her hands together like she’s about to spill a scandalous secret. “I got us lodging in the most inconspicuous place imaginable.”
“Well?” Dean says as he stands up, removing his hat in favor of fanning himself with it.
“It’s a brothel.” Eyebrows rise all around the moment she lets the words drop. “What? Seriously? I thought you fellas would appreciate it. It’s either that, or you can sleep out on the street.”
“We’ll take it,” Sam says, looking uncomfortable.
Castiel isn’t fond of the idea himself.
“The girls are really nice,” Charlie tries to assuage the grimaces. “They won’t try anything unless you pay upfront.” She deflates after a few seconds, rubbing at her temples. “Sorry I couldn’t land anything better.”
“You did the best you could,” Dean says. He pats her shoulder reassuringly. “Now let’s get a move on before I melt on the spot.”
Flashing them a grin, Charlie goes off to lead the way, with Sam close on her heels.
Dean soon follows, but Castiel stops with a hand to his shoulder. He doesn’t know why he does this, his mind going blank when Dean looks at him with a concerned expression.
“Dean-”
“What is it, Cas?”
His eyes, however green, look like rich honey under the sun. Even a hint of freckles paint Dean’s cheeks. Without giving it another thought, Castiel leans up, pressing his lips to Dean’s mouth in a light kiss, before pulling away.
Castiel isn’t sure what the kiss is for, if he even has to give it a reason, but it’s out there now.
Dean blinks owlishly, looking stunned.
“I-I’m sorry,” Castiel murmurs, suddenly stricken with the idea that maybe these feelings only go one way. There’s a sliver of panic as he begins to pull away, adamant to go after Charlie and not look back on what just transpired.
But Dean’s hand finds his elbow, pulling him close and sealing a kiss of his own over Castiel’s lips.
It’s chaste and gentle, and Castiel fights the urge to continue. They’re in the market with locals, tourists and soldiers milling around them, all of them wrapped up in their own business. Sure, they pay Dean and Castiel no heed, but this is an affair better tended to in private.
“Let’s get going, yeah?” Dean says, unwillingly pulling away from Castiel.
Castiel absently nods his head, and it isn’t until Sam calls for them that they rush off after a chortling Charlie, leaving their fruit basket forgotten on the table.
❖
The brothel is, dare Castiel say it, exquisite.
The building is reminiscent of a sultan’s palace, though windowless and ancient as it stands nestled between much smaller buildings. Expensive rugs line the stone floor, and colored cloths hang and drape down from the ceiling in a feast for the eyes. It’s beautiful, as are the women who flock to them in greeting.
Castiel clears his throat, ducking his head in embarrassment when two ladies thread their fingers with his, giggling in his ear behind their veils. One of them cards her fingers through his hair, before she’s politely asked by Dean to stop.
Dean’s eyes do stray to the lithe figures in harem pants, their clothing modest but revealing in the way the women move. Castiel is surprised that he doesn’t feel the least bit of jealousy; not that he has the right to.
A string of Arabic words sends the women away speaking in hushed whispers amongst themselves. From behind a thick cover, another woman emerges, this one dressed in a tight black dress that reaches her knees. Her skin is the color of cinnamon, and her black hair falls in luscious curls well past her shoulders. She gives them a bright smile that somehow enhances the smokiness of her eyes.
Castiel thinks she might be one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen.
“Welcome,” the woman says, taking Sam’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “I take it that you are the Winchesters, yes?” Her English is crisp and clear, with just a slight hint of an accent lingering underneath. “My name is Portia, and I run the House.”
“I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean, and this is Castiel,” Sam introduces, and she moves to shake their hands as well.
“It’s so nice to have company after so long. Charlie said you three were splendid entertainers.”
“Entertainers?” Dean asks, turning to give Charlie a sharp look, only to see that she’s nowhere in sight.
“Oh, no, no, that’s what we call our guests,” Portia clarifies. She moves to take a bronze bowl from a small round table. “Dates?”
When no one moves, Castiel takes a step forward and takes some to not be rude. “Thank you,” he says, earning himself a smile.
“A room for each one,” she says, turning her back to them and canting her head for them to follow. “I wasn’t told how much space you would need, but I thought it would only be fair, considering our business.”
They cross a narrow hallway with windows that face the market, filling the building with natural light. Dilapidated fans creak and groan as they spin over their heads.
“I also expect to have you all for dinner.”
There is a sense of disbelief as Castiel walks through the halls, seeing opened bedrooms with beds and chairs. Some of them are richly decorated, but others are simple and organized. The place looks more like a home rather than a brothel, and he understands now why it’s called the ‘House’.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Sam says, his tone saturated with earnest. “We truly appreciate it.”
“Anything for the cause,” Portia says, waving a hand beside her head. “Charlie explained the urgency, and it is nothing short of an honor to have you gentlemen with us. So long as you all behave yourselves.”
“Oh, we will.” Dean speaks up for the first time, looking at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. “One of us is betrothed, after all.”
Sam scratches the back of his neck, grinning soppily at the mention. “My brother’s right.”
“Love is an amazing thing, isn’t it?” Portia says as she turns to them, giving Sam a big smile.
She then looks to Dean, and then Castiel. Her mouth opens to say something, but she seems to think better of it before opting to shake her head instead. There is mirth in her eyes, however.
“These last three doors will be your rooms during your stay. The wash room is on the first floor, towards the back, in case any of you wish to freshen up. Supper is served at five.”
The three of them say their nth round of ‘thank you’ as she walks away, disappearing into the front room.
“First time for everything,” Dean says, choosing the middle door, and walking inside.
Sam chooses the right door, and Castiel takes the left.
The room is small, just big enough to accommodate a bed and a dresser, one on either side of the window. It’s better than anything Castiel had been expecting, and at least he has a pillow to lay his head on tonight.
Nothing can compare to home, his quaint bedroom back in the library, but there is a quest he needs to complete before he can rest. The fate of the world hangs on a balance, a race against time, and he couldn’t just stay hidden behind his old books. This includes him now, whether he likes it or not, and he will see it through to the end. He might as well enjoy the ride.
Sitting on the bed, Castiel looks at the bare walls that painfully remind him of the room in Berlin. He instinctively clutches his hand, even when the action sends pain coursing through him.
Biting down on his lip, Castiel forces himself to think of other things.
Dean’s lips on his own, soft and dry under the scorching sun. Castiel can’t remember when the last time he had been kissed was, but he is certain that it didn’t feel half as gratifying as this.
Hand on his lips, Castiel lets out a soft breath and smiles against his own fingers. It had felt wonderful and-
“Son of a bitch!”
Castiel is startled when Dean storms down the hall, and he quickly makes his way to the door, where Sam too is peeking out.
“What’s gotten into him?” Sam says, looking at Castiel.
“We left our luggage in Charlie’s airplane!” Dean shouts back, and both Sam and Castiel try really hard not to laugh.
❖
Dean couldn’t eat another piece of bread if he tried.
He’s not sure what he just finished eating - a sort of casserole - but it is perhaps the most delicious thing he’s had in a while. Being a picky eater usually makes his travels a pain, opting to stick to the American classics wherever he goes, but he has to admit that the cook really has outdone themselves.
There’s a hefty amount of bread and cheese still on his plate, accompanied by wine and the strong smell of the coffee Castiel is contently sipping on. The atmosphere is pleasant, with good conversation and the sound of music wafting in from the market through the windows.
Sam talks about himself quite a bit, detailing his line of work, and his engagement to Jessica. Castiel, too, however briefly, gives Portia a summary of himself, and life in Munich.
When she reaches Dean, she considers him with a curious tilt of the head, much in the same fashion that Castiel does. “Tell me about yourself, Dean; such a strapping young lad.”
Dean takes his wine glass and sloshes around the crimson substance. “I enjoy long walks on the beach.”
Portia laughs, high and loud. “Oh, no, that won’t do. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a treasure hunter,” he says, and it isn’t a lie, despite her unconvinced smile.
“A treasure hunter, I see. You and your brother work together, if I assume correctly?” Dean nods his head once. “And yet you aren’t in the same field.”
“Dean is good when it comes to tracking down artifacts. He has this…uh…intuition. He always comes through, even with the most difficult of tasks,” Sam says, taking a drink from his coffee. “He’s the best.”
“You’re brains, he’s the brawn. You two work in tandem.”
“Dean is brilliant as well,” Castiel says, lips hovering above the rim of his mug. He’s looking at Portia with an intense calm that gives his words a gravity of passive-aggression.
Dean’s fingers stop tapping against the tabletop as he turns to look at Castiel with a stunned sort of amazement. His chest tightens at the implication. There is something there, between him and Castiel, and for once it isn’t just his mind imagining things.
“I’m also the good-looking one,” Dean says with a chuckle, just to lighten up the mood.
Portia’s dark eyes go from Castiel to Dean, before she leans back with an airy “ah.”
Beside Dean, Sam is digging his fingers into the corner of his eyes, as if he has a headache.
Whatever it is between Dean and Castiel is no longer a secret.
“Enough about us,” Sam says, trying to ease the heavy atmosphere. “Tell us about you, Madam.”
“There’s not much to say, I’m afraid. Since I was a little girl, I liked to help people, and so I did.”
“By running a brothel?” Dean says. He doesn’t mean to be rude, although he may come across as such. It’s an honest question.
“There is a reason why I call it a House. You see, all of my ladies need a place to stay, much like you. Some of them have made these walls their permanent home, and some of them wish to pay me back whichever ways they can. They aren’t obligated to work, which is why it is forbidden for men to simply lay hands on the first girl they come across when entering through my doors.” Portia takes a sip of her wine, running a hand through her long hair and settling on curling the end of a strand.
“I run a very tight ship, gentleman, and no harm will come to these girls.” Her words are a warning, and Dean understands that she isn’t talking about the three of them.
Trailing behind them is a plume of evil, and by granting them lodging, Portia is putting the lives of these people at risk.
“We understand,” Sam says with a firm nod. “We won’t allow any harm.”
“Good,” Portia says, her smile sliding back as she raises her glass. “How are you enjoying the sights? Especially you, Castiel. Charlie tells me you don’t get out much?”
“It’s amazing,” he answers, putting down his mug. “A lot more vivid than I expected it to be. I really like it.”
“Always happy to hear that.” The wink she gives him makes Castiel duck his head, which Dean finds amusing. “Will you three be heading out tonight? I heard there will be a band playing in the square. It’s some good fun if you are looking for a nice time.”
“I don’t think we’ll be doing so, no,” Dean says, looking at Sam and Castiel for their agreement. “These past couple of days have been gruesome, and I speak for all of us when I say we need a long rest.”
Before any of them move, Portia leans forward on the table, and picks a round fruit from the centerpiece. She spins the sphere in her hand, looking at it with careful concentration before she taps it against her chin.
“The pomegranate is a very rich fruit,” she says, and runs her nails across its surface. “Rich in legend and myth, and potent in its aphrodisiac properties. The Greeks saw it as a symbol of birth and death. The ancient Persians said it symbolized invincibility in battle. All of them had different stories, but no one really speaks of Ancient Egypt.”
Taking a dinner knife, Portia slices the fruit open, and it bleeds down her elegant fingers, staining her palms and arms. “They do speak of the Greek pantheon, but they never say how they took our gods and renamed them as their own. In the end, the stories were always the same. Athena once called it the forbidden fruit. Judeo-Christians call it the fruit that led Adam and Eve to sin.”
Her eyes linger on Dean as she bites into it, then drift to Castiel as she pulls it away, her lips staining red. “It’s always sex,” Portia says, smiling when Castiel looks away. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking the pleasure and warmth of another body. Isn’t that right Sam?”
Sam sputters something unintelligible, and Dean understands that they are all feeling incredibly awkward about this.
Portia laughs as she pulls her chair away, taking a small towel with her to wipe the stains from her skin. “Just a little food for thought, yes? Goodnight, gentleman.”
They all mumble their goodnights, but none of them really moves, too stunned by the sudden subject discussion.
Even Dean, with his expansive knowledge, is left with burning ears.
“Okay,” Dean says, awkwardly clearing his throat as he shuffles to his feet. “I guess we should go ahead and turn in.”
“Sounds like a plan, yeah,” Sam agrees, following Dean’s motions and standing up as well.
“Cas, you coming?”
Castiel blinks up at Dean, blue eyes a little dazed before he nods. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
The walk up to their rooms is silent, only the heels of their shoes echoing against the carpeted floors. Up ahead, Sam absently hums a tune Dean recognizes but doesn’t remember the words.
Dean looks at Castiel out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing about how their hands touch as they walk side by side.
Music from the market fills the halls with an exotic tempo of heavy percussion and desert sounds, and the beat makes Dean’s stomach stir with a kind of heat he really shouldn’t be enjoying. Not when his brother is just five steps ahead.
“I’m going to try and see if I can decipher where Coptos is before I head to bed,” Sam announces out of the blue, stopping before his room and opening the door with a soft creaking sound. “If I’m able to find it tonight, we can head out tomorrow, bright and early. Get a head start.”
Dean yawns loudly, and pats Sam on the shoulder as he goes by. “Sounds good to me, Sammy. Don’t stay up too late.”
Sam mumbles something before saying, “Goodnight, Cas.”
To which Castiel replies with, “Have a good night, Sam.”
Dean lingers at his own door with a hand on the doorframe, his thumb feeling the uneven grain of the chipped wood. He waits until Sam has closed his own door, before looking up at Castiel with a hesitant smile.
The sun has already set; the sky a bruised purple with the beginning of dusk lingering over the horizon. Lamps have been lit across the hall, and Dean is surprised by the lack of bugs and mosquitoes.
Castiel leans against the wall, his brow furrowed curiously as he stares at Dean, unabashed. Dean figures that the need to be discreet about appraising each other is no longer needed. He can’t help but smile at the thought.
But Castiel chuckles despite that, and fondly shakes his head as he approaches Dean. “After you, Mr. Winchester.”
Back against his door, Dean fumbles blindly for the doorknob, too busy looking into Castiel’s eyes to pay much attention to what he is trying to do. “Please, call me Dean,” he says, and nearly yelps when he manages to open the door and nearly fall back on his ass.
❖
Unraveling the map Portia had gotten him, Sam lays it over his bed. He sets John’s journal over one of the corners to keep it from rolling itself up, before moving to pull a lamp closer to his impromptu work area.
He moves to the window to shut the curtain in an attempt to block out the music, but the twirling of fabrics and glimmer of gold just outside distract him momentarily.
There are people dancing to the jaunty tune, clapping their hands and singing along, and it looks like a good amount of fun. But there is one girl, in spite of Sam being too far up to properly see her face, which reminds him of Jessica. Her hair is yellow even under the gray light of a young night, and her laughter chimes sweetly in his ears.
Words cannot begin to fathom how much Sam misses her - her smile and her lips upon his cheek. His heart twists and aches at the mere thought of her.
He, Dean, and Castiel still have a dangerous road ahead, and they all need to focus. They need to work towards the goal and not stop until the deed is done, even if it kills them. There’s still John to find, and a war to stop.
Sam sighs, tired and lonely, and turns towards the map.
❖
Castiel’s mouth tastes of spice, a delicious mixture of exotic and erotic that prompts Dean to swipe and wrap his tongue around Castiel’s as they clumsily walk towards the bed. He’s handsy, too, alternating between tugging and pawing at Dean’s chest through the thin cotton of his shirt.
There is no hurry, something that contradicts the frantic kiss, but Dean’s hand on Castiel’s back slowly kneads its way downward to playfully cup Castiel’s ass. Castiel gasps into his mouth.
It’s teasing, slow; a simmering heat that licks at the pit of Dean’s stomach, sparking hints of arousal. They press their bodies together in the dimly lit room, swatting away the hanging decorative cloths before Dean sits on the end of the bed.
Standing between his knees, Castiel leans over to spread kisses along Dean’s face, over the scars and bruises Munich and Berlin left behind. His lips feel warm and adoring, hesitant but attentive as they brush over a healing cut along Dean’s jaw line, then move to a particular tender spot at the corner of his right eye, near his temple. Dean licks his lips, breathing out with pleasure when Castiel runs finger through short hair, resting at the back of his head to gently massage the scalp.
Warmth twists and writhes in Dean’s chest, but it has little to do with the arousal that has him hard beneath his belt. The tender attention Castiel is giving him makes him want to fully surrender, offering his hands for Castiel to take. For the first time in a very long time, Dean feels safe, and it is nothing like the fake security he had tried to create the last time he attempted to settle down.
“Dean?”
“Hm?”
Dean looks up with glazed eyes, mouth parted in anticipation, and Castiel gives him the pleasure of another kiss.
“Would you mind settling down? On the bed?”
The question is so hushed and embarrassed that Dean can’t do anything but smile fondly and nod his head. “Of course,” he says, and clumsily scoots himself up the bed, laying his head on the pillow.
He watches as Castiel crawls onto the mattress, on all fours, before kneeling between Dean’s feet. It’s probably an inappropriate thought, but Dean thinks Castiel looks submissive as he kneels there, hands on his thighs as he ponders something Dean can’t guess. But then he moves, and his fingers begin to unlace Dean’s boots.
Dean watches attentively at how graceful Castiel’s fingers work, before lifting his leg just a bit to remove the boot and sock. He then repeats the movement, patient as a saint, on the other one.
All the while, Dean’s heart is beating a rapid tattoo against his chest. He’s pretty certain he’s had sex less intimate than this.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Castiel says, startling Dean when his voice interrupts the stillness, “how I ended up here. Balthazar couldn’t get me too far away from the library, and yet, here I am; miles away from home, in a distant land where legend and myth may be a reality.” Castiel’s fingers squeeze and rub at Dean’s calves over the fabric of his pants, massaging their way upwards.
Dean moans unashamed, worrying his bottom lip as Castiel dishes out the blissful torture. He’s torn between melting into the bed and sleeping for week, and shoving his hands down his pants to get off. Castiel is both an oasis and a bolt of lightning, and Dean isn’t sure to which one he wants to succumb to.
Castiel’s hands move to Dean’s shins, their fingertips skimming their way upward, past the knee and thigh, and up Dean’s stomach.
“What convinced you to come along?” Dean asks in a hushed tone, dabbing his lips to Castiel’s when they are face to face again - chest to chest, and a tangle of legs. “I mean, besides world order hanging on a thread and Nazis being bigger dicks than usual.”
Castiel pretends to think for a second before saying, “A handsome adventurer happened, and he promised me the adventure of a lifetime.”
“Huh. Funny, since I don’t remember saying anything like that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Castiel brings up his hand to touch Dean’s cheek, his thumb caressing the prickly hairs of his stubble. “You’ve made my life awfully exciting.”
Dean overlaps Castiel’s hand with his own, holding it there for a moment longer. The touch is tender, and Dean mourns that he can’t bask in it forever. “You know, you’re not so bad… for a librarian.”
Castiel pouts at him, and damn if that isn’t the most adorable thing. “Do not misinterpret my diplomacy for fragility.”
“Never did. I was convinced you could hold your ground back in Berlin. Those were some pretty smooth moves.” The way Castiel had so easily maneuvered himself free and fought until he was well outside harm’s way is something that will always linger in Dean’s thoughts. He had moved with the utmost grace and skill. “Where’d you learn to do that, anyway?”
“Can’t say I’m sure,” Castiel says, and Dean watches as he leans away from him to pluck a fruit from the bowl Dean hadn’t noticed on the bedside table. “It came naturally. Perhaps it was just a freak bout of adrenaline.”
Between Castiel’s hands is a pomegranate, and Dean can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, and that is reciprocated by a smug-looking Castiel. Portia had noticed it before they did, and this is probably meant as a nudge in the right direction. Dean could have done without having the talk in front of his brother though.
“The fruit of sin,” Castiel continues, his voice a marveled murmur as he spins the pomegranate in his fingers. He looks at Dean with eyes at half-mast, a tongue wetting his lips, and Dean knows it’s an invitation. One he wouldn’t dream of rejecting.
Castiel shifts his position, making himself comfortable as he straddles Dean’s hips. The dim light of the lamps bathe Castiel’s face in shadows, but Dean can still see the bruises along his cheek and lip. He wasn’t the only one who had gotten beat up pretty bad, but the only difference is that Castiel won’t talk about it, either out of stubbornness or trauma.
And as desperate as Dean is to have him, he can’t bring himself to touch Castiel with something so heavy burdening his chest.
“How’s your hand?” Dean asks, tentatively placing his hands over Castiel’s. It is nowhere near enough, but it’s a start.
“Better,” Castiel says, offering Dean a smile. “I probably just sprained it while we ran for the airplane, but it’s feeling better.”
But when Dean’s thumb strokes Castiel’s knuckles, he tries to pull away.
A dense silence fills the room, with Castiel expressionlessly looking down at the fruit within their joined hands. Dean feels the world turn a bit colder.
“Talk to me, Cas.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
Dean manages to pry Castiel’s fingers away from the fruit, and brings the injured hand closer to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the wrist, applying soft pressure around it in search of anything broken. A sprain looks more likely, so Dean nods his head in concession. But there is something else, something that makes Dean’s heart sink unpleasantly into his stomach.
As Dean touches along the soft skin of Castiel’s fingers, he’s met with more flesh rather than a nail at the end. He repeats the process five times, only to find that three nails are missing from Castiel’s hands.
Taking deep breaths, Dean calms himself before he can lash out with anger.
All John ever did was yell at him and Sam whenever they got hurt, and a lot of good it did them.
He gives Castiel a moment to collect himself, because behind the blank face Dean knows is a storm of fear and turmoil.
They stay quiet for what seems like hours, before Castiel finally speaks up. “They wanted me to translate the text. I told them I’d rather die than give them what they wanted.”
“But you didn’t know how to translate it,” Dean says between the kisses he is now peppering across the skin of Castiel’s hands.
Castiel makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. “My father always said I was a defiant creature.”
Dean busies himself with lavishing Castiel’s fingers with attention, twirling his tongue around them and gently suckling at their fleshy sides. Above him, Castiel shifts and lets go of a breathy sigh, his free hand resting over Dean’s chest. Maybe Dean won’t be able to erase the things that were done to Castiel, but he can sure as hell try to alleviate their burden.
“There’s something else,” Castiel whispers, and Dean almost misses it, were he not focused on Castiel’s face.
Letting go of his hands when Castiel pulls back, Dean holds his breath as Castiel unbuttons his shirt. He’s hesitant, but Dean touches along his thigh, gesturing for him to continue.
At first, Dean doesn’t know what he’s meant to be looking at; a nice chest, maybe, too well-formed for a librarian, but his eyes dart to something else, something ugly and gut-wrenching that triggers a ball of bile. He bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from saying anything inappropriate, but Castiel most likely got it, judging by the way he’s wrapping himself in his shirt again.
“It’s disgusting,” Castiel says, and he sounds a cross between indignant and broken.
An angry red swastika stands out beneath his ribs, on the left side of his midriff. They branded him.
The injury is still raw, red, and secreting, but there is ointment dabbed on it and along the surrounding area. It will heal, but the scar will be something that will haunt Castiel for as long as he lives.
Dean shuts his eyes, squeezing them hard as if it will be enough to erase that knowledge from his memory. The anger, the ire that courses through his veins is overwhelming and terrifying, and God help him, because he won’t rest until every single one of those motherfuckers are buried six feet under. That is, after he plucks off their fingernails and brands them all like cattle.
Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, Dean breathes in deep, and exhales long and slow. “I’ll tend to that,” he says, pulling his hands away and looking up at Castiel with a promise. “I’ll tend to your wounds.”
His words are raw, clumsy on his tongue. Dean isn’t a man of words, but he’s a man of feeling.
Castiel breathes out, shakily, while nodding his head. Never before has he looked like such a lonely child, and it breaks Dean’s heart that the man above him, so cunning and kind, has been brought down to this.
“C’mere,” Dean says, and holds out his arms.
Castiel moves himself, lying down on top of Dean. He settles his head on Dean’s chest, nose pressed to Dean’s neck as their legs move to get comfortable. Castiel is heavy, but it’s a pleasant sort of weight, so Dean doesn’t complain as he wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist, mindful of the wound.
It’s too hot, so they don’t bother with the covers. The music in the market has faded into blissful silence, and the moonlight spills in through the windows to illuminate the stone floor of the room. For the time being, they’re safe, and that is all that matters.
Dean’s hand caresses Castiel’s hair, and enjoys how his hair smells of soap. He extends a grateful thought for their hostess for having given them a chance to bathe before dinner.
It doesn’t take too long for Castiel’s breathing to even out, giving in to the calm cover of sleep while wrapped in Dean’s arms.
Dean waits until the moon is higher in the night sky, until the sound of a snore nearly makes him chuckle, before he presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. Tomorrow is another a day, another long one, but right now he wants to take a moment for himself. Dean wants to bask in the fact that he’s holding Castiel close, wants to cling at the miracle that Castiel actually reciprocates his feelings. For the first time in a long time, Dean is content in holding someone while they sleep.
❖
“I got it! Dean! It’s Qift! Qift stands where Copto’s once was! We’re literally a boat ride away from the city!” Sam calls out, muffled, excitedly knocking on Dean’s door. “I spoke to Portia, she helped with the translations and…” The door cracks, its hinges creaking. “-Jesus, Dean!”
Sam’s voice sounds dreamlike, and Dean groans tiredly, wiping the drool off the side of his mouth pressed to the pillow with the back of his hand. The sun hits his eyes and he instinctively tries to roll over, but something pins him in place.
A sea of voices drifts in through the window, as well as the bray of camels, the snort of pigs, and the cluck of chickens. Sounds pull Dean away from the borders of jumbled unconsciousness, and into the land of the waking. An arm squeezing his middle and a huff of breath tickling the back of his neck may have helped, too.
It takes him a moment to realize what’s going on.
He’s laying on his side and Castiel, God help him, is spooning him with an iron grip.
Sam is also in the bedroom with them, looking halfway between fatigued and mentally scarred for the rest of his long years.
“Shit,” is the only word Dean can remember, but at least he and Castiel are semi-clothed.
“Get out,” he says next, because he has the mind to not move after all. Apparently, a night of Castiel unintentionally rubbing his crotch against Dean’s ass had a bigger, unfinished effect than he had expected.
“Right,” Dean hears Sam mumble, before the door closes safely between the two of them and the world.
Dean groans again as he tries to wrestle himself free of Castiel’s hold, which is proving impossible because the guy is awfully strong for someone so averagely built. Failing the attempt to pry the arm wrapped around his waist away, it wraps itself tighter, pulling Dean until his back is flush to Castiel’s chest - but Castiel isn’t asleep.
Lips play against the nape of Dean’s neck, nose nuzzling and breath tickling the skin there. Castiel moves his kisses downward, spreading them along Dean’s shoulders before flipping him onto his back. Dean lets himself be manhandled, spreading himself out for Castiel to take.
“Good morning,” he says when Castiel begins to nibble on his chin. “I really need to piss.”
“Hold it,” Castiel says, running a hand down Dean’s chest. “I’m not done with you.”
“You never even started,” Dean retorts, biting his bottom lip when the hand trails lower, but groaning in annoyance when it deliberately avoids the desired area. “Come on, man. Give a guy a hand.”
And Castiel does. He cups Dean on the way up, and Dean doesn’t bother holding back the way he bucks into the touch, desperate for more. But Castiel is already rolling out of bed with a smile Dean can only describe as evil.
“You may use the bathroom once I’m done with it,” Castiel announces, buttoning up his shirt as he makes for the door. “I heard Sam found the artifact’s resting place. We shouldn’t waste time.”
Dean lifts his head from the pillow, still in the ungraceful sprawl Castiel left him in. “You son of a bitch.”
Castiel laughs, and heads out the door, closing it quietly behind him.
Hot, bothered, and desperately needing to pee, Dean lets his head fall back onto the pillow with an incredulous snort.
“What a fucking tease.”
What a way to start the day.
❖
Two hours later finds them standing on the brothel’s doorstep, waiting for the bus that’ll take them to the dock. Portia has been kind enough to supply them with transportation and a day’s worth a food for their trip down the Nile.
The market around them is just as lively as it was yesterday, the hustle and bustle impervious to the storm clouds overhead, the thunder promising bad weather for later in the day. Dean can handle a boat; it’s Sam that he’s worried about. He made sure to pack some extra lemons for the trip.
Sam and Castiel are already standing by the curb, satchels and bags by their feet as they chat btween themselves, waiting for their ride to come trudging through the dense crowd.
Dean adjusts his fedora to better cover his eyes when the last rays of sun to be devoured by the oncoming storm momentarily blind him. The day is humid, and it makes sweat gather at the base of his neck and the hollow of his back.
But despite the discomfort, he’s well rested, and he’s faced worse in far more terrible conditions. So far there haven’t been any leeches sucking at his heels, or scorpions the size of his thumb ready to sink one in him, or snakes coiling to squeeze the last bits of life out of him. There’s no yellow fever, malaria or dysentery determined to put him out for good. He’s healthy as a peach, Sam is with him, and Castiel keeps sneaking peeks at him with a knowing smile. Despite the inevitable trouble ahead, Dean is feeling good.
“There is a full moon tonight,” Portia says, emerging from behind a plum-colored cloth. “Be sure to make good use of it once you find the ankh.”
Dean turns to her with a short nod. “You really think those two are connected?”
“The gods of old had a vital connection with the celestial bodies. Thoth, before taking the burden of wisdom, was tied to the moon. I don’t believe in coincidences, Dean.”
She has a point, all things considered. The ankh will be the key to the city, but they still have to decipher the text in the journal. They will have to use their time on the boat to approximately estimate the location, in case the full moon does turn out to be necessary. The clock is still ticking, but time is slipping by too quickly.
The creak and sputter of the approaching bus makes Dean look away for a brief moment, before turning back to Portia to say his goodbye, but he pauses when her hand cups his cheek. “You will find your father. I am sure of it.”
Dean opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again, nodding instead. He figures she and Sam spoke about more than just their quest for the ankh, and he feels guilty about not having been there. He’s not sure if Sam even got a wink of sleep last night.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Dean says, hoping that those few short words convey everything he wishes to say. Thank you for keeping Sam company, thank you for giving them shelter, and thank you for giving this thing he has with Cas a well-needed push.
Portia’s smile is beautiful, all straight white teeth and glimmering dark eyes. “May whichever god you pray to be with you,” she says, placing a hand over Dean’s shoulder, and directing him towards the bus.
Sam is already settled inside, but Castiel is still standing on the curb, waiting for Dean to join him. When he does, Castiel gives him a soft smile.
Dean places his hand on Castiel’s arm, but he doesn’t pull or push. He’s comfortable about casually touching him, just to make sure that he’s there. His cotton shirt is soft to the touch.
“Ready to go?” Dean asks, realizing that there’s a new pair of glasses perched on Castiel’s nose.
“Of course,” Castiel answers, before turning to give Portia a parting wave. “There’s no time to waste.”
“I wonder where Charlie ran off to,” Dean says, almost as an afterthought while walking across the street with Castiel by his side. “She just disappeared last night.”
Castiel reaches the bus first, jumping up onto the first step and lingering. “She has a tendency to do that at times. She fears that attachments will only cause her trouble,” he says, causing Dean to chuckle. “What’s so funny?”
“Naw, it’s nothing.” Dean pushes at Castiel’s hip, prompting him to get inside already. “Guess I just know how she feels.”
Castiel looks at him for a beat of a moment, a frown marking his forehead before conceding a nod. “Don’t we all?”
Dean is left staring even after Castiel has disappeared in between the aisle of seats.
He’s not the only one. Dean isn’t alone in this lonely feeling that he’s unable to quench, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he simply can’t.
“Sir?” the bus driver says, his accent too thick for his English to be clearly understood.
Shaking his head, Dean climbs inside.
It’s only the three of them on the bus, whose bare floor and coverless seats are ancient and rusted. He sits opposite Sam, who has his nose stuck in the journal, looking ready to fall over due to exhaustion. In the seat in front of him, Castiel is staring longingly at the vendors through the dirty window.
Looking out his own window, Dean spots Portia speaking to a man standing on the brothel’s doorstep. The man is wearing a black suit and a gray fedora. They shake hands before Portia invites him in with a hand on his back.
Maybe Dean isn’t that well rested after all, because for the briefest of seconds, he could have sworn the man looked exactly like John. But it’s impossible. The window is dirty, the sun is in his eyes, and his thoughts are elsewhere.
Dean pulls his hat to cover his eyes when the bus lurches forward.
He dwells on the meaning of Castiel’s words, on the obvious connection and the shitty excuses. The inability to bond with people no longer deserves the old ‘job description’ excuse; it isn’t a dent caused by his lifestyle. The introverted librarian and the extroverted adventurer share the same fluke. The polar opposites share a common denominator.
Castiel is just as damaged as he is, and Dean isn’t sure whether to be pleased or feel sorry for the both of them. But a common fault means understanding, something Dean hasn’t found in his years of joint-hopping and bed-warming.
There’s comfort here, gentleness, and tender touches. They share shy kisses and relieved sighs - and it’s only been a day since the fuse of the tipping point had been sparked.
This thing between them is new, not to mention dangerous, and it will probably burn them both beyond healing if something goes wrong. But Dean is an adventurer, he lives on the border of danger, and it may not be as exciting and sensational as it sounds, but it’s what keeps his blood going. Dean lives for the thrill; it keeps him sane, grounded, and human.
Licking his lips, Dean moves without giving it much thought.
Grabbing his satchel, he slides out of his seat and ignores Sam’s questioning look. He also ignores the bus driver’s muttering.
Dean plops down onto the worn leather, next to Castiel, and gives him a shrug when he gets a raised eyebrow. “Less sun,” Dean lies, and shimmies down the seat until he’s comfortable, tipping down his hat again.
The sky is dark now, the sun long gone behind black clouds, but he imagines he’s in the clear since Castiel doesn’t call him out on it.
The minutes tick by, the sound of Sam scribbling on the journal behind them has long since stopped, and only the soft pinpricks of raindrops against the bus windows, and the sporadic muttering of Arabic disturb the silence.
Dean is close to falling asleep when a hand gently lands on his thigh.
He waits just a breath before covering Castiel’s hand with his own, and delicately squeezes it, mindful of his fingernails.
Dean may never recover from the burn, but Castiel is one adventure he’s unwilling pass up.
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