[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Eight
Title: For Love, For Glory
Author: bellanovaskies [shotgunsinlace]
Artist: unbearablebears
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural; Action/Adventure
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jessica, mentions of Charlie/Gilda, previous Dean/Lisa and one-sided Victor/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~84,000
Warnings: Violence, language, torture, racism, controversial political views, and sexual content.
Summary: It’s the 1940’s, the war is tearing Europe in half, and the Nazis have a plan to uncover an ancient weapon belonging to the Egyptian gods that can tip the scale in their favor. With the help of a librarian named Castiel, it’s up to Sam and Dean Winchester, respectively a professor of archaeology and treasure hunter, to get to the Lost City of Amun-Ra and stop the Third Reich from achieving world domination. But with a missing father, secret societies, and an unexpected romance, things get more than a little complicated in this race against time. Loosely based on the Indiana Jones franchise.
The look on Dean’s face could kill.
It’s easy for Sam to place himself in his brother’s headspace, and heck, he knows he has been in it for quite some time now. John too has been kidnapped, and they’re still on the search to bring their father back. But Sam figures this goes deeper than the search for an absent father. He thinks about how it would feel if Jessica were in Castiel’s place, and the suggestion alone sets his blood pumping hot.
It has nothing to do with John being less important than their significant others.
Dean hasn’t had a friend in years, and losing Castiel so quickly after finally finding him-yeah, Sam can understand where Dean is.
“He’ll be fine,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. “You’ve seen what he can do. Cas can kicks their asses if anyone gets too handsy with him.”
Dean shrugs a shoulder as best he can with his hands tied.
No one says anything else.
Their caravan is crossing the frigid expanse of desert. There’s no rain, no clouds, and the stars are twinkling overhead for miles over rolling miles across the bruised night sky. A desert is insipid and cold, devoid of life just as it is in the daylight. It’s quiet for the exception of the automobiles and tanks that lead the way to Qift’s shore.
In the car upfront, Bela and Eckhart converse. Sam can hear her laughter, making him burn with anger.
Sam fears that the knowledge the SS holds may already be enough to cause irreparable damage. If they had known about their voyage to Qift, then what else did they know about the artifact? Having a spy tailing behind the Winchesters isn’t a far-fetched idea, and he’s certain that’s the cause for their current predicament. However, their notion of where the ankh is located may be incorrect, and what with being held captive and all, it would be better if Dean had indeed been wrong in linking the ankh to the myth.
Priorities have been set, and keeping the Nazis from laying their hands on a weapon with the potential to turn the war in their favor is at the very top of that list. Castiel and John will have to wait, as much as it pains Sam on both his and his brother’s behalf.
The night rolls on with the endless repetition of sand, sky and cold. The rope burns his wrists, and the restless thoughts refrain from giving him any sort of comfort. He’s fatigued, hungry, and he can feel himself start to doze off every now and again.
Sam has no idea how long it’s been, if he fell asleep or not, but the cars are coming to a stop just outside a camp.
Soldiers hurry along the tents and fires, a dozen of them marching up to the car they’re imprisoned in. Sam can hear music and a flurry of German every here and there, and he’s certain he hears a hint of French somewhere to his left.
Neither he nor Dean say a word as they’re manhandled onto the sand, and shoved in the direction of the camp. Sam tries his best not to trip, his sleep-addled mind making him clumsy. He frowns when sand gets inside his shoes.
The bliss of the heat from the pit of fire is short-lived when they’re directed across the maze of tents, away from the orange flames and towards the darker and more secluded area within the heavily guarded perimeter.
The Gestapo is on Sam’s heels, focusing most of their attention on him. He would snort if it weren’t for the gun pressed to his lower back.
Beside him, Dean is still wearing bloody murder across his face. He looks positively lethal, even in the dark, and Sam wonders if the distance the soldiers are keeping is because they think he’s harmless compared to the size of his brother, of if they’re terrified. If it’s the latter, then they had every right to keep away. Dean doesn’t need a gun or a knife to break bone.
When they reach a large tent, the largest Sam has seen since their arrival, a heavily-armed guard steps outside to greet them. The burly man looks at ease as he salutes the soldiers and the officers behind them, but then turns stiff when he turns to Sam and Dean.
He’s relatively tiny when standing in front of the Winchesters, but he still squares off his shoulders and clears his throat. “Herr Fuhrer sends his warmest regards.”
The blood rushes out of Sam’s face.
“He wishes you the best of luck, and that you may succeed in your quest,” the man says, and turns to his side to pull back the tents door. “General Eckhart will see you now.”
Sam has never felt so relieved in his life, knowing that Hitler wasn’t inside the damn tent. He can tell Dean is too, if the “son of a bitch” is anything to go by.
The inside of the tent resembles the inside of a museum, or worse yet, the inside of library Sam knows well enough. He recognizes several of the artifacts, books, and banners that decorate the walls and tables. The tapestry of a dancing skeleton solidifies Sam’s suspicions.
There are lanterns spread across the floor, their collective heat keeping the space warm enough to be comfortable.
The smell of tea fills the air.
Behind the desk sits Eckhart, immersed in a map, his fingers dragging a compass across the Sahara and muttering to himself before jotting coordinates on a notepad.
Sam and Dean look at each other before turning back to him.
“It’s a shame to have to turn to such cruel and brutal methods of communication, gentlemen,” Eckhart says without looking away from his notepad. He keeps on writing. “I would have enjoyed a more civilized approach.”
After waving his hand, the guards cut the rope that bind their wrists, and shove them onto the nearest available chairs, which are conveniently placed in front of Eckhart’s desk.
Sam winces and rubs his hands together, frowning at the red marks.
“May I offer you a drink?” Eckhart says, finally looking at the two of them with a practiced smile. He gets to his feet and turns to the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of American bourbon. Even without an answer, he pulls out three shot glasses and sets them on the desk, filling them all. “Please, I insist.”
Eckhart looks unfazed as he takes his drink and sits down again, leaning back and removing his hat.
“Ludwig informed you of der Führer’s message, and I share the same sentiment.” Raising his glass, he tips his head in a polite gesture. “We are all men devoted to the changing history of this world, as we are a part of it. War is a weapon intended to keep the people scared, keep them in line. It drains the economy from the poor and gives what little there is to the rich. Deep down, it’s just a gamble.
“What I want, what Adolf wants, is to unite all those who are worthy of a new and impeccable world. We want safety and peace for our loved ones. Sam, Dean, do not tell me that we do not seek the same thing in the very end.”
“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” Dean says, sounding surprisingly calm. It scares Sam a little. “You and your Fuhrer can go eat shit.”
Sam doesn’t correct his brother on manners; he feels the same. Instead, he nods in agreement.
“History repeats itself,” Sam says, bringing his jacket closer around himself. Despite the lanterns, it’s cold enough to make his hairs stand on end. “The good and the bad is just a matter of perspective. There is no black and white, just varying shades of gray; any historian can tell you that, Mr. Eckhart.”
Eckhart gives him a nod, and Sam continues. “During the American Revolutionary War, to the Crown, the rebels were the lawless scoundrels that refused to become civilized folks. To the Continentals, the loyalists were power-hungry bastards that wished to bleed the colonies dry. In the end, both armies pillaged and raped and murdered. Now that we stand here, centuries after seeing the result of the war, who do you think was right?”
“America, of course,” Eckhart says, chuckling, like the answer is the most obvious thing.
“Did you know that North American colonies were one of the richest lands during the seventeenth century? The townspeople weren’t, but the land was. That’s the thing about history; it tends to show you the generalization of it all. The rebels won the war, the loyalists fled to the mainland, and a century later, the richer got richer and the poorer got poorer. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness suddenly had a price.”
“Your point?”
“His point,” Dean says, lacing his fingers together. “His point is that a century from now people are going to look back on this war, and all they’re going to see is the animalistic brutality that the Germans unleashed. Because you’re going to lose, because we won’t let you win, and you sons of a bitches are going to be a black spot in the history books. Your Fuhrer, your Gestapo, your SS - nothing but despicable flecks of trash that did nothing but kill innocent people. You’re looking down the barrel of a gun. Because let me tell you something, karma’s a bitch, and she’s gonna fuck you over nice and slow.”
Sam’s smile is stiff and tiny, so sardonic he can feel it shift his eyes. “What Dean said.”
There’s a beat of silence before Eckhart mutters, “Charming.”
God knows it’s a bad idea to annoy their captor, but Sam is feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the onslaught and he can’t keep himself from feeling smug. He knows that Dean, on some level, is feeling the exact same way.
But Eckhart looks like the words have slipped right off, and he’s smiling again, as if he hasn’t heard a single thing he and Dean have just said. “I see that our opinions differ in this respect, but alas, not all minds think alike.”
“Glad we got that cleared up,” Dean says.
“Quite. However, we are going to make history tonight, and for the best no less,” Eckhart says, and after tipping back and finishing his drink, he stands up. “You’re going to help. Follow me.”
Before Sam can complain, he and Dean are being hauled out of their seats and pushed out the tent.
The cold hits him like a block of ice, making Sam shiver as he staggers across the crowded camp. There are more soldiers now, and in the distance he spots a streak of blonde hair he assumes is Bela’s.
Ahead of them walks Eckhart, his leather coat flowing in the breeze like a cape as he barks orders. Sam briefly entertains the thought of making a run for it, now that his hands are free, but the military issue guns promise that he won’t be able to get far even under the cover of night.
Dean is whipping his head from side to side, presumably looking for a glimpse of Castiel, but he stops a short while after, his face setting into the same stony glare from before.
Bela had said during the drive from the port that Victor had taken him elsewhere, to his private camp, while the Winchesters did what they had to do. She hadn’t gone into details, but Sam figures they’re about to find out their roles in Eckhart’s plan.
They continue to walk until they crest a dune, and below them rests the Nile’s shore. The moon is a disk above their heads that looks obscenely large, and Sam fleetingly fantasizes about leaning up and touching its smooth edges. Had Dean found out about this, he would have mocked him until the day he’s old and gray.
Silver light paints the sand and the undisturbed water.
“This here, my good men, is Coptos’ ancient shoreline,” Eckhart calls out, walking far enough into the river as to wet the hem of his pants.
It’s simple and unadorned. There are no ancient temples or pyramids like Sam has been expecting. No mystical glow or divine voice to announce their approach to Thoth’s treasures. Anticlimactic at best, and Dean seems to think so too.
“You sure this is it?” Dean asks, looking from Eckhart to Sam, and then back to the river. Sam picks up on his incredulity, but he hopes that Dean will understand how much they need for this to be the incorrect resting place.
“We don’t know,” Eckhart answers with grinning. “But we’re about to find out.”
Sam doesn’t like the sound of that.
Chuckling, Eckhart waves a hand in Dean’s direction and says, “More specifically, you’re going to find out, Herr Winchester.”
“Whoa, what’s that supposed to mean?” Dean holds up his hands when two guards approach him, and taking him by the arms lead him to the shore.
“What are you doing? You can’t let him go under!” Sam surges forward, ready to grab his brother back, but Eckhart puts a calm hand to his shoulder.
“Your brother, Professor Winchester, has been kind enough to volunteer.”
“Says who?!” Dean shouts, struggling to wrench himself free of the two brutes jostling him towards the water. He kicks out, but the guard to his left punches him across the jaw.
A sea of laughter erupts all around them.
“Says you, and the promise to return Herr Milton unharmed,” Eckhart says, voice smooth and serene. His grip tightens on Sam’s shoulder, as if daring him to intervene. “You see, we needed something to motivate you, Dean. And what better way than to dangle the librarian in front of you? As for you,” he says, turning to Sam with a smirk. “Your motivation will be your brother. If he fails, then you will go in and get it yourself.”
“No-” Sam starts, but Eckhart interrupts him.
“And I strongly advise against surfacing empty handed. It won’t end well for any of you, if so.” To emphasize his point, Eckhart presses the end of his pistol snug against Sam’s chin. “Now get to it, you putrid cur.”
Sam gets that he should fear for his life, and he does, in a way, but right now he’s worried about Dean, and the dozen things that could go wrong. Dean is still wounded, littered with cuts and bruises that can get infected due to the dirty water. He could drown; even as a good swimmer, Sam reckons visibility beneath the surface is minimal.
“Dean!”
“It’s okay, Sam, we’re good,” Dean says, tripping over his feet and splashing water when he’s shoved into the river. “You stay right there.”
“He won’t be going anywhere, I assure you,” Eckhart says, and he presses the barrel deeper into the soft skin. Sam grunts, but doesn’t move.
With wide eyes, and blood running cold, Sam watches as Dean wades deeper into the river. Long seconds stretch out in anticipatory silence, and finally, with a quiet pop, Dean disappears underneath the surface, as if he’s been mercilessly sucked down.
“Dean!”
❖
Dean thrashes as he’s sucked into the murky depths of the Nile, arms and legs flailing in a desperate effort to grab onto anything he can reach. But there’s nothing within the muddy water, only debris and the crushing pressure that threatens to leave him unconscious.
Dean reaches the point in which he doesn’t fight it, because struggling will only cause shortness of breath and leave him without oxygen. Instead, he lets the indescribable force drag him down, and down, and down some more.
The initial wave of desperation that leads to lightheadedness is quick to dissipate, leaving Dean to wonder if this is it. After years of traveling, of crossing the most treacherous of jungles and the most dangerous of rivers, this is where he bites it. At least he dies on an expedition, he thinks, and not rotting inside the birdhouse.
And then panic sets in, not because he feels the last pulses of his burning lungs, but because he sees something. Something big. And it’s circling him like a shark smelling blood.
He tries to kick his legs, to get somewhere, but he keeps descending into the pits of the river, where more shadows circle around him, part of them flipping and slithering. Dean remembers the snakes from Neferkaptah’s myth, and feels torn between excitement and fear. He’s close, but he hasn’t the slightest inkling as to how close.
Down pulls the force, and around swim the shadows.
Dean’s chest burns and aches, but a fleeting moment of clarity tells him that it isn’t the drowning that’s scorching him. Looking down, something through his shirts glows fiercely in the darkness of the water. It’s his amulet, and Dean grabs it, clinging to the tiny bronze idol like a lifeline.
That’s when it all stops.
Dean is suspended in a lake of nothingness, at the bottom of the river, but all is clear. A shaky intake of breath shows him that there is no water around him, just a rocky bottom with an assortment of reefs and the wreck of a wooden ship. He can breathe, and he’s underwater, but not in the water.
Looking up, he sees the endless depth of the Nile above him.
“Holy shit.”
He lifts a fist and taps the watery surface. The water ripples and Dean gasps. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but that definitely wasn’t one of the possibilities. Maybe glass, but not actual water.
“Air pocket?” he finds himself asking aloud, because the silence is vast and deathly. He can hear his own voice in his ears, but nowhere else. But the rocky terrain goes on for miles, so an air pocket isn’t really plausible.
As fascinating as it is, it’s creepy as hell.
Dean starts when a rumble erupts overheard, and looking up, he spots a shadow circling within the water before it vanishes in the distance.
Cold sweat breaks out of Dean’s forehead, nausea comes soon after. He’s seen a variety of crazy shit throughout his life, but this definitely takes the cake.
The heat of the amulet comes back, and Dean looks down at it, wondering just what the hell the thing is on about. Just then, he feels the amulet tug at him. It isn’t a physical sensation, more mental than anything, like a thoughtful input on where he needs to go next.
Dean looks to his left, and sees that there’s no way to distinguish which side is which. It’s all endless valley that spreads out for miles in every direction, no landmarks to read or mark distances. But the amulet pulls him to his left.
After a brief moment of consideration, Dean figures he’s got nothing to lose. Without food, water, and a way out, he’s a dead man either way.
So he starts to walk.
Soaked to the bone, Dean feels uncomfortable with every squish his feet make inside his shoes. He tries to make out the temperature of the bizarre world he’s been thrown into, but he can’t tell the difference between hot and cold. He can’t smell or taste the air, but the word myrrh comes to mind.
Nobody above the surface told him how much time he had on his head, and that worries him. There’s no way of knowing how long will be too long, when Sam will be forced into the water. And if Sam fails, what then? Dean figures they’ll throw Castiel in. Or maybe they won’t. Eckhart will most likely use him to find another way into the city.
A mixture of anger and awe pushes him forward, across endless fathoms of smooth rock and beneath the expanse of suspended water. He had been a skeptic when faced with the theory of the ankh, and the story behind the city, and how the Nazis want to use it in their favor.
He is still a skeptic, his mind searching for a way to explain what he’s currently going through, but Dean settles with the fact - after what feels like hours - that there may be no way to explain the phenomenon after all. But then, that’s what all people say when faced with something new, until a scientist comes along and tells them that it has something to do with gas, or that it’s just an optical illusion.
Dean is willing to pay big lettuce (in fact, he’s willing to give up all that’s his and then some) for any person who could stand in front him and explain the monument that now stands before him.
It appears out of nowhere, like a mirage coming to life; nothing one moment, and there the next.
No art or history book Sam has thrown his way ever spoke of anything like this. Nothing Dean has ever seen in his waking years could ever compare to the terror the structure inflicts in his soul. There’s a brief hint of recognition every here and there, but it feels like every time Dean focuses on one end of the structure, he completely forgets that the other bit exists. The sight of it alone is unfathomable, and Dean fears the mere thought of describing it within his own head.
At the entrance, in some form of mockery of a garden, is a graveyard. Dean recognizes a majority of these.
A statue of Apollo towers well above his head. A bronze Mycenaean disc leans against the feet of Anubis’ monument. The hull of a Nordic ship is embedded amongst the stones right beside a dōtaku from the Yayoi period. Countless furs lead up to what Dean assumes is the entrance of the structure.
There are other things, things Dean doesn’t wish to look upon because he simply cannot explain them, no matter how hard he looks and how hard he tries. There are colors he has never seen, shapes he has never thought possible, and it gives him a migraine that starts from the base of his spine.
Religious or not, Dean is convinced that this place is blasphemous.
The amulet tugs at him, beckoning him to enter the atrocity.
“No fucking way I’m going in there,” he says. His voice rattles in his chest. “Five bucks says the entrance to Hell is more welcoming than this.”
Another tug and Dean stumbles past the garden, eyes down until he crosses the fur-covered floor. He continues to walk, step after measured step, for minutes on end, but the scene around him never changes...until he looks up.
“Son of a bitch,” is the only thing he can think of saying when he finds himself inside a temple, untouched by water and age.
This is familiar, having found himself in countless sites all over the world. This he can handle, regardless of its unusual and alien architecture.
There aren’t any precious jewels or gold, but there is pottery and coins made out of clay. Dean’s pretty darn sure that’s a bust of Caesar carved into one. A staff with a stone moon leans against a spiral column that’s embedded with sea shells, its bottom sprawling with a dozen tentacles for support.
Dean stops although the amulet continues to tug him forward, mostly because he knows how ancient temples work. Curses are a load of hooey, but booby-traps can leave him staked to the floor with a spear up a very uncomfortable place. And in a place as disturbing as this, he can already smell the scythes waiting to decapitate him.
Wiping the back of a cold hand over his mouth, Dean ducks and inches forward, the tips of his fingers skimming the onyx floor for any cracks.
He pushes out every distracting thought, focusing intently on the path before, below, and beside him. He sees no vines, no boulders, no spears, and no swords. Nothing seems harmless, given the place he’s in, but Dean senses no immediate danger from the artifacts.
He briefly entertains the thought of grabbing the first thing he finds.
Come to think about it, it would be a win-win situation for everyone on land. He’ll hand Eckhart the first ankh he finds (he’s pretty sure the Anubis statue up front was holding one), grab the heaviest and most expensive looking thing he can get his hands on to guarantee him and Sam a comfortable life, and there you have it. The Nazis don’t get a magical item, the Winchesters end up rich, and-a creak interrupts Dean’s frenzied thoughts.
Halting his careless advance, Dean stays stock still in his crouched position.
He looks over his shoulder, towards the place he came from, and finds only a wall.
Now he’s trapped.
“This is bullshit. Fucking bullshit.”
Dean breathes deep, still unmoving as he tries to settle his nerves. The thoughts hadn’t been his own. As good as the idea sounded, it was careless and conceited. What mattered is getting Sam out of the ordeal alive, and Castiel too.
Concentrating on the amulet again, Dean pushes forward.
He tiptoes around a tiny hole he finds, and it might be nothing, or it might be something, so he inspects the surrounding area before skipping over. Nothing happens, much to his relief.
Dean starts by counting how many paces he’s taken, but eventually loses count when he reaches five hundred. Time stretches out for what feels like days, but he doesn’t grow tired, or weak, or hungry. He just keeps going.
A relieved sigh escapes unbidden when he finally sees a change in the endless corridor. In front of him are steps, a dozen of them, the same shade of black as the floor he’s slinking over. Its edges are bathed with gold.
At the very top lie three boxes.
Dean forgets himself in a moment of euphoria, running up onto the platform with a victorious laugh.
Three stone boxes are placed in the form of a triangle. All of them are exactly the same, from the smooth texture of their sides to the carved imagery on their lids. Within a geometric sun sits the god above all Egyptian deities, with a disk above his head.
Amun-Ra.
The name comes to Dean like he has known it from the very start.
Flexing his fingers, Dean shuffles his feet and thinks.
The box at the pinnacle of the triangle is open, revealing an empty chamber. The Book of Thoth once laid within it, and a thrill courses down Dean’s spine like a jolt of electricity. He had been right.
The myth - or actual account, now that Dean’s facing cold hard facts - spoke of two boxes, not three. But he figures that the subject of quantity may have been something lost in translation, and has no real effect on the situation before him.
Two boxes, and the Ankh of Thoth is in one of them.
The amulet around Dean’s neck tugs towards the box on the bottom left, but something else is nagging at Dean’s thoughts.
How wise would it to be to bring the ankh to the surface? Never mind how he’ll get there, but the fact that he’ll have to put the artifact in the wrong hands makes his stomach churn.
He thinks again about taking the wrong artifact, but he worries about how far the con will take him. Eckhart and Victor and the others will surely find out, and then it’ll be Sam and Castiel’s head on the line.
But.
It’s unfair for Dean to place his family on one end of the scale and the world on the other. He has an obligation. Dean finds himself asking what his father would do were he in his shoes, but Dean realizes that he doesn’t want to be like John. He doesn’t want to make his choices based on his duty alone.
Holding his breath, Dean reaches out his hand towards the box on the left, hesitating when his fingers are just inches away.
The sound of quacking startles him, however, and he immediately puts his hand down and turns towards the sound. Wide-eyed and shaking, Dean laughs at the bird that waddles across the room in an easy stride. The coincidence is far too absurd for Dean to simply brush off.
The bird is white, its head featherless and neck black. Its curving beak is the color of sand, and taps the floor as it walks to and fro, occasionally turning its head to look in Dean’s direction.
Now isn’t the time to get distracted, he tells himself, turning back to the boxes.
After another lengthy moment of hesitation, Dean’s hand hovers over the box on the right. Behind him, the ibis squawks.
What do you seek?
Dean flexes his fingers over the box.
The sound of ocean waves slosh in his ear, and the words come in the form of whispers from within a conch. They reverberate in his head like the cry of the bird. Distant and muddled, but the meaning is clear. Dean isn’t sure if the words are in English, but he can understand them. He isn’t even sure if the words are real, but he hears them.
Maybe it’s the ibis talking to him. Or perhaps the box. Or maybe he’s just nuts.
What do you covet, wanderer?
Dean’s pretty damn sure that’s a woman’s voice, too, but there’s no one in the room with him, aside from the bird that’s now staring at him like he’s a crown jewel. Rich, considering that birds don’t care about things such as jewels and the like.
You hold a balance within yourself, and you are troubled. What is it that you seek?
He’s already stuck in a fantastical void, he figures. What difference does a disembodied voice, which may not be a voice at all, make? He lingers on his answer.
“Sam’s safety.”
Dean slaps a hand over his mouth.
He hadn’t even settled on what he wanted to say, and yet the words fly out of him without his consent.
He tries again.
“To go home-dammit.” Dean doesn’t mean to say that either. “What the hell is going on?”
From the ibis - separating like a drop of water - comes an ostrich.
Its huge body stands stock still, but its feathers sway in a nonexistent breeze.
Dean thinks he should feel fear, or worry, because this feels like judgment. He’s standing before a jury, and his heart is being laid bare to these ancient symbols without his permission. The former street thug in Dean wants to lash out, to maim in self-defense, but the needs melt away without a trace.
The City of Amun-Ra holds no treasure for mortal eyes. Why do you seek it?
The words are monotone, but he feels an inkling of defensiveness at the end.
“Because I was asked to,” he says, attempting to sound placating. “Look, I hate flying, okay? I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been forced to.”
What do you seek?
Instead of being angry at the repetitiveness of the phrase, Dean feels relief.
“My father. He’s been taken hostage by the enemy.”
What do you seek?
“A way to get him back, safely. And Cas, too. Like I said, I just want to get everything over with and go home. The riches can stay at the city, I don’t care-”
He falls quiet at a silent command.
Noble of heart. Pure of soul. There is a quandary.
After opening his mouth, Dean closes it again. He nods.
Don’t hesitate to speak, wanderer.
It may be his imagination, but the words sound genial.
“I-I know what’s important to me.” Taking in a sharp breath, he slowly lets it go. “But I’m afraid it doesn’t have the same worth to the rest of the world.”
The ostrich shakes its feathers, making Dean take a step back. The bird is huge, and the last thing he wants is to get charged by it.
You are but a human.
“Yeah, I kinda know that, thanks.”
The weight upon your soul is vast and undeserved.
Dean takes another step back when the ostrich walks towards him, ascending the short steps to stand by him. The bird smells faintly of incense.
Without prompting, the ostrich taps its beak over the box on the left.
Khonsu’s Key will grant you passage, and no harm will come to your loved ones while in the city of Amun-Ra. Remain truthful, and the wicked will receive their punishment once the Wall of Mut falls.
Dean watches in rapt fascination as the wooden box grinds open. There’s no light or mystical sound as he has been expecting. Inside rests a golden ankh the size of his hand.
The amulet around his neck scorches him through the fabric of his shirt.
The ankh is cold to the touch, as if it’s been bathed in ice for weeks on end. Hissing, Dean withdraws his hand and blows on it.
Looking around the room, he reaches for a robe that lies discarded on the floor. The fabric looks distinctly Roman, as old as everything else around him, and there’s a flurry of ashes staining the bottom hem. Mentally apologizing, Dean rips a strip off it.
Still cold, Dean gingerly wraps the ankh within the soiled cloth.
While slipping it inside his shirt, he asks “What’s in the other box?”
But the room is vacant with the exception of him.
“Huh. Wait… How the hell am I supposed to get back?! Hey!” He spins around on the spot, looking for a way out. “You could have at least-”
Beware, for the serpents will guide you, wanderer.
Dean exhales. “Thanks.”
But the puzzled relief is short lived.
From behind the towering columns slither two snakes that look like they could swallow Dean whole, and still have space to eat a cow.
Long and coiling, their skin is black and oily, with the occasional red tissues that signify having been stabbed at a few moments in their lives. Instead of eyes, there are two jade stones in their sockets.
They stink of rotten eggs.
The calming air of the ibis and ostrich now feels poisoned, and Dean gets the urge to run.
And that he does.
Fangs snap at his heels, guttural growls coming close to licking at his neck as he darts down twilit corridors filled with ungodly effects.
He runs, pushing himself past the limits of his own speed and strength, but the strange absence of life keeps him from getting tired and from hurting. That doesn’t stop him from thinking. It’s the worst kind of torture imaginable. That is, until the halls explode into sudden darkness.
Dean trips over a mound of what he imagines are plates, the material clanking and causing a racket within the void. He can’t stop, not even to gather his wits and decide which way to go, because there’s nowhere to go, not that he can see. The serpents are close behind, and there’s nothing he can do but start running again, and hope that he’ll somehow make it out alive.
He takes turns at random, left and right and right again, and not once does he run into a wall or any other object. He wonders if he’s been led to believe that he’s inside a maze, when instead it’s just an empty room: an endless, dark, and empty room, devoid of air and sound.
But he can still feel them, the serpents, lurking in his shadow.
Dean still runs, even when the smell of rotten eggs worsens, mixing with the stench of gas and melting rock. The ground turns hot and he can feel it beneath the soles of his shoes, melting away the rubber and forcing him to slow his stride.
The snakes are there, writing and hissing and promising unfathomable things.
Desperate to get away, Dean kicks off his shoes.
Biting down a scream, he keeps on running.
Through fire and brimstone, Dean keeps running.
The amulet around his neck is once again lifeless, and the ankh pressed to his chest no longer feels cold. Nothing offers comfort or peace; nothing lets him breathe.
The fabric of reality melts away into oblivion, the darkness all-consuming and unending as Dean moves through it, looking for a way back into the world.
He runs for hours, days, weeks, months, and years. He runs for centuries. A millennia flashes by, and so does another. There’s an eternity layered by another eternity, and Dean can no longer feel his feet, for there are no feet to feel. He’s learned to balance himself on the stubs of bone protruding through his flayed flesh. There’s nothing in his wake but the blood and muscle that feeds the serpents that will continue to pursue for all of eternity.
And still he runs.
Dean runs because Sam is waiting.
He runs because Castiel needs someone to tend to his wounds.
He runs because John is somewhere out there.
Dean runs because home is just on the other side of the void.
A wall of solid rock towers in front of him; rising high with every step he takes in his unending hurtle towards the finish line. It stands across a valley of red rock. The snakes are still close behind.
All around him the wails of tormented beings shake him to the ribs, haunting and nightmarish. They pull at his jacket, at the hem of his pants, they call for him to help, but he can’t stop, not now.
He should fear colliding with the rock wall, but he doesn’t. He can’t stay in this valley of the dead, not when Anubis sits above the wall, looking down with the face of jackal. By his side sits Osiris, his staff poised.
Dean can’t stop, he has too much momentum, and when he braces himself, he careens into the wall.
Mind separates from body when an eternity of feeling and knowledge is tipped on its head. Rock feels like water, breathing feels like drowning, and nothingness is everything while everything is nothing.
The birth and death of a star occurs within Dean’s human mind, sucking in debris and reforming it into something omnipotent.
Dean sees.
Creatures, monsters, darkness, demons, angels, gods, grass, galaxies, machines, a kiss, a horse, Death, War, Famine, Pestilence, locusts, the beginning and the end.
Dean dies a thousand deaths and breathes a million intakes of life.
And finally, at long last, despite the serpents digging their fangs into the flesh of his heel, Ma’at extends her ostrich-feathered hands, and pulls Dean from the depths of the Underworld and the jaws of Ammit.
❖
The sound of a commotion is what wakes Sam up from a fitful sleep. The agitated shouting, along with the thumping of hurrying boots makes him wobble to his feet.
He’s rubbing his eyes when his tent is opened, the sun slipping in and momentarily blinding him.
“He’s back,” says Eckhart’s silhouette, and Sam nearly collapses when his knees begin to tremble. “Your brother’s back.”
❖
No one bothers holding Sam back when he runs across the sandy banks of the Nile, towards Dean’s waterlogged and comatose body.
He collapses before he can reach him, and crawls on all fours, kicking sand and water as he goes, until he’s grappling his brother’s shirt and pulling him onto his lap.
Tears sting his eyes, a mixture of desperation and relief surging through him with such force that he’s left gasping for any sound he can make. A sob, a yell, a cry; all he can do is gasp again and again, gently tapping Dean’s cheeks.
“Dean-Dean, hey, come on, man. Open your eyes, please.” Sam maneuvers Dean’s body so that he’s lying on his side, and shouts with rage when a soldier walks up to them and wrenches Dean away.
It’s a brief struggle once Sam realizes what it is the man wants, and he allows him to take the bundle he finds tucked in Dean’s shirt after a brief pat down.
Sam pulls Dean back into the previous position, and hits his back.
But Dean is breathing, he tells himself, and it’s true. He can see the irregular rise and fall of his chest, despite how cold he feels under the sweltering desert sun.
“It’s me, Dean. Hey, hey, I’m here. It’s okay, we’re okay.” His words melt away into nonsense as he rocks Dean in his arms, trying to believe that he’s okay despite being unresponsive.
Sam weeps when Dean gasps, coughs, and opens his eyes.
❖
“You’ve been gone for three days,” Sam says, holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup on his lap. He’s sitting across from Dean, who is wrapped in heavy blankets and sits cross-legged on the tent floor.
No one has disturbed them yet.
“Eckhart was getting me ready to take the dive at noon,” he explains, scooping up more noodle than soup and holding it to Dean’s mouth.
Dean remains inert.
His green eyes are tinged red, and they stare vacantly at nothing. Sam’s managed to change him into dry clothes, combed his hair, and gets him a drink of water. Other than that, Dean is unresponsive to the world around him.
Grief thrashes in Sam’s stomach, preventing him from keeping anything down himself.
Learning what happened beneath the Nile can wait, plotting how to stop the Nazis will also have to wait, and Sam can and will wait, despite how impatient a person he is.
Putting down the spoon and bowl, Sam sighs. “You have to eat, Dean. Y-You have to sleep… you have to… you have to move, do something, please, anything,” he whispers, words despairing. “At least tell me if you’re going to be okay… if you’re going to snap out of this.”
When he says nothing, Sam buries his face in his hands and curses.
Behind him, the tent flap is pulled aside.
“I’ve got magnificent news, gentlemen,” Bela announces, taking a step inside. “Dean here was successful and got us the ankh. And pretty boy Castiel is well on his way to translating the full map. Isn’t that joyful?”
Sam doesn’t say anything, just gives her a withering glare.
“This means that no one’s going to be killing you, yet. Count your blessings.”
Picking up the bowl, Sam tries to feed Dean once again.
The display seems to make Bela uncomfortable, for she starts fidgeting in place and turns to look away. She says, “Eckhart sent me to tell you that you have until tonight to recover. Tomorrow we’ll be moving on towards wherever we have to go.” She waves a hand in front of her, as if dispelling Eckhart’s nonsense. “I suggest you hurry it up.”
Her words are cold, even if her eyes linger on Dean with a hint of pity.
Sam doesn’t watch her go.
Putting down the bowl for the second time, Sam starts when he notices Dean’s eyes move to focus on him.
He doesn’t budge, only stares back, hoping that it isn’t some illusion born from anguish.
But then Dean says “Sammy?” and Sam can’t hold back the sound he makes.
“Jesus Christ, Dean-”
Dean’s fingers flex where they rest over his lap, but he otherwise doesn’t move. “Sam.”
“I’m here,” Sam says, inching closer and adjusting the blanket over Dean’s shoulders. “I’m right here.”
His eyes are still unblinking and vacant, but he’s looking at Sam now, and that alone is a triumph.
There’s a rise of voices outside tent, and Sam holds his breath until it passes.
“Dean, I-”
“Water.”
“Water, yeah, I’ll get you some right now.” Sam scrambles to get up, and grabs the canteen he keeps besides his makeshift sleeping bag. “What happened down there? I mean, you don’t have to tell me yet if you’re feeling out of it, but,” he kneels back down in front of Dean, and puts the canteen to his lips.
Dean gulps it down desperately, water sloshing down his cheeks and neck, and soaking his clothes. Sam puts it down and grabs a hand towel, dabs it to Dean’s face. He already cleaned the muck and soot from Dean’s face, but there are beads of sweat now gathering along his brow.
“Cas,” Dean says instead, breathing labored. “You got… get Cas.”
Sam frowns, but before he can explain that he still doesn’t know where they’re keeping him, Dean tells him.
“There’s a camp - some forty-five minutes from here.” Dean takes a breath, and clenches his hands into fists. “An oasis next to a town.”
“How do you know he’s there?”
Dean’s top lip twitches awkwardly, as if trying to form a smirk or a sneer. “Go get him. The city… it won’t work without him.”
A speck of annoyance compels Sam to breathe deep. “Dean, I can’t leave you by yourself.”
“Sam, please,” Dean croaks, eyes losing focus only to sharpen again. “Tonight. It has to be tonight.”
Flexing his jaw, Sam hesitates for a long moment before giving his brother a terse nod.
❖
Sam is tucked in his sleeping bag when a guard comes in to check on him at exactly 11:15 PM. He isn’t asleep, but he watches through an eye that’s opened just a bit as the guard steps inside and verifies that they’re both there.
Dean lets out a choked whimper, and Sam fists the sheet that covers him.
He hates the fact that Dean will have to be alone for heck knows how long it will take him to get Castiel. A guard may come in again, however low the chances are, and find Dean alone. He’ll most likely be kicked awake and interrogated, and once they get a load of Dean’s catatonic state, Sam knows they won’t hesitate to resort to violence.
The guard walks out again, and Sam waits, feeling sick to his stomach.
Seconds tick by before the lanterns outside are dimmed, and it’s minutes of silence before Sam deems it safe to move.
Slow and steady, Sam creeps out from underneath his sheets.
He leaves a canteen filled with water by Dean’s side, just in case he wakes up during the night. He makes sure that he’s tucked in properly, enough to keep the desert cold away from him. Once he’s done there, Sam slinks back to his sleeping area, and stuffs the sheets with his pillow.
In the long hours of the afternoon, he had prepared a satchel with the tools from a first aid kit they had given him for Dean. A ruined shirt, a needle and thread intended to stitch up wounds, and a long roll of bandages that now functions as a strap.
Inside it Sam keeps water, a lighter, his Swiss army knife, and Dean’s gun. It’s not much, but it’ll help him survive in case of a delay.
Swinging the satchel over his head, Sam grabs Dean’s hat, simply because it’s cold out, and he needs to keep his head warm. Lastly, Sam grabs his jacket.
Instead of slipping out through the front, Sam drops to his knees and peeks underneath the back area of the tent. There’s another tent ten feet away, but there are no lights to signal anyone inhabiting it.
Looking from left to right, and seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, Sam slips out of the tent in a leopard crawl.
This area of the camp is dark, with only the moon illuminating the zigzagging paths.
Towards the center of the camp is a fire pit, and it’s then that Sam understands the absence of soldiers up and about. Everyone is gathered along the fire, drinking and being merry because they finally have what they’ve been searching for.
At the head of the circle, Eckhart holds up the ankh with awed wonder.
He’s giving a speech in German, his words fluid and smooth and Sam has to concentrate to understand what he’s fully saying.
Die Zukunft gehört uns!
Hearts racing in his chest, Sam turns away.
The future belongs to us.
Certain that no one will spot him if he’s careful, Sam straightens up into a crouched position and deftly makes his way towards the camp’s perimeter.
A guard is on the floor, snoring loudly where he’s slumped over a beer mug, back to a palm tree.
Sam blows a bird whistle that’s loud enough to wake, and when the soldier only jerks to continue snoring, Sam sags in relief.
He moves quick, frequently looking around to make sure he hasn’t been spotted.
Drawing out his knife, he cuts through the rope that keeps one of the horses tied to a palm tree. It’s a lot more difficult than he expected it to be, but he chuckles when the rope finally pulls apart.
Sam shushes the horse when it begins to complain, clopping against the sand and turning away from him, but he quickly gets it under control by stroking along its head. “Hey, hey, it’s okay boy, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
He looks to his side, making sure that the guard is still sleeping. When he sees the soldier still out like a light, Sam grins.
Grabbing hold of the saddle, Sam climbs up with ease.
He’s never ridden a horse before, but how hard can it be?
Shushing the horse along the way, Sam guides it until they’re way out of hearing range; with an excited ”heeyah!”, the horse breaks into a hurried gallop.
▲ previous chapter || chapter eight || next chapter ▲
Author: bellanovaskies [shotgunsinlace]
Artist: unbearablebears
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural; Action/Adventure
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jessica, mentions of Charlie/Gilda, previous Dean/Lisa and one-sided Victor/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~84,000
Warnings: Violence, language, torture, racism, controversial political views, and sexual content.
Summary: It’s the 1940’s, the war is tearing Europe in half, and the Nazis have a plan to uncover an ancient weapon belonging to the Egyptian gods that can tip the scale in their favor. With the help of a librarian named Castiel, it’s up to Sam and Dean Winchester, respectively a professor of archaeology and treasure hunter, to get to the Lost City of Amun-Ra and stop the Third Reich from achieving world domination. But with a missing father, secret societies, and an unexpected romance, things get more than a little complicated in this race against time. Loosely based on the Indiana Jones franchise.
The look on Dean’s face could kill.
It’s easy for Sam to place himself in his brother’s headspace, and heck, he knows he has been in it for quite some time now. John too has been kidnapped, and they’re still on the search to bring their father back. But Sam figures this goes deeper than the search for an absent father. He thinks about how it would feel if Jessica were in Castiel’s place, and the suggestion alone sets his blood pumping hot.
It has nothing to do with John being less important than their significant others.
Dean hasn’t had a friend in years, and losing Castiel so quickly after finally finding him-yeah, Sam can understand where Dean is.
“He’ll be fine,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. “You’ve seen what he can do. Cas can kicks their asses if anyone gets too handsy with him.”
Dean shrugs a shoulder as best he can with his hands tied.
No one says anything else.
Their caravan is crossing the frigid expanse of desert. There’s no rain, no clouds, and the stars are twinkling overhead for miles over rolling miles across the bruised night sky. A desert is insipid and cold, devoid of life just as it is in the daylight. It’s quiet for the exception of the automobiles and tanks that lead the way to Qift’s shore.
In the car upfront, Bela and Eckhart converse. Sam can hear her laughter, making him burn with anger.
Sam fears that the knowledge the SS holds may already be enough to cause irreparable damage. If they had known about their voyage to Qift, then what else did they know about the artifact? Having a spy tailing behind the Winchesters isn’t a far-fetched idea, and he’s certain that’s the cause for their current predicament. However, their notion of where the ankh is located may be incorrect, and what with being held captive and all, it would be better if Dean had indeed been wrong in linking the ankh to the myth.
Priorities have been set, and keeping the Nazis from laying their hands on a weapon with the potential to turn the war in their favor is at the very top of that list. Castiel and John will have to wait, as much as it pains Sam on both his and his brother’s behalf.
The night rolls on with the endless repetition of sand, sky and cold. The rope burns his wrists, and the restless thoughts refrain from giving him any sort of comfort. He’s fatigued, hungry, and he can feel himself start to doze off every now and again.
Sam has no idea how long it’s been, if he fell asleep or not, but the cars are coming to a stop just outside a camp.
Soldiers hurry along the tents and fires, a dozen of them marching up to the car they’re imprisoned in. Sam can hear music and a flurry of German every here and there, and he’s certain he hears a hint of French somewhere to his left.
Neither he nor Dean say a word as they’re manhandled onto the sand, and shoved in the direction of the camp. Sam tries his best not to trip, his sleep-addled mind making him clumsy. He frowns when sand gets inside his shoes.
The bliss of the heat from the pit of fire is short-lived when they’re directed across the maze of tents, away from the orange flames and towards the darker and more secluded area within the heavily guarded perimeter.
The Gestapo is on Sam’s heels, focusing most of their attention on him. He would snort if it weren’t for the gun pressed to his lower back.
Beside him, Dean is still wearing bloody murder across his face. He looks positively lethal, even in the dark, and Sam wonders if the distance the soldiers are keeping is because they think he’s harmless compared to the size of his brother, of if they’re terrified. If it’s the latter, then they had every right to keep away. Dean doesn’t need a gun or a knife to break bone.
When they reach a large tent, the largest Sam has seen since their arrival, a heavily-armed guard steps outside to greet them. The burly man looks at ease as he salutes the soldiers and the officers behind them, but then turns stiff when he turns to Sam and Dean.
He’s relatively tiny when standing in front of the Winchesters, but he still squares off his shoulders and clears his throat. “Herr Fuhrer sends his warmest regards.”
The blood rushes out of Sam’s face.
“He wishes you the best of luck, and that you may succeed in your quest,” the man says, and turns to his side to pull back the tents door. “General Eckhart will see you now.”
Sam has never felt so relieved in his life, knowing that Hitler wasn’t inside the damn tent. He can tell Dean is too, if the “son of a bitch” is anything to go by.
The inside of the tent resembles the inside of a museum, or worse yet, the inside of library Sam knows well enough. He recognizes several of the artifacts, books, and banners that decorate the walls and tables. The tapestry of a dancing skeleton solidifies Sam’s suspicions.
There are lanterns spread across the floor, their collective heat keeping the space warm enough to be comfortable.
The smell of tea fills the air.
Behind the desk sits Eckhart, immersed in a map, his fingers dragging a compass across the Sahara and muttering to himself before jotting coordinates on a notepad.
Sam and Dean look at each other before turning back to him.
“It’s a shame to have to turn to such cruel and brutal methods of communication, gentlemen,” Eckhart says without looking away from his notepad. He keeps on writing. “I would have enjoyed a more civilized approach.”
After waving his hand, the guards cut the rope that bind their wrists, and shove them onto the nearest available chairs, which are conveniently placed in front of Eckhart’s desk.
Sam winces and rubs his hands together, frowning at the red marks.
“May I offer you a drink?” Eckhart says, finally looking at the two of them with a practiced smile. He gets to his feet and turns to the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of American bourbon. Even without an answer, he pulls out three shot glasses and sets them on the desk, filling them all. “Please, I insist.”
Eckhart looks unfazed as he takes his drink and sits down again, leaning back and removing his hat.
“Ludwig informed you of der Führer’s message, and I share the same sentiment.” Raising his glass, he tips his head in a polite gesture. “We are all men devoted to the changing history of this world, as we are a part of it. War is a weapon intended to keep the people scared, keep them in line. It drains the economy from the poor and gives what little there is to the rich. Deep down, it’s just a gamble.
“What I want, what Adolf wants, is to unite all those who are worthy of a new and impeccable world. We want safety and peace for our loved ones. Sam, Dean, do not tell me that we do not seek the same thing in the very end.”
“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” Dean says, sounding surprisingly calm. It scares Sam a little. “You and your Fuhrer can go eat shit.”
Sam doesn’t correct his brother on manners; he feels the same. Instead, he nods in agreement.
“History repeats itself,” Sam says, bringing his jacket closer around himself. Despite the lanterns, it’s cold enough to make his hairs stand on end. “The good and the bad is just a matter of perspective. There is no black and white, just varying shades of gray; any historian can tell you that, Mr. Eckhart.”
Eckhart gives him a nod, and Sam continues. “During the American Revolutionary War, to the Crown, the rebels were the lawless scoundrels that refused to become civilized folks. To the Continentals, the loyalists were power-hungry bastards that wished to bleed the colonies dry. In the end, both armies pillaged and raped and murdered. Now that we stand here, centuries after seeing the result of the war, who do you think was right?”
“America, of course,” Eckhart says, chuckling, like the answer is the most obvious thing.
“Did you know that North American colonies were one of the richest lands during the seventeenth century? The townspeople weren’t, but the land was. That’s the thing about history; it tends to show you the generalization of it all. The rebels won the war, the loyalists fled to the mainland, and a century later, the richer got richer and the poorer got poorer. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness suddenly had a price.”
“Your point?”
“His point,” Dean says, lacing his fingers together. “His point is that a century from now people are going to look back on this war, and all they’re going to see is the animalistic brutality that the Germans unleashed. Because you’re going to lose, because we won’t let you win, and you sons of a bitches are going to be a black spot in the history books. Your Fuhrer, your Gestapo, your SS - nothing but despicable flecks of trash that did nothing but kill innocent people. You’re looking down the barrel of a gun. Because let me tell you something, karma’s a bitch, and she’s gonna fuck you over nice and slow.”
Sam’s smile is stiff and tiny, so sardonic he can feel it shift his eyes. “What Dean said.”
There’s a beat of silence before Eckhart mutters, “Charming.”
God knows it’s a bad idea to annoy their captor, but Sam is feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the onslaught and he can’t keep himself from feeling smug. He knows that Dean, on some level, is feeling the exact same way.
But Eckhart looks like the words have slipped right off, and he’s smiling again, as if he hasn’t heard a single thing he and Dean have just said. “I see that our opinions differ in this respect, but alas, not all minds think alike.”
“Glad we got that cleared up,” Dean says.
“Quite. However, we are going to make history tonight, and for the best no less,” Eckhart says, and after tipping back and finishing his drink, he stands up. “You’re going to help. Follow me.”
Before Sam can complain, he and Dean are being hauled out of their seats and pushed out the tent.
The cold hits him like a block of ice, making Sam shiver as he staggers across the crowded camp. There are more soldiers now, and in the distance he spots a streak of blonde hair he assumes is Bela’s.
Ahead of them walks Eckhart, his leather coat flowing in the breeze like a cape as he barks orders. Sam briefly entertains the thought of making a run for it, now that his hands are free, but the military issue guns promise that he won’t be able to get far even under the cover of night.
Dean is whipping his head from side to side, presumably looking for a glimpse of Castiel, but he stops a short while after, his face setting into the same stony glare from before.
Bela had said during the drive from the port that Victor had taken him elsewhere, to his private camp, while the Winchesters did what they had to do. She hadn’t gone into details, but Sam figures they’re about to find out their roles in Eckhart’s plan.
They continue to walk until they crest a dune, and below them rests the Nile’s shore. The moon is a disk above their heads that looks obscenely large, and Sam fleetingly fantasizes about leaning up and touching its smooth edges. Had Dean found out about this, he would have mocked him until the day he’s old and gray.
Silver light paints the sand and the undisturbed water.
“This here, my good men, is Coptos’ ancient shoreline,” Eckhart calls out, walking far enough into the river as to wet the hem of his pants.
It’s simple and unadorned. There are no ancient temples or pyramids like Sam has been expecting. No mystical glow or divine voice to announce their approach to Thoth’s treasures. Anticlimactic at best, and Dean seems to think so too.
“You sure this is it?” Dean asks, looking from Eckhart to Sam, and then back to the river. Sam picks up on his incredulity, but he hopes that Dean will understand how much they need for this to be the incorrect resting place.
“We don’t know,” Eckhart answers with grinning. “But we’re about to find out.”
Sam doesn’t like the sound of that.
Chuckling, Eckhart waves a hand in Dean’s direction and says, “More specifically, you’re going to find out, Herr Winchester.”
“Whoa, what’s that supposed to mean?” Dean holds up his hands when two guards approach him, and taking him by the arms lead him to the shore.
“What are you doing? You can’t let him go under!” Sam surges forward, ready to grab his brother back, but Eckhart puts a calm hand to his shoulder.
“Your brother, Professor Winchester, has been kind enough to volunteer.”
“Says who?!” Dean shouts, struggling to wrench himself free of the two brutes jostling him towards the water. He kicks out, but the guard to his left punches him across the jaw.
A sea of laughter erupts all around them.
“Says you, and the promise to return Herr Milton unharmed,” Eckhart says, voice smooth and serene. His grip tightens on Sam’s shoulder, as if daring him to intervene. “You see, we needed something to motivate you, Dean. And what better way than to dangle the librarian in front of you? As for you,” he says, turning to Sam with a smirk. “Your motivation will be your brother. If he fails, then you will go in and get it yourself.”
“No-” Sam starts, but Eckhart interrupts him.
“And I strongly advise against surfacing empty handed. It won’t end well for any of you, if so.” To emphasize his point, Eckhart presses the end of his pistol snug against Sam’s chin. “Now get to it, you putrid cur.”
Sam gets that he should fear for his life, and he does, in a way, but right now he’s worried about Dean, and the dozen things that could go wrong. Dean is still wounded, littered with cuts and bruises that can get infected due to the dirty water. He could drown; even as a good swimmer, Sam reckons visibility beneath the surface is minimal.
“Dean!”
“It’s okay, Sam, we’re good,” Dean says, tripping over his feet and splashing water when he’s shoved into the river. “You stay right there.”
“He won’t be going anywhere, I assure you,” Eckhart says, and he presses the barrel deeper into the soft skin. Sam grunts, but doesn’t move.
With wide eyes, and blood running cold, Sam watches as Dean wades deeper into the river. Long seconds stretch out in anticipatory silence, and finally, with a quiet pop, Dean disappears underneath the surface, as if he’s been mercilessly sucked down.
“Dean!”
❖
Dean thrashes as he’s sucked into the murky depths of the Nile, arms and legs flailing in a desperate effort to grab onto anything he can reach. But there’s nothing within the muddy water, only debris and the crushing pressure that threatens to leave him unconscious.
Dean reaches the point in which he doesn’t fight it, because struggling will only cause shortness of breath and leave him without oxygen. Instead, he lets the indescribable force drag him down, and down, and down some more.
The initial wave of desperation that leads to lightheadedness is quick to dissipate, leaving Dean to wonder if this is it. After years of traveling, of crossing the most treacherous of jungles and the most dangerous of rivers, this is where he bites it. At least he dies on an expedition, he thinks, and not rotting inside the birdhouse.
And then panic sets in, not because he feels the last pulses of his burning lungs, but because he sees something. Something big. And it’s circling him like a shark smelling blood.
He tries to kick his legs, to get somewhere, but he keeps descending into the pits of the river, where more shadows circle around him, part of them flipping and slithering. Dean remembers the snakes from Neferkaptah’s myth, and feels torn between excitement and fear. He’s close, but he hasn’t the slightest inkling as to how close.
Down pulls the force, and around swim the shadows.
Dean’s chest burns and aches, but a fleeting moment of clarity tells him that it isn’t the drowning that’s scorching him. Looking down, something through his shirts glows fiercely in the darkness of the water. It’s his amulet, and Dean grabs it, clinging to the tiny bronze idol like a lifeline.
That’s when it all stops.
Dean is suspended in a lake of nothingness, at the bottom of the river, but all is clear. A shaky intake of breath shows him that there is no water around him, just a rocky bottom with an assortment of reefs and the wreck of a wooden ship. He can breathe, and he’s underwater, but not in the water.
Looking up, he sees the endless depth of the Nile above him.
“Holy shit.”
He lifts a fist and taps the watery surface. The water ripples and Dean gasps. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but that definitely wasn’t one of the possibilities. Maybe glass, but not actual water.
“Air pocket?” he finds himself asking aloud, because the silence is vast and deathly. He can hear his own voice in his ears, but nowhere else. But the rocky terrain goes on for miles, so an air pocket isn’t really plausible.
As fascinating as it is, it’s creepy as hell.
Dean starts when a rumble erupts overheard, and looking up, he spots a shadow circling within the water before it vanishes in the distance.
Cold sweat breaks out of Dean’s forehead, nausea comes soon after. He’s seen a variety of crazy shit throughout his life, but this definitely takes the cake.
The heat of the amulet comes back, and Dean looks down at it, wondering just what the hell the thing is on about. Just then, he feels the amulet tug at him. It isn’t a physical sensation, more mental than anything, like a thoughtful input on where he needs to go next.
Dean looks to his left, and sees that there’s no way to distinguish which side is which. It’s all endless valley that spreads out for miles in every direction, no landmarks to read or mark distances. But the amulet pulls him to his left.
After a brief moment of consideration, Dean figures he’s got nothing to lose. Without food, water, and a way out, he’s a dead man either way.
So he starts to walk.
Soaked to the bone, Dean feels uncomfortable with every squish his feet make inside his shoes. He tries to make out the temperature of the bizarre world he’s been thrown into, but he can’t tell the difference between hot and cold. He can’t smell or taste the air, but the word myrrh comes to mind.
Nobody above the surface told him how much time he had on his head, and that worries him. There’s no way of knowing how long will be too long, when Sam will be forced into the water. And if Sam fails, what then? Dean figures they’ll throw Castiel in. Or maybe they won’t. Eckhart will most likely use him to find another way into the city.
A mixture of anger and awe pushes him forward, across endless fathoms of smooth rock and beneath the expanse of suspended water. He had been a skeptic when faced with the theory of the ankh, and the story behind the city, and how the Nazis want to use it in their favor.
He is still a skeptic, his mind searching for a way to explain what he’s currently going through, but Dean settles with the fact - after what feels like hours - that there may be no way to explain the phenomenon after all. But then, that’s what all people say when faced with something new, until a scientist comes along and tells them that it has something to do with gas, or that it’s just an optical illusion.
Dean is willing to pay big lettuce (in fact, he’s willing to give up all that’s his and then some) for any person who could stand in front him and explain the monument that now stands before him.
It appears out of nowhere, like a mirage coming to life; nothing one moment, and there the next.
No art or history book Sam has thrown his way ever spoke of anything like this. Nothing Dean has ever seen in his waking years could ever compare to the terror the structure inflicts in his soul. There’s a brief hint of recognition every here and there, but it feels like every time Dean focuses on one end of the structure, he completely forgets that the other bit exists. The sight of it alone is unfathomable, and Dean fears the mere thought of describing it within his own head.
At the entrance, in some form of mockery of a garden, is a graveyard. Dean recognizes a majority of these.
A statue of Apollo towers well above his head. A bronze Mycenaean disc leans against the feet of Anubis’ monument. The hull of a Nordic ship is embedded amongst the stones right beside a dōtaku from the Yayoi period. Countless furs lead up to what Dean assumes is the entrance of the structure.
There are other things, things Dean doesn’t wish to look upon because he simply cannot explain them, no matter how hard he looks and how hard he tries. There are colors he has never seen, shapes he has never thought possible, and it gives him a migraine that starts from the base of his spine.
Religious or not, Dean is convinced that this place is blasphemous.
The amulet tugs at him, beckoning him to enter the atrocity.
“No fucking way I’m going in there,” he says. His voice rattles in his chest. “Five bucks says the entrance to Hell is more welcoming than this.”
Another tug and Dean stumbles past the garden, eyes down until he crosses the fur-covered floor. He continues to walk, step after measured step, for minutes on end, but the scene around him never changes...until he looks up.
“Son of a bitch,” is the only thing he can think of saying when he finds himself inside a temple, untouched by water and age.
This is familiar, having found himself in countless sites all over the world. This he can handle, regardless of its unusual and alien architecture.
There aren’t any precious jewels or gold, but there is pottery and coins made out of clay. Dean’s pretty darn sure that’s a bust of Caesar carved into one. A staff with a stone moon leans against a spiral column that’s embedded with sea shells, its bottom sprawling with a dozen tentacles for support.
Dean stops although the amulet continues to tug him forward, mostly because he knows how ancient temples work. Curses are a load of hooey, but booby-traps can leave him staked to the floor with a spear up a very uncomfortable place. And in a place as disturbing as this, he can already smell the scythes waiting to decapitate him.
Wiping the back of a cold hand over his mouth, Dean ducks and inches forward, the tips of his fingers skimming the onyx floor for any cracks.
He pushes out every distracting thought, focusing intently on the path before, below, and beside him. He sees no vines, no boulders, no spears, and no swords. Nothing seems harmless, given the place he’s in, but Dean senses no immediate danger from the artifacts.
He briefly entertains the thought of grabbing the first thing he finds.
Come to think about it, it would be a win-win situation for everyone on land. He’ll hand Eckhart the first ankh he finds (he’s pretty sure the Anubis statue up front was holding one), grab the heaviest and most expensive looking thing he can get his hands on to guarantee him and Sam a comfortable life, and there you have it. The Nazis don’t get a magical item, the Winchesters end up rich, and-a creak interrupts Dean’s frenzied thoughts.
Halting his careless advance, Dean stays stock still in his crouched position.
He looks over his shoulder, towards the place he came from, and finds only a wall.
Now he’s trapped.
“This is bullshit. Fucking bullshit.”
Dean breathes deep, still unmoving as he tries to settle his nerves. The thoughts hadn’t been his own. As good as the idea sounded, it was careless and conceited. What mattered is getting Sam out of the ordeal alive, and Castiel too.
Concentrating on the amulet again, Dean pushes forward.
He tiptoes around a tiny hole he finds, and it might be nothing, or it might be something, so he inspects the surrounding area before skipping over. Nothing happens, much to his relief.
Dean starts by counting how many paces he’s taken, but eventually loses count when he reaches five hundred. Time stretches out for what feels like days, but he doesn’t grow tired, or weak, or hungry. He just keeps going.
A relieved sigh escapes unbidden when he finally sees a change in the endless corridor. In front of him are steps, a dozen of them, the same shade of black as the floor he’s slinking over. Its edges are bathed with gold.
At the very top lie three boxes.
Dean forgets himself in a moment of euphoria, running up onto the platform with a victorious laugh.
Three stone boxes are placed in the form of a triangle. All of them are exactly the same, from the smooth texture of their sides to the carved imagery on their lids. Within a geometric sun sits the god above all Egyptian deities, with a disk above his head.
Amun-Ra.
The name comes to Dean like he has known it from the very start.
Flexing his fingers, Dean shuffles his feet and thinks.
The box at the pinnacle of the triangle is open, revealing an empty chamber. The Book of Thoth once laid within it, and a thrill courses down Dean’s spine like a jolt of electricity. He had been right.
The myth - or actual account, now that Dean’s facing cold hard facts - spoke of two boxes, not three. But he figures that the subject of quantity may have been something lost in translation, and has no real effect on the situation before him.
Two boxes, and the Ankh of Thoth is in one of them.
The amulet around Dean’s neck tugs towards the box on the bottom left, but something else is nagging at Dean’s thoughts.
How wise would it to be to bring the ankh to the surface? Never mind how he’ll get there, but the fact that he’ll have to put the artifact in the wrong hands makes his stomach churn.
He thinks again about taking the wrong artifact, but he worries about how far the con will take him. Eckhart and Victor and the others will surely find out, and then it’ll be Sam and Castiel’s head on the line.
But.
It’s unfair for Dean to place his family on one end of the scale and the world on the other. He has an obligation. Dean finds himself asking what his father would do were he in his shoes, but Dean realizes that he doesn’t want to be like John. He doesn’t want to make his choices based on his duty alone.
Holding his breath, Dean reaches out his hand towards the box on the left, hesitating when his fingers are just inches away.
The sound of quacking startles him, however, and he immediately puts his hand down and turns towards the sound. Wide-eyed and shaking, Dean laughs at the bird that waddles across the room in an easy stride. The coincidence is far too absurd for Dean to simply brush off.
The bird is white, its head featherless and neck black. Its curving beak is the color of sand, and taps the floor as it walks to and fro, occasionally turning its head to look in Dean’s direction.
Now isn’t the time to get distracted, he tells himself, turning back to the boxes.
After another lengthy moment of hesitation, Dean’s hand hovers over the box on the right. Behind him, the ibis squawks.
What do you seek?
Dean flexes his fingers over the box.
The sound of ocean waves slosh in his ear, and the words come in the form of whispers from within a conch. They reverberate in his head like the cry of the bird. Distant and muddled, but the meaning is clear. Dean isn’t sure if the words are in English, but he can understand them. He isn’t even sure if the words are real, but he hears them.
Maybe it’s the ibis talking to him. Or perhaps the box. Or maybe he’s just nuts.
What do you covet, wanderer?
Dean’s pretty damn sure that’s a woman’s voice, too, but there’s no one in the room with him, aside from the bird that’s now staring at him like he’s a crown jewel. Rich, considering that birds don’t care about things such as jewels and the like.
You hold a balance within yourself, and you are troubled. What is it that you seek?
He’s already stuck in a fantastical void, he figures. What difference does a disembodied voice, which may not be a voice at all, make? He lingers on his answer.
“Sam’s safety.”
Dean slaps a hand over his mouth.
He hadn’t even settled on what he wanted to say, and yet the words fly out of him without his consent.
He tries again.
“To go home-dammit.” Dean doesn’t mean to say that either. “What the hell is going on?”
From the ibis - separating like a drop of water - comes an ostrich.
Its huge body stands stock still, but its feathers sway in a nonexistent breeze.
Dean thinks he should feel fear, or worry, because this feels like judgment. He’s standing before a jury, and his heart is being laid bare to these ancient symbols without his permission. The former street thug in Dean wants to lash out, to maim in self-defense, but the needs melt away without a trace.
The City of Amun-Ra holds no treasure for mortal eyes. Why do you seek it?
The words are monotone, but he feels an inkling of defensiveness at the end.
“Because I was asked to,” he says, attempting to sound placating. “Look, I hate flying, okay? I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been forced to.”
What do you seek?
Instead of being angry at the repetitiveness of the phrase, Dean feels relief.
“My father. He’s been taken hostage by the enemy.”
What do you seek?
“A way to get him back, safely. And Cas, too. Like I said, I just want to get everything over with and go home. The riches can stay at the city, I don’t care-”
He falls quiet at a silent command.
Noble of heart. Pure of soul. There is a quandary.
After opening his mouth, Dean closes it again. He nods.
Don’t hesitate to speak, wanderer.
It may be his imagination, but the words sound genial.
“I-I know what’s important to me.” Taking in a sharp breath, he slowly lets it go. “But I’m afraid it doesn’t have the same worth to the rest of the world.”
The ostrich shakes its feathers, making Dean take a step back. The bird is huge, and the last thing he wants is to get charged by it.
You are but a human.
“Yeah, I kinda know that, thanks.”
The weight upon your soul is vast and undeserved.
Dean takes another step back when the ostrich walks towards him, ascending the short steps to stand by him. The bird smells faintly of incense.
Without prompting, the ostrich taps its beak over the box on the left.
Khonsu’s Key will grant you passage, and no harm will come to your loved ones while in the city of Amun-Ra. Remain truthful, and the wicked will receive their punishment once the Wall of Mut falls.
Dean watches in rapt fascination as the wooden box grinds open. There’s no light or mystical sound as he has been expecting. Inside rests a golden ankh the size of his hand.
The amulet around his neck scorches him through the fabric of his shirt.
The ankh is cold to the touch, as if it’s been bathed in ice for weeks on end. Hissing, Dean withdraws his hand and blows on it.
Looking around the room, he reaches for a robe that lies discarded on the floor. The fabric looks distinctly Roman, as old as everything else around him, and there’s a flurry of ashes staining the bottom hem. Mentally apologizing, Dean rips a strip off it.
Still cold, Dean gingerly wraps the ankh within the soiled cloth.
While slipping it inside his shirt, he asks “What’s in the other box?”
But the room is vacant with the exception of him.
“Huh. Wait… How the hell am I supposed to get back?! Hey!” He spins around on the spot, looking for a way out. “You could have at least-”
Beware, for the serpents will guide you, wanderer.
Dean exhales. “Thanks.”
But the puzzled relief is short lived.
From behind the towering columns slither two snakes that look like they could swallow Dean whole, and still have space to eat a cow.
Long and coiling, their skin is black and oily, with the occasional red tissues that signify having been stabbed at a few moments in their lives. Instead of eyes, there are two jade stones in their sockets.
They stink of rotten eggs.
The calming air of the ibis and ostrich now feels poisoned, and Dean gets the urge to run.
And that he does.
Fangs snap at his heels, guttural growls coming close to licking at his neck as he darts down twilit corridors filled with ungodly effects.
He runs, pushing himself past the limits of his own speed and strength, but the strange absence of life keeps him from getting tired and from hurting. That doesn’t stop him from thinking. It’s the worst kind of torture imaginable. That is, until the halls explode into sudden darkness.
Dean trips over a mound of what he imagines are plates, the material clanking and causing a racket within the void. He can’t stop, not even to gather his wits and decide which way to go, because there’s nowhere to go, not that he can see. The serpents are close behind, and there’s nothing he can do but start running again, and hope that he’ll somehow make it out alive.
He takes turns at random, left and right and right again, and not once does he run into a wall or any other object. He wonders if he’s been led to believe that he’s inside a maze, when instead it’s just an empty room: an endless, dark, and empty room, devoid of air and sound.
But he can still feel them, the serpents, lurking in his shadow.
Dean still runs, even when the smell of rotten eggs worsens, mixing with the stench of gas and melting rock. The ground turns hot and he can feel it beneath the soles of his shoes, melting away the rubber and forcing him to slow his stride.
The snakes are there, writing and hissing and promising unfathomable things.
Desperate to get away, Dean kicks off his shoes.
Biting down a scream, he keeps on running.
Through fire and brimstone, Dean keeps running.
The amulet around his neck is once again lifeless, and the ankh pressed to his chest no longer feels cold. Nothing offers comfort or peace; nothing lets him breathe.
The fabric of reality melts away into oblivion, the darkness all-consuming and unending as Dean moves through it, looking for a way back into the world.
He runs for hours, days, weeks, months, and years. He runs for centuries. A millennia flashes by, and so does another. There’s an eternity layered by another eternity, and Dean can no longer feel his feet, for there are no feet to feel. He’s learned to balance himself on the stubs of bone protruding through his flayed flesh. There’s nothing in his wake but the blood and muscle that feeds the serpents that will continue to pursue for all of eternity.
And still he runs.
Dean runs because Sam is waiting.
He runs because Castiel needs someone to tend to his wounds.
He runs because John is somewhere out there.
Dean runs because home is just on the other side of the void.
A wall of solid rock towers in front of him; rising high with every step he takes in his unending hurtle towards the finish line. It stands across a valley of red rock. The snakes are still close behind.
All around him the wails of tormented beings shake him to the ribs, haunting and nightmarish. They pull at his jacket, at the hem of his pants, they call for him to help, but he can’t stop, not now.
He should fear colliding with the rock wall, but he doesn’t. He can’t stay in this valley of the dead, not when Anubis sits above the wall, looking down with the face of jackal. By his side sits Osiris, his staff poised.
Dean can’t stop, he has too much momentum, and when he braces himself, he careens into the wall.
Mind separates from body when an eternity of feeling and knowledge is tipped on its head. Rock feels like water, breathing feels like drowning, and nothingness is everything while everything is nothing.
The birth and death of a star occurs within Dean’s human mind, sucking in debris and reforming it into something omnipotent.
Dean sees.
Creatures, monsters, darkness, demons, angels, gods, grass, galaxies, machines, a kiss, a horse, Death, War, Famine, Pestilence, locusts, the beginning and the end.
Dean dies a thousand deaths and breathes a million intakes of life.
And finally, at long last, despite the serpents digging their fangs into the flesh of his heel, Ma’at extends her ostrich-feathered hands, and pulls Dean from the depths of the Underworld and the jaws of Ammit.
❖
The sound of a commotion is what wakes Sam up from a fitful sleep. The agitated shouting, along with the thumping of hurrying boots makes him wobble to his feet.
He’s rubbing his eyes when his tent is opened, the sun slipping in and momentarily blinding him.
“He’s back,” says Eckhart’s silhouette, and Sam nearly collapses when his knees begin to tremble. “Your brother’s back.”
❖
No one bothers holding Sam back when he runs across the sandy banks of the Nile, towards Dean’s waterlogged and comatose body.
He collapses before he can reach him, and crawls on all fours, kicking sand and water as he goes, until he’s grappling his brother’s shirt and pulling him onto his lap.
Tears sting his eyes, a mixture of desperation and relief surging through him with such force that he’s left gasping for any sound he can make. A sob, a yell, a cry; all he can do is gasp again and again, gently tapping Dean’s cheeks.
“Dean-Dean, hey, come on, man. Open your eyes, please.” Sam maneuvers Dean’s body so that he’s lying on his side, and shouts with rage when a soldier walks up to them and wrenches Dean away.
It’s a brief struggle once Sam realizes what it is the man wants, and he allows him to take the bundle he finds tucked in Dean’s shirt after a brief pat down.
Sam pulls Dean back into the previous position, and hits his back.
But Dean is breathing, he tells himself, and it’s true. He can see the irregular rise and fall of his chest, despite how cold he feels under the sweltering desert sun.
“It’s me, Dean. Hey, hey, I’m here. It’s okay, we’re okay.” His words melt away into nonsense as he rocks Dean in his arms, trying to believe that he’s okay despite being unresponsive.
Sam weeps when Dean gasps, coughs, and opens his eyes.
❖
“You’ve been gone for three days,” Sam says, holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup on his lap. He’s sitting across from Dean, who is wrapped in heavy blankets and sits cross-legged on the tent floor.
No one has disturbed them yet.
“Eckhart was getting me ready to take the dive at noon,” he explains, scooping up more noodle than soup and holding it to Dean’s mouth.
Dean remains inert.
His green eyes are tinged red, and they stare vacantly at nothing. Sam’s managed to change him into dry clothes, combed his hair, and gets him a drink of water. Other than that, Dean is unresponsive to the world around him.
Grief thrashes in Sam’s stomach, preventing him from keeping anything down himself.
Learning what happened beneath the Nile can wait, plotting how to stop the Nazis will also have to wait, and Sam can and will wait, despite how impatient a person he is.
Putting down the spoon and bowl, Sam sighs. “You have to eat, Dean. Y-You have to sleep… you have to… you have to move, do something, please, anything,” he whispers, words despairing. “At least tell me if you’re going to be okay… if you’re going to snap out of this.”
When he says nothing, Sam buries his face in his hands and curses.
Behind him, the tent flap is pulled aside.
“I’ve got magnificent news, gentlemen,” Bela announces, taking a step inside. “Dean here was successful and got us the ankh. And pretty boy Castiel is well on his way to translating the full map. Isn’t that joyful?”
Sam doesn’t say anything, just gives her a withering glare.
“This means that no one’s going to be killing you, yet. Count your blessings.”
Picking up the bowl, Sam tries to feed Dean once again.
The display seems to make Bela uncomfortable, for she starts fidgeting in place and turns to look away. She says, “Eckhart sent me to tell you that you have until tonight to recover. Tomorrow we’ll be moving on towards wherever we have to go.” She waves a hand in front of her, as if dispelling Eckhart’s nonsense. “I suggest you hurry it up.”
Her words are cold, even if her eyes linger on Dean with a hint of pity.
Sam doesn’t watch her go.
Putting down the bowl for the second time, Sam starts when he notices Dean’s eyes move to focus on him.
He doesn’t budge, only stares back, hoping that it isn’t some illusion born from anguish.
But then Dean says “Sammy?” and Sam can’t hold back the sound he makes.
“Jesus Christ, Dean-”
Dean’s fingers flex where they rest over his lap, but he otherwise doesn’t move. “Sam.”
“I’m here,” Sam says, inching closer and adjusting the blanket over Dean’s shoulders. “I’m right here.”
His eyes are still unblinking and vacant, but he’s looking at Sam now, and that alone is a triumph.
There’s a rise of voices outside tent, and Sam holds his breath until it passes.
“Dean, I-”
“Water.”
“Water, yeah, I’ll get you some right now.” Sam scrambles to get up, and grabs the canteen he keeps besides his makeshift sleeping bag. “What happened down there? I mean, you don’t have to tell me yet if you’re feeling out of it, but,” he kneels back down in front of Dean, and puts the canteen to his lips.
Dean gulps it down desperately, water sloshing down his cheeks and neck, and soaking his clothes. Sam puts it down and grabs a hand towel, dabs it to Dean’s face. He already cleaned the muck and soot from Dean’s face, but there are beads of sweat now gathering along his brow.
“Cas,” Dean says instead, breathing labored. “You got… get Cas.”
Sam frowns, but before he can explain that he still doesn’t know where they’re keeping him, Dean tells him.
“There’s a camp - some forty-five minutes from here.” Dean takes a breath, and clenches his hands into fists. “An oasis next to a town.”
“How do you know he’s there?”
Dean’s top lip twitches awkwardly, as if trying to form a smirk or a sneer. “Go get him. The city… it won’t work without him.”
A speck of annoyance compels Sam to breathe deep. “Dean, I can’t leave you by yourself.”
“Sam, please,” Dean croaks, eyes losing focus only to sharpen again. “Tonight. It has to be tonight.”
Flexing his jaw, Sam hesitates for a long moment before giving his brother a terse nod.
❖
Sam is tucked in his sleeping bag when a guard comes in to check on him at exactly 11:15 PM. He isn’t asleep, but he watches through an eye that’s opened just a bit as the guard steps inside and verifies that they’re both there.
Dean lets out a choked whimper, and Sam fists the sheet that covers him.
He hates the fact that Dean will have to be alone for heck knows how long it will take him to get Castiel. A guard may come in again, however low the chances are, and find Dean alone. He’ll most likely be kicked awake and interrogated, and once they get a load of Dean’s catatonic state, Sam knows they won’t hesitate to resort to violence.
The guard walks out again, and Sam waits, feeling sick to his stomach.
Seconds tick by before the lanterns outside are dimmed, and it’s minutes of silence before Sam deems it safe to move.
Slow and steady, Sam creeps out from underneath his sheets.
He leaves a canteen filled with water by Dean’s side, just in case he wakes up during the night. He makes sure that he’s tucked in properly, enough to keep the desert cold away from him. Once he’s done there, Sam slinks back to his sleeping area, and stuffs the sheets with his pillow.
In the long hours of the afternoon, he had prepared a satchel with the tools from a first aid kit they had given him for Dean. A ruined shirt, a needle and thread intended to stitch up wounds, and a long roll of bandages that now functions as a strap.
Inside it Sam keeps water, a lighter, his Swiss army knife, and Dean’s gun. It’s not much, but it’ll help him survive in case of a delay.
Swinging the satchel over his head, Sam grabs Dean’s hat, simply because it’s cold out, and he needs to keep his head warm. Lastly, Sam grabs his jacket.
Instead of slipping out through the front, Sam drops to his knees and peeks underneath the back area of the tent. There’s another tent ten feet away, but there are no lights to signal anyone inhabiting it.
Looking from left to right, and seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, Sam slips out of the tent in a leopard crawl.
This area of the camp is dark, with only the moon illuminating the zigzagging paths.
Towards the center of the camp is a fire pit, and it’s then that Sam understands the absence of soldiers up and about. Everyone is gathered along the fire, drinking and being merry because they finally have what they’ve been searching for.
At the head of the circle, Eckhart holds up the ankh with awed wonder.
He’s giving a speech in German, his words fluid and smooth and Sam has to concentrate to understand what he’s fully saying.
Die Zukunft gehört uns!
Hearts racing in his chest, Sam turns away.
The future belongs to us.
Certain that no one will spot him if he’s careful, Sam straightens up into a crouched position and deftly makes his way towards the camp’s perimeter.
A guard is on the floor, snoring loudly where he’s slumped over a beer mug, back to a palm tree.
Sam blows a bird whistle that’s loud enough to wake, and when the soldier only jerks to continue snoring, Sam sags in relief.
He moves quick, frequently looking around to make sure he hasn’t been spotted.
Drawing out his knife, he cuts through the rope that keeps one of the horses tied to a palm tree. It’s a lot more difficult than he expected it to be, but he chuckles when the rope finally pulls apart.
Sam shushes the horse when it begins to complain, clopping against the sand and turning away from him, but he quickly gets it under control by stroking along its head. “Hey, hey, it’s okay boy, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
He looks to his side, making sure that the guard is still sleeping. When he sees the soldier still out like a light, Sam grins.
Grabbing hold of the saddle, Sam climbs up with ease.
He’s never ridden a horse before, but how hard can it be?
Shushing the horse along the way, Sam guides it until they’re way out of hearing range; with an excited ”heeyah!”, the horse breaks into a hurried gallop.
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