[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Nine
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 wind’s howls are severe to the point in which an order to better secure the tents had been issued. The desert night is freezing, uncomfortable enough to keep officers and soldiers alike indoors. Fires have been set ablaze to fight off the cold, and dozens of sheets, raided from the nearby village, now line Victor’s well-equipped tent.
Castiel feels the chill settle in his bones, making them ache.
His fingers and toes hurt too much to move, even while sitting in front of the high-voltage lantern Victor keeps at the middle of his tent. Despite fearing a fire, Castiel keeps close to it.
At least the tent’s floor is covered with layers of luxurious rugs and animal skins. Reminiscent of a palace, there are fancy divans, elegant desks, and tapestries lining the walls. Castiel considers it an abomination. This entire situation is disgusting and offensive, but all he can do is sit and work as commanded.
Castiel can work under threats of torture, but with the brothers’ safety at stake, he can’t and won’t take any chances. Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters. Only, it’d be easier if bleeding were a more literal thing.
He shivers, feeling cold and miserable as he’s currently exposed. Regardless of how many sheets he layers over his legs and shoulders, there’s no fighting the chill of being semi-nude. He does marvel, for a brief instant, how Ancient Egyptians had been able to weather such extreme climates.
He’s startled when a tea kettle begins to whistle.
“Sounds like our drinks are done,” Victor says, appearing by the tent door and stepping inside. “Or will be in a few seconds. Hope you don’t mind the wait.”
Castiel refrains from looking at him, focusing instead on the heat of the lantern before him. He closes in on himself, coiling tighter in the cocoon of sheets. When he pulls against the scarring tissues at his side, Castiel allows himself enough slack to not hurt himself.
Behind the divan, Victor arranges the fine china: tiny teacups placed on delicate saucers belonging to the Quing Dynasty. At least the tea smells exquisite, but it may just be the hunger chiming in on the argument. He’s eaten nothing but oatmeal for the past three days.
Castiel flinches when the teacup is placed on the floor in front of him, and jerks away when Victor gently touches Castiel’s head.
“Chamomile to soothe those nerves,” he says, and walks towards his divan.
Castiel twists in place so that he’s facing Victor, but not looking at him. He knows better than to present his back to the enemy. A particularly loud gust of wind makes Castiel shudder, and as a result, he takes his tea. He could use something to calm him.
“I received news from Eckhart’s camp.” Castiel looks up at that. “Mr. Winchester has resurfaced.”
The teacup rattles against the saucer, even while Castiel tries to hold it still. His heart races, he feels lightheaded, and he leans close enough to not miss a word. “Is he all right?” His voice is cracked from disuse.
Victor smiles, and takes a sip from his tea. “He’s alive, and he brought us the ankh.”
The sensation is similar to a shower of warm water; it’s comforting and gentle against his abused skin. Castiel huffs out a shaky laugh as relief spreads inside his chest and stomach. “Thank God.”
“God has nothing to do with it, darling,” Victor says, his smile turning smug. “And if the information is accurate, the professor should be on his way here. Gallant fellow, thinking he can save his brother’s prince.”
The heat the cup emits feels glorious on Castiel’s fingers. Knowing that Sam is on his way to get him does trouble him, but he’s too overcome with contentment to think ill of it. One step closer; they are one step closer to ending this dreadful journey.
“And I assume you’re going to let me walk out with him, aren’t you? Lead the way into the city?”
“That’s exactly what I am going to do, Castiel. Have tonight with your charming companions, for tomorrow we will find you regardless of where you’ve gone.”
Castiel breathes deep, the rich aroma dancing around his nose and warming everything within him. He takes a cautious sip, and hums at the pleasant taste.
“There will be no throwing you off our scent, I see,” Castiel says, feeling brave enough to challenge him. “What makes you think we’ll simply allow you into the city?”
“We have guns.”
Castiel musters an honest smile. “And they have me.” It’s a good a bluff as any, but if the Winchesters taught Castiel anything, it’s to be resourceful. So he uses the knowledge he’s obtained over the past couple of days.
Victor’s laugh is loud and sudden, and he puts down his teacup in favor of clapping his hands with mirth. “That’s more like it! If you’ve got the power, you wield it. Of course, the power of Thoth doesn’t grant you immortality… I can still shoot you.”
Castiel’s eyes widen, more out of pity than actual shock. “We’ve discussed this already. No one knows what’s inside the city and no one will until we step inside.”
“And we’re going to step inside,” Victor says, pulling out a handgun from inside his jacket, and balancing it on his knee. “Isn’t that right, angel?”
Castiel takes one more sip of his tea before setting the cup down on its saucer. For the first time since his arrival at Qift, Castiel holds Victor’s eyes without fear. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” he says, coolly.
Humming thoughtfully, Victor looks at the clock that stands beside the tent’s opening. It’s half past midnight.
“I’m glad that we’ve had this brief yet interesting conversation,” Victor announces, getting up and adjusting his jacket. “But I’m afraid I have other business to attend to. Mainly verifying that our caravan is ready to pack up for the last stretch of this expedition.”
“Of course,” Castiel says, sounding far too polite even to himself. Bringing his attention back to the lantern, Castiel gives no sign of noticing the shadow moving along the back of the tent. “I suggest you wear gloves. Wouldn’t want to lose fingers due to frostbite.”
Victor snorts. “It’s nowhere near as cold.”
Castiel gives a graceful shrug. “Suit yourself. Also, is there any way of knowing when Sam will arrive?”
He’s ready to bet, judging by the size of the shadow alone, that Sam is already here.
The shadow disappears behind a stack of beer kegs.
“Message was received via telegram some thirty minutes ago. He should be around here somewhere by now.” And with that, Victor slinks out into the cold night.
Castiel waits until he hears the footsteps receding before getting up, blankets tight around him, and hurrying to the neatly organized structure made out of wooden barrels. He leans over them and blindly taps his fist along the tent’s tarp, huffing out a laugh when he hits something, and that something complains.
“Sam? Please tell me that’s you.”
A moment of stillness stretches out, and Castiel is already starting to step back with caution, when the material is heaved upwards, and Sam’s head pops in with a sputter.
Castiel laughs from sheer joy. “I’m so glad to see you,” he says, moving around the barrels to help pull up the tarp for Sam to slip inside.
“Likewise,” Sam grunts, shimming himself free.
Castiel steps away to grant him enough space to stretch his limbs, and once that’s over, he doesn’t really know what else to do. They both stand there, looking around, until Castiel awkwardly extends his hand. “I suppose this is where I say thank you.”
Sam looks down at the offered hand. “Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sure thing, don’t mention it.” Probably because he has no other choice, he shakes it with an awkward chuckle.
“I figure it’s obvious that you’ve already heard Victor’s plans,” Castiel says, heading towards the front flap to verify their privacy.
“Honestly, I’m intrigued about this whole Thoth’s power thing,” he says, edging on suspicious. “What’d I miss?”
Castiel sighs, stepping away from the door. “I’ll explain once we’re on the way. How’s Dean?” Taking the look on Sam’s face into consideration, Castiel frowns. He steps forward. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”
Sam walks across the tent, rummages through Victor’s desk. Castiel watches, but thinks it useless to tell him that Victor doesn’t keep anything that may cause anyone harm in the tent. He isn’t that stupid. Victor will grant his enemies a margin of movement, false comfort, but never an easy way out.
“He’s seen better days, but he’ll jump back.” Pressing a hand over his face, Sam straightens up and offers Castiel a nod that is meant to pacify. “Dean always does.”
“What happened? I heard he found the ankh but other than that…”
“I’ll fill you in on the way back, I promise.”
Castiel is about to agree, but a thought strikes him. “Are we really going to risk heading back to the camp? You heard what Victor said.”
“We don’t really have much of a choice,” Sam explains, already climbing over the barrels when he finds nothing useful. “Dean is still there, and if they know I’m gone, heh, God knows what they’ve done to him.”
Distress sinks into Castiel’s stomach like poison. He stops Sam with a hand to the elbow. “Why didn’t he come with you? Why did he send you instead of coming himself?”
“Nice to know my efforts are appreciated.”
“You know what I mean, Sam,” Castiel says, voice hard. “Tell me what happened to Dean.”
On the other side of the barrels, Castiel watches an array of emotions cross Sam’s face before settling on annoyance. “Look, Dean isn’t himself right now, and he might be in trouble if we don’t hurry back. We gotta move, Cas.”
Before Castiel can either agree or argue, Sam is already crouching down and slipping outside.
Casting the tent one last miserable look, Castiel sheds his sheets, and reluctantly follows Sam into the freezing cold.
❖
“Whoa,” Sam says, loud enough to make Castiel flinch. “Why the hell are you wearing a skirt?”
They’ve made it as far as the camp perimeters without incident, and Castiel is now convinced that Victor knows Sam is here, and that they are currently making their escape. He has made sure to stay one step behind Sam all the way, but now that they’ve reached the horses, it’s hard to stay out of his eyesight.
“It’s a shendyt,” Castiel defends, wrapping his arms around his midriff.
“N-No, I know…I know what it is.” And of course he does. Castiel would have otherwise questioned his title as an archeology professor. “Is that…legitimate?”
Sam eyeing him makes Castiel uncomfortable. “As authentic as it gets, I’m afraid. This should be in a museum, not in the desert fueling some sick fetish.” Avoiding further explanation, Castiel helps Sam untie one of the horses. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
But looking at Sam, Castiel notices that it isn’t his state of undress that Sam is focusing on.
“Is that…new?” Sam asks, already advancing until Castiel takes a hesitant step back. “I’m sorry, I’m not going to-”
“No,” Castiel says, shaking his head. He licks his lips. “Berlin.”
“I have salve in my bag,” Sam says, and he’s opening the satchel before Castiel can protest. “Here.”
“Do you normally carry that around?” He tries to joke, but the question comes out terse and clipped, his teeth chattering in the cold.
“Put it on,” Sam says, stern but gentle. Castiel takes the small metal container and unscrews the cap. By his side, Sam removes his jacket. “And wear this. Night’s too cold to ride shirtless.”
Castiel warily dabs the salve on the scabbing wound in the shape of a swastika. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, but the surrounding area is still tender to the touch.
Putting the cap back, he hands it over to Sam, and takes his jacket. “Thank you, Sam. I truly am grateful for your help.”
Sam slips the container back into his satchel and shudders against the cold. “Don’t mention it,” he says, grabbing his horse and mounting it. “Now let’s get a move on. See if we can get back to the camp before the sun rises.”
The last time Castiel had been on a horse, he had been twelve and spent the summer in Liverpool. But just like riding a bike, it isn’t something you forget. Grabbing on to the saddle’s pommel, and hooking a foot on the stirrup, Castiel swiftly mounts the steed on the first try.
Luckily, he’s wearing a warrior’s shendyt, and its short length allows him to move freely.
“Wouldn’t it be better if you, uh, well, grab your clothes before we leave?”
Castiel chuckles, or maybe it’s his teeth clattering, because he’s been expecting the question. “I’ve looked everywhere for them, Sam. I’m certain Victor had them burned. I wouldn’t be wearing this if I had trousers at my disposal.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Sam mutters to himself, but Castiel can still hear him. “That’ll wake Dean up faster than a lightning bolt.”
The remark would have been humorous if not for the underlying connotations regarding Dean’s current state. He means to ask Sam again now that they’ll be on their way, but he holds back, fearing that the truth may be more terrible than the explanations his mind offers him.
“You ready to go?” he hears Sam say, and he nods without paying much attention.
They head off into the west, towards the river.
Neither of them speaks until the Nazi camp and village are far behind them, and nothing but sand and the occasional desert weed crosses their path. They slow to a hurried trot when the cold wind becomes too much to handle.
Nothing but the moon illuminates their path.
Castiel is sore all over, he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a very long time, and the calming herbs he drank a half hour ago are beginning to calm him too much. With their slow gallop, his head lolls and he jerks himself up, rapidly blinking his eyes to keep himself from falling asleep.
“You want to tell me about this power thing Victor was talking about?” Sam asks, very loudly.
Castiel is both relieved and weary. “It’s more of a theory based on a myth, really. You’d be surprised by how resolute these people are about believing in supernatural forces.” Flexing his neck, Castiel yawns. “I figured it’d be wise to use that to my advantage, make myself seem like a potential threat.”
Sam brings up his horse close to Castiel. He figures the wind is carrying away his voice. “So… what, they think you’re some sort of chosen one?”
Castiel mulls it over. “Not quite. More like a key. A translator…” he lets the word melt away. There’s another word to describe it, but he can’t quite find it. “A conduit,” he finishes.
“Conduit for what?”
“No idea. Victor is convinced that it’s in my blood; that it was chosen by the gods that I commit to this mission and see it through.”
“The mission to help the Axis Powers win the war?”
“To unlock the power within the city,” Castiel says, licking his cracked lips.
Sam stays quiet for a long moment, before sighing. “This makes me nervous.”
Castiel chuckles. “I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
“No, I mean, think about it. Dean is the one that got the ankh, you’re the conduit. Whatever that means… What about me?”
He’s right, and Castiel wonders just how he hadn’t seen it before. Everything comes in an assortment of threes. He can’t help but fret about Sam’s involvement, for he doesn’t recall Victor saying anything on the subject.
“Did Victor say anything about what they’re expecting to find in the city? If you’re the conduit, then there has to be some information on what they’re after, right? Any myth you two talked about in particular?”
“He mentioned Ra, but I doubt that’s useful.”
Sam snorts. “Ra, of course. That only narrows it down to about a thousand myths regarding the Egyptian pantheon.”
“It does, actually,” Castiel says, burrowing deeper into the jacket. “Ra is a sun god, which means the ritual to opening the city isn’t by night, as Portia thought it would be.”
Sam’s huff, after a moment of tense silence, sounds relieved. “Which means we didn’t miss the opportunity with the full moon?”
“It would seem so.”
“All right, recap time. Thoth, moon god, is the key to the city of Ra, sun god.”
Concentrating on Sam’s voice, an echo of a memory teases the borders of Castiel’s conscious. He chases it, only to realize that it’s more of a theory than an actual memory. There are bits and pieces of myths and lectures he’s attended through the years, and there’s something, something, that connects it all.
“Oh, my God,” Castiel says, when it finally shifts into place. “Amun-Ra. The City of Amun-Ra.”
“What?”
“Sam, the ankh that Dean found, are you sure that it’s the Ankh of Thoth?”
Sam blinks at him, looking confused. “I didn’t see it, but I suppose it is? Eckhart was ecstatic over the thing.”
“Three, the number is three.”
“Cas?”
“Thoth used to be the moon god before becoming the god of wisdom. The title was inherited by Khonsu, who was the son of Amun and Mut. Amun then became Amun-Ra - the father of all gods.”
Sam’s nod is slow and measured. “I follow, but I don’t see what you mean…” but his eyes are widening before he can finish his own sentence. “Cas, you’re a genius!”
Castiel grins. “The triad.”
“Thebes,” Sam says, the word joined by a laugh. “The City of Amun-Ra is in Luxor!”
“Which means Victor had been right,” Castiel says, rolling with the revelation. “The city should be just south of Cairo.”
“That’s a six hour trip, on a boat. How long do you think it’ll take us by horse?”
Running a hand across the horse’s mane, Castiel huffs. “Eight hours, approximately.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to outrun Eckhart and his men?”
Sam’s enthusiasm is a nice change of pace, but Castiel has to shake his head. “Do you honestly think they won’t be waiting for us the moment we arrive at the camp?”
A particularly sharp gust of wind leaves Sam sputtering, and Castiel squinting when sand gets in his eyes.
The desert climate is severe in every way possible, and part of Castiel wishes that they won’t be waiting for them, just so he can settle down on a cot and sleep for a few hours, basking in the knowledge that Dean is safe.
“Dean says we’ll be safe inside the city,” Sam says, and Castiel looks at him.
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing much. I thought he was delusional, that it was the fever talking.”
Castiel swallows around the knot in his throat. “He didn’t mention Amun-Ra?”
“I’m saying that he didn’t mention much of anything. He told me where you’d be, told me to come get you because it was important; said we’ll be safe inside the city.”
Thumb scratching against the horse’s reins, Castiel sniffs. “How did he know where I was?”
The question hangs heavy, and Castiel infers that Sam himself is still having trouble coming to terms with whatever it was that happened with Dean.
“I don’t know,” Sam says, sounding tired beyond his years. “I went in blind. God knows I wasn’t expecting to find you, and yet… there you were. He mentioned that you had to be there to find the city, and then this, and… I don’t know what to think, or what to say.”
God of wisdom.
Sickening dread twists and thrashes in Castiel’s gut. He has no idea what happened during his absence, but he can already tell that the consequences are less than favorable.
“Did he go into the river?” Castiel asks, recalling Dean’s telling of the myth.
Sam casts him a blank look, and nods. “He was gone for three days. Washed up on shore this morning.” At Castiel’s gasp, he adds: “Alive. He’s alive.”
A cloud of despair looms overhead, and Castiel develops trouble breathing. Thankful of being mounted on a horse, his knees begin to tremble, and he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to stand even if he tried. Worry and grief cut through him so sharply that his eyelashes grow wet with unshed tears.
“Promise me he’s okay, Sam.” His words waver, and he relies solely on his horse to guide the way. “Please.”
Sam is quiet for a long moment, but eventually reassures him. “He’s alive and breathing, Cas, I promise. He most likely needs a couple of days to recover, but he’ll be fine.”
It isn’t much to go on, but Castiel nods. For now, it’s enough.
“On the bright side, we now have a solid heading, you’re back, and Dean is in one piece,” Sam continues, nudging Castiel’s foot with his own. “We’re gonna make it through this, Cas. Just you watch.”
Castiel tries his best to offer a smile, because Sam is right. Soon they will all be together, and together, they will be unstoppable.
They will pull through, see the journey to the very end, and save the world. The archaeologist, the treasure hunter, and the librarian.
They sound relatively harmless, but in the face of danger and ruin, to protect their family, they will give it everything they’ve got.
❖
The nudge of sleep dissolves when he and Sam arrive at the camp.
Unsurprised, Castiel slows his horse and casts Sam a glance, but the Winchester is too busy looking through the crowd to notice it.
At the mouth of the desert stand dozens of soldiers, with Eckhart at the front, looking unstoppable in his billowing black coat. He salutes them, and Castiel’s frown deepens.
“Nice of you to rejoin us, gentlemen,” Eckhart says, clapping his gloved hands together. “Just in time to head out, too. Isn’t that right, Herr Winchester?”
A young soldier pulls Dean from the crowd, keeping him upright with a hand to his chest. He’s wrapped up in blankets, head hanging low and swaying from side to side.
Eckhart is speaking again, but Castiel too busy stumbling off his horse and falling onto the sandy ground in clumsy movements driven by the need to make sure that Dean is all right. He’s vaguely aware of Sam doing the same behind him.
Castiel pushes through the wall of men who try in vain to hold him back, but with an order barked out by Eckhart, they all step back and clear the way.
The young man holding Dean in place is the last to pull away, only doing so when Castiel is within reach, letting Dean falls to his knees with a quiet groan. Castiel is there right then, heart hammering wildly within his chest as he tries to straighten Dean up, to look at him, but after several furtive tries he gives up, and lets him slump against his chest.
Wrapping his arms around him, Castiel’s breathing hitches as he whispers kind words into Dean’s ear, holding him tight enough to bruise. The movement tugs at his wound, but Castiel couldn’t care less about that.
A hand to Dean’s cheek, Castiel tries to get him to look up, to check for any signs of violence or an explanation for the frailness he’s seeing, but there’s nothing. Dean’s eyes are open and out of focus, his lips pale in the moonlight, and his skin cold to the touch. He looks lifeless, and Castiel can feel those last threads of heat flush out of his body in understanding.
But Dean breathes then, mumbles out a “Cas?” and Castiel nearly releases a wild sob.
“Yes, Dean, I’m here now,” he whispers, lips pressing against the bridge of Dean’s nose. “I’m here.”
Dean hums, lips twitching into a tiny smile. “Glad to ‘ear it.”
Castiel chuckles, still breathless and borderline panicked. “Don’t talk, my love. Save your energy.” He whispers the words to Dean’s cheek, and he smiles when those green eyes finally move to focus on him.
“That’s new,” Dean says, every word sounding like a struggle.
Castiel shushes him, holding him tight enough to fend off the cold from both their bodies. He listens to Dean’s steady breathing, feels the rhythmic beating of his heart against the palm of his hand.
It’s at that precise moment that Castiel becomes hyperaware of the silence all around him.
Dozens of people have been stunned into silence, and he can sense his shoulders becoming tense, for he has made a huge mistake. It occurs to him now that Victor’s remarks about his and Dean’s bond have only been in jest, and that no one truly believed that the two of them, as men, have found a certain kind of comfort within each other’s arms.
Castiel squeezes his eyes shut in horror. God only knows that the mercy he and Dean are to be shown will only last until the quest has been completed. Afterwards, it’s anybody’s guess what the method of disposal will be, for there is no place for men who love men in this new world order.
A hand to Castiel’s shoulder startles him, but calm washes over him when he sees that it’s only Sam standing across from him, hands extended.
With a shuddering sigh, Castiel hands Dean over to his little brother.
The sound of shifting sand makes Castiel tense again, and looking to his side, he can see Eckhart’s silhouette approach him. Pulling the jacket closer to him, Castiel stands up and faces him, chin held high. He’s ready to defend what he has to, even if the repercussions are to be grave.
Eckhart stands inches away from him, tall and imposing, hair slick and shining under the moon. He’s a handsome fellow, Castiel decides, and it’s a shame that his foul personality and putrid soul make him so unlikable. Castiel longs to dance upon the very grave he’ll put him in.
“Herr Milton,” he says, eyes hard and nearly black in the darkness around them. “I believe you have been informed of the situation at hand?”
Castiel squares his shoulders, eyes narrowing with overwhelming anger. “I know enough.”
“Excellent. In that case, we have no need to waste time on debriefing.” The people present scatter at the wave of his hand. “We leave for Luxor in thirty minutes.”
Clenching his jaw, Castiel watches Eckhart walk away, shouting orders as he goes.
“Cas?” Sam calls from behind him.
He turns to see Sam holding a nearly catatonic Dean to his side, his arm slung around Sam’s shoulders. Wordlessly, Castiel follows him to their tent.
“We can’t risk moving Dean this way,” Castiel says once he steps inside Sam and Dean’s temporary sleeping quarters. “Even by boat it would be too risky.”
He helps Sam set Dean on the sleeping bag, then verifies that he’s securely wrapped in the blankets. Just for a moment, Castiel allows his hand to linger on Dean’s cheek for a hint of reassurance.
“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” he hears Sam say, but his mind is on other matters.
“How do they know where the city is located?” He and Sam pieced the puzzle together during their ride back to camp. There is no possible way for them to know.
“I told ‘em,” Dean says out of the blue, startling them both.
Castiel watches as Dean tries to straighten up, and he helps him as far as leaning him against the tent wall. There isn’t much of a difference in Dean’s appearance, his eyes still glossy and unseeing, face pale and muscle not really functioning the way they should, but he seems aware of the world around him.
Sam crouches in front of him, and places a hand on his ankle. “Dean?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, and chuckles, but his lips don’t exactly move. Castiel frowns at how disturbed he is by it.
“What do you mean?” Castiel presses, allows himself to shift and sit by Dean’s side, borrowing some of his body heat. “How did you know?”
“Sam didn’t tell you.”
It isn’t phrased as a question, which causes Castiel to give Sam a hard look. “No, he didn’t.”
“I like to call it the All-Seeing Eye effect,” Dean says with a hint of humor. His words sound looser around his tongue. “Stuff just… pops into my head.”
Finding Dean’s hand, Castiel’s squeezes it. He’s confused, troubled, but not skeptical. Castiel has witnessed enough - the last straw being Dean’s vacant eyes - to not believe in the fantastical stories weaving themselves around him.
“Like a psychic?” Castiel’s words are tentative, afraid of discovering how far is too far.
Dean answers with a squeeze of his own. “You okay?” he asks instead, thumb jerkily caressing the back of Castiel’s hand. “Victor didn’t do anything to you, did he? Besides make you wear a skirt.”
“It’s a shendyt,” Castiel and Sam say in unison, and Dean’s mouth stiffly forms into a smile.
“That’s my boys,” he says, and tries to wiggle the foot Sam is holding onto.
“We’re heading out in twenty,” Sam says while looking down at Dean’s foot. Castiel understands the open sadness worn so blatantly on his face, so he looks away in respect. “We should get ready for the trip back. At least we’ll be near Cairo. There should be a hospital there. Just in case.”
“Sounds good, Sammy.
“Cas, stay with him.”
And he doesn’t need to be told twice.
Castiel watches Sam grab two canteens and head outside.
“I’d hold you tenderly but,” Dean says jokingly, still squeezing Castiel’s hand. “I hope you understand.”
Nodding his head, Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek.
“You missed the spot. A little more towards the mouth.”
Castiel chuckles at that, and gently cradling Dean’s jaw, turns his face to soundly kiss his lips. Soft and dry, it’s nothing but a gentle press. “Better?”
Dean hums. “Much.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“I am all right,” Dean says, stiffly maneuvering himself to fall onto Castiel’s space. “My body isn’t exactly working how it should but, my mind’s crisp and clear.”
Understanding what Dean is trying to do, Castiel sits closer, wrapping his arms so that they’re as close as possible. “What happened?”
“Long story short? Thoth happened.” Dean flinches at the name. “Knowledge of the gods is a lot vaster than you may ever be able to think. Miracle I’m still talking… but that may have been Ma’at’s doing.”
It sounds like nonsense, but Castiel listens, tracing absent circles along Dean’s shoulder.
“She doesn’t like that these sons of bitches are toying with her balance. She’s a mighty fine lady once you get past the whole ostrich thing.”
Realization comes with the word ostrich, and Castiel recalls the ostrich feather common in Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. “Why was she there?” he asks, considering that the goddess of balance is usually by Osiris’ side, judging souls for the afterlife. “Dean?”
“Yeah, I may have walked through Hell for a few eternities. It’s no big deal. Not as bad as you think once you get past the tormented souls and fucking Anubis looking at you for milliseconds that feel like the force of a thousand supernovas are going off within every atom of your very being-”
“Dean…”
“Your body deteriorates after a few years, flesh and bone hanging only to come back again and you can feel it. You can feel every miserable second, every breath of fire and rot. The agonizing ache in your bones - always running, you have to run; if you don’t they’ll catch you and they’ll eat you, spit out your bones and chew on your soul-”
“Dean!” Castiel shouts loud enough to snap him out of it.
Dean’s words bring forth the jittering of a thousand fire ants prickling underneath Castiel’s skin, and his ears ring to the point where it becomes painful. He can feel something hot trickling out of them. A scream builds under his chin, and he fears that if he starts, he will never be able to stop.
There’s horror, there’s hopelessness, and it chews away at Castiel’s seams.
Dean gasps then, stopping his invocation-like words, eyes wide and terrified.
And like flipping a switch, the veil of terror is gone.
Castiel is left gasping, hand clutching at his own chest, refusing to move at all. “D-Dea-”
“I’m sorry,” he hears Dean whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry…” His breathing hitches, and his hand trembles in Castiel’s hold. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, Dean, it’s okay, don’t.” Castiel tries to sooth him, to calm him, but he can see that there is nothing he can do. Dean is withdrawing again, locking himself behind the unseeing eyes and unresponsive affliction.
Castiel remains in place, his core shaken and distressed.
Even the air inside the tent smells different, poignant with the stench of corpses locked away for a million years.
This is the power sealed inside Dean’s fragile human mind.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but Castiel turns around when he feels eyes boring into his back. Sam is standing by the door, eyes wide and gleaming with unshed tears. By his feet are three bags, and Castiel figures that he’s been there the entire time.
“What are you going to do?” Sam asks, words muffled and hoarse.
“I don’t know.” All Castiel wants to do is scream.
❖
To Sam’s relief, they head off north in a caravan of cars and tanks specially designed to weather the desert terrain. Either way, he imagines it would make little difference if they went upstream on a ship. After Dean’s episode back in the tent, Sam is assured that nothing will ever scare him to that level again. He’s afraid to even close his eyes.
He, along with Dean and Castiel, rides in the back of a Ford convertible.
His pocket watch says it’s two in the morning.
The silence in the car is absolute, with Bela riding on the passenger’s side and the driver looking too constipated to say much of anything. Dean is slumped over, fast asleep, with his head on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel dozes off, but forces himself awake every so often, shifting in his seat and better accommodating Dean’s weight.
He and Sam occasionally exchange significant looks, but not a single word is spoken. They’re on the way to Thebes, Dean is indisposed, and there isn’t a remote chance of doing anything about it.
Soon they will have to start the final chapter of their journey, and Sam fears what he will find. There is still no word from John, he misses Jessica dearly, Dean is teetering over the precipice of insanity, and the chances that Sam is the key to some big event later on during the day are pretty high.
The situation only gets increasingly worse the more he thinks about it.
Dean jerks by his side, and he’s quick to place a hand on his arm. Castiel too holds him down, but instead of a fit, Dean sags and begins snoring again.
The two of them let out a sigh.
Sam notices Bela looking at him through the rearview mirror, but neither one of them says a thing on the subject.
The car eventually crosses through Giza, but the pyramids inspire little excitement in the cold, somber night.
❖
They reach Luxor just before dawn breaks over the Valley of the Kings, and Castiel has never seen such a sight.
He’s unceremoniously hauled out of the car, and he hears Sam cursing as they do the same to him. Castiel knows he should feel affronted, should say something for the rudeness, but his heart swells with wonders born from wonders.
The sky above him is still an inky black, stars faintly glimmering every here and there. But the horizon is already turning a soft pink, the first rays of the sun creeping over the dry and rocky fields of the necropolis.
Castiel sees it, fleetingly catching the corner of his eyes before he turns to face it. The gloaming stirs awe beyond his wildest imagination as the lightening black fades into blue, and slowly begins turning into the orange of a new day. It makes shadows play along the sprawling temples of Luxor and Karnak, its monuments that hold the past in stone gates and immovable gods.
“Lord in Heaven,” Sam says from somewhere behind him, but Castiel is rapt.
The hum of cicadas fills the deathly quiet, echoing through the stone ruins.
A beat of tranquility perches over the valley, unifying them in a strange sense that smells otherworldly.
Dean appears by his side, startling Castiel. He’s standing without anybody’s help, and he looks strangely healthy in the new light.
“Sam,” Dean says, and Castiel takes a step back. The understanding flows in until it floods.
Sam is the key.
Castiel gets to stand on the sidelines for now.
“Get the key,” Dean continues, eyes steady towards the rising sun.
Castiel watches as Sam tersely approaches Bela rather than Eckhart, both of who are wearing mirror expressions of astonishment. He asks for the ankh, and Bela holds his gaze as she produces a bundle of fabric from inside her blouse, handing it over.
Sam fumbles with the artifact, and quickly takes it to Dean.
They swap words Castiel can’t hear, and it’s only then that he notices how far Dean and Sam have walked. He can no longer see them, just their silhouettes against the brilliant sun that slowly begins its ascent. Castiel squints, hand over his eyes, but he still can’t look away from the surreal beauty.
Bela comes to stand beside him.
“For glory,” she says, holding her dainty hands to her chest.
The history lover in Castiel agrees with her; the other part, the humane part of him, simply wishes for their safety.
Side by side, they watch the dark figures move in tandem, a graceful pull and push of arms, followed by a serene pause.
Castiel sees the shape of the ankh being raised between the brothers, a black cross with a loop at its head, where the sun’s beam shines through. Sam takes it, and turns towards the rising sun.
He’s burning, Castiel’s mind whispers; he’s burning like a wick, holding the flame that consumes him within the heart of the gods. The light is but a halo of flames that purifies, sanctifies, and rebirths an entity within Sam’s body. The key.
Eventually, it becomes too difficult to look on, and Castiel turns his head to stare at the temple of Karnak, only to find that it’s no longer there. Bela realizes this too, but her gasp is canceled out by the rising chorus of cicadas, and soon they are all forced to clap their hands over their ears.
The ground beneath Castiel’s feet begins to quake. Thunder claps overhead despite there being no cloud in sight. The noise grows, the river rumbles, and the sun is blinding.
But Castiel has to look. Even if it turns him to salt, he has to look, and he does.
At long last, above the Valley of the Kings, stands the ancient City of Amun-Ra.
▲ previous chapter || chapter nine || 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 wind’s howls are severe to the point in which an order to better secure the tents had been issued. The desert night is freezing, uncomfortable enough to keep officers and soldiers alike indoors. Fires have been set ablaze to fight off the cold, and dozens of sheets, raided from the nearby village, now line Victor’s well-equipped tent.
Castiel feels the chill settle in his bones, making them ache.
His fingers and toes hurt too much to move, even while sitting in front of the high-voltage lantern Victor keeps at the middle of his tent. Despite fearing a fire, Castiel keeps close to it.
At least the tent’s floor is covered with layers of luxurious rugs and animal skins. Reminiscent of a palace, there are fancy divans, elegant desks, and tapestries lining the walls. Castiel considers it an abomination. This entire situation is disgusting and offensive, but all he can do is sit and work as commanded.
Castiel can work under threats of torture, but with the brothers’ safety at stake, he can’t and won’t take any chances. Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters. Only, it’d be easier if bleeding were a more literal thing.
He shivers, feeling cold and miserable as he’s currently exposed. Regardless of how many sheets he layers over his legs and shoulders, there’s no fighting the chill of being semi-nude. He does marvel, for a brief instant, how Ancient Egyptians had been able to weather such extreme climates.
He’s startled when a tea kettle begins to whistle.
“Sounds like our drinks are done,” Victor says, appearing by the tent door and stepping inside. “Or will be in a few seconds. Hope you don’t mind the wait.”
Castiel refrains from looking at him, focusing instead on the heat of the lantern before him. He closes in on himself, coiling tighter in the cocoon of sheets. When he pulls against the scarring tissues at his side, Castiel allows himself enough slack to not hurt himself.
Behind the divan, Victor arranges the fine china: tiny teacups placed on delicate saucers belonging to the Quing Dynasty. At least the tea smells exquisite, but it may just be the hunger chiming in on the argument. He’s eaten nothing but oatmeal for the past three days.
Castiel flinches when the teacup is placed on the floor in front of him, and jerks away when Victor gently touches Castiel’s head.
“Chamomile to soothe those nerves,” he says, and walks towards his divan.
Castiel twists in place so that he’s facing Victor, but not looking at him. He knows better than to present his back to the enemy. A particularly loud gust of wind makes Castiel shudder, and as a result, he takes his tea. He could use something to calm him.
“I received news from Eckhart’s camp.” Castiel looks up at that. “Mr. Winchester has resurfaced.”
The teacup rattles against the saucer, even while Castiel tries to hold it still. His heart races, he feels lightheaded, and he leans close enough to not miss a word. “Is he all right?” His voice is cracked from disuse.
Victor smiles, and takes a sip from his tea. “He’s alive, and he brought us the ankh.”
The sensation is similar to a shower of warm water; it’s comforting and gentle against his abused skin. Castiel huffs out a shaky laugh as relief spreads inside his chest and stomach. “Thank God.”
“God has nothing to do with it, darling,” Victor says, his smile turning smug. “And if the information is accurate, the professor should be on his way here. Gallant fellow, thinking he can save his brother’s prince.”
The heat the cup emits feels glorious on Castiel’s fingers. Knowing that Sam is on his way to get him does trouble him, but he’s too overcome with contentment to think ill of it. One step closer; they are one step closer to ending this dreadful journey.
“And I assume you’re going to let me walk out with him, aren’t you? Lead the way into the city?”
“That’s exactly what I am going to do, Castiel. Have tonight with your charming companions, for tomorrow we will find you regardless of where you’ve gone.”
Castiel breathes deep, the rich aroma dancing around his nose and warming everything within him. He takes a cautious sip, and hums at the pleasant taste.
“There will be no throwing you off our scent, I see,” Castiel says, feeling brave enough to challenge him. “What makes you think we’ll simply allow you into the city?”
“We have guns.”
Castiel musters an honest smile. “And they have me.” It’s a good a bluff as any, but if the Winchesters taught Castiel anything, it’s to be resourceful. So he uses the knowledge he’s obtained over the past couple of days.
Victor’s laugh is loud and sudden, and he puts down his teacup in favor of clapping his hands with mirth. “That’s more like it! If you’ve got the power, you wield it. Of course, the power of Thoth doesn’t grant you immortality… I can still shoot you.”
Castiel’s eyes widen, more out of pity than actual shock. “We’ve discussed this already. No one knows what’s inside the city and no one will until we step inside.”
“And we’re going to step inside,” Victor says, pulling out a handgun from inside his jacket, and balancing it on his knee. “Isn’t that right, angel?”
Castiel takes one more sip of his tea before setting the cup down on its saucer. For the first time since his arrival at Qift, Castiel holds Victor’s eyes without fear. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” he says, coolly.
Humming thoughtfully, Victor looks at the clock that stands beside the tent’s opening. It’s half past midnight.
“I’m glad that we’ve had this brief yet interesting conversation,” Victor announces, getting up and adjusting his jacket. “But I’m afraid I have other business to attend to. Mainly verifying that our caravan is ready to pack up for the last stretch of this expedition.”
“Of course,” Castiel says, sounding far too polite even to himself. Bringing his attention back to the lantern, Castiel gives no sign of noticing the shadow moving along the back of the tent. “I suggest you wear gloves. Wouldn’t want to lose fingers due to frostbite.”
Victor snorts. “It’s nowhere near as cold.”
Castiel gives a graceful shrug. “Suit yourself. Also, is there any way of knowing when Sam will arrive?”
He’s ready to bet, judging by the size of the shadow alone, that Sam is already here.
The shadow disappears behind a stack of beer kegs.
“Message was received via telegram some thirty minutes ago. He should be around here somewhere by now.” And with that, Victor slinks out into the cold night.
Castiel waits until he hears the footsteps receding before getting up, blankets tight around him, and hurrying to the neatly organized structure made out of wooden barrels. He leans over them and blindly taps his fist along the tent’s tarp, huffing out a laugh when he hits something, and that something complains.
“Sam? Please tell me that’s you.”
A moment of stillness stretches out, and Castiel is already starting to step back with caution, when the material is heaved upwards, and Sam’s head pops in with a sputter.
Castiel laughs from sheer joy. “I’m so glad to see you,” he says, moving around the barrels to help pull up the tarp for Sam to slip inside.
“Likewise,” Sam grunts, shimming himself free.
Castiel steps away to grant him enough space to stretch his limbs, and once that’s over, he doesn’t really know what else to do. They both stand there, looking around, until Castiel awkwardly extends his hand. “I suppose this is where I say thank you.”
Sam looks down at the offered hand. “Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sure thing, don’t mention it.” Probably because he has no other choice, he shakes it with an awkward chuckle.
“I figure it’s obvious that you’ve already heard Victor’s plans,” Castiel says, heading towards the front flap to verify their privacy.
“Honestly, I’m intrigued about this whole Thoth’s power thing,” he says, edging on suspicious. “What’d I miss?”
Castiel sighs, stepping away from the door. “I’ll explain once we’re on the way. How’s Dean?” Taking the look on Sam’s face into consideration, Castiel frowns. He steps forward. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”
Sam walks across the tent, rummages through Victor’s desk. Castiel watches, but thinks it useless to tell him that Victor doesn’t keep anything that may cause anyone harm in the tent. He isn’t that stupid. Victor will grant his enemies a margin of movement, false comfort, but never an easy way out.
“He’s seen better days, but he’ll jump back.” Pressing a hand over his face, Sam straightens up and offers Castiel a nod that is meant to pacify. “Dean always does.”
“What happened? I heard he found the ankh but other than that…”
“I’ll fill you in on the way back, I promise.”
Castiel is about to agree, but a thought strikes him. “Are we really going to risk heading back to the camp? You heard what Victor said.”
“We don’t really have much of a choice,” Sam explains, already climbing over the barrels when he finds nothing useful. “Dean is still there, and if they know I’m gone, heh, God knows what they’ve done to him.”
Distress sinks into Castiel’s stomach like poison. He stops Sam with a hand to the elbow. “Why didn’t he come with you? Why did he send you instead of coming himself?”
“Nice to know my efforts are appreciated.”
“You know what I mean, Sam,” Castiel says, voice hard. “Tell me what happened to Dean.”
On the other side of the barrels, Castiel watches an array of emotions cross Sam’s face before settling on annoyance. “Look, Dean isn’t himself right now, and he might be in trouble if we don’t hurry back. We gotta move, Cas.”
Before Castiel can either agree or argue, Sam is already crouching down and slipping outside.
Casting the tent one last miserable look, Castiel sheds his sheets, and reluctantly follows Sam into the freezing cold.
❖
“Whoa,” Sam says, loud enough to make Castiel flinch. “Why the hell are you wearing a skirt?”
They’ve made it as far as the camp perimeters without incident, and Castiel is now convinced that Victor knows Sam is here, and that they are currently making their escape. He has made sure to stay one step behind Sam all the way, but now that they’ve reached the horses, it’s hard to stay out of his eyesight.
“It’s a shendyt,” Castiel defends, wrapping his arms around his midriff.
“N-No, I know…I know what it is.” And of course he does. Castiel would have otherwise questioned his title as an archeology professor. “Is that…legitimate?”
Sam eyeing him makes Castiel uncomfortable. “As authentic as it gets, I’m afraid. This should be in a museum, not in the desert fueling some sick fetish.” Avoiding further explanation, Castiel helps Sam untie one of the horses. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
But looking at Sam, Castiel notices that it isn’t his state of undress that Sam is focusing on.
“Is that…new?” Sam asks, already advancing until Castiel takes a hesitant step back. “I’m sorry, I’m not going to-”
“No,” Castiel says, shaking his head. He licks his lips. “Berlin.”
“I have salve in my bag,” Sam says, and he’s opening the satchel before Castiel can protest. “Here.”
“Do you normally carry that around?” He tries to joke, but the question comes out terse and clipped, his teeth chattering in the cold.
“Put it on,” Sam says, stern but gentle. Castiel takes the small metal container and unscrews the cap. By his side, Sam removes his jacket. “And wear this. Night’s too cold to ride shirtless.”
Castiel warily dabs the salve on the scabbing wound in the shape of a swastika. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, but the surrounding area is still tender to the touch.
Putting the cap back, he hands it over to Sam, and takes his jacket. “Thank you, Sam. I truly am grateful for your help.”
Sam slips the container back into his satchel and shudders against the cold. “Don’t mention it,” he says, grabbing his horse and mounting it. “Now let’s get a move on. See if we can get back to the camp before the sun rises.”
The last time Castiel had been on a horse, he had been twelve and spent the summer in Liverpool. But just like riding a bike, it isn’t something you forget. Grabbing on to the saddle’s pommel, and hooking a foot on the stirrup, Castiel swiftly mounts the steed on the first try.
Luckily, he’s wearing a warrior’s shendyt, and its short length allows him to move freely.
“Wouldn’t it be better if you, uh, well, grab your clothes before we leave?”
Castiel chuckles, or maybe it’s his teeth clattering, because he’s been expecting the question. “I’ve looked everywhere for them, Sam. I’m certain Victor had them burned. I wouldn’t be wearing this if I had trousers at my disposal.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Sam mutters to himself, but Castiel can still hear him. “That’ll wake Dean up faster than a lightning bolt.”
The remark would have been humorous if not for the underlying connotations regarding Dean’s current state. He means to ask Sam again now that they’ll be on their way, but he holds back, fearing that the truth may be more terrible than the explanations his mind offers him.
“You ready to go?” he hears Sam say, and he nods without paying much attention.
They head off into the west, towards the river.
Neither of them speaks until the Nazi camp and village are far behind them, and nothing but sand and the occasional desert weed crosses their path. They slow to a hurried trot when the cold wind becomes too much to handle.
Nothing but the moon illuminates their path.
Castiel is sore all over, he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a very long time, and the calming herbs he drank a half hour ago are beginning to calm him too much. With their slow gallop, his head lolls and he jerks himself up, rapidly blinking his eyes to keep himself from falling asleep.
“You want to tell me about this power thing Victor was talking about?” Sam asks, very loudly.
Castiel is both relieved and weary. “It’s more of a theory based on a myth, really. You’d be surprised by how resolute these people are about believing in supernatural forces.” Flexing his neck, Castiel yawns. “I figured it’d be wise to use that to my advantage, make myself seem like a potential threat.”
Sam brings up his horse close to Castiel. He figures the wind is carrying away his voice. “So… what, they think you’re some sort of chosen one?”
Castiel mulls it over. “Not quite. More like a key. A translator…” he lets the word melt away. There’s another word to describe it, but he can’t quite find it. “A conduit,” he finishes.
“Conduit for what?”
“No idea. Victor is convinced that it’s in my blood; that it was chosen by the gods that I commit to this mission and see it through.”
“The mission to help the Axis Powers win the war?”
“To unlock the power within the city,” Castiel says, licking his cracked lips.
Sam stays quiet for a long moment, before sighing. “This makes me nervous.”
Castiel chuckles. “I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
“No, I mean, think about it. Dean is the one that got the ankh, you’re the conduit. Whatever that means… What about me?”
He’s right, and Castiel wonders just how he hadn’t seen it before. Everything comes in an assortment of threes. He can’t help but fret about Sam’s involvement, for he doesn’t recall Victor saying anything on the subject.
“Did Victor say anything about what they’re expecting to find in the city? If you’re the conduit, then there has to be some information on what they’re after, right? Any myth you two talked about in particular?”
“He mentioned Ra, but I doubt that’s useful.”
Sam snorts. “Ra, of course. That only narrows it down to about a thousand myths regarding the Egyptian pantheon.”
“It does, actually,” Castiel says, burrowing deeper into the jacket. “Ra is a sun god, which means the ritual to opening the city isn’t by night, as Portia thought it would be.”
Sam’s huff, after a moment of tense silence, sounds relieved. “Which means we didn’t miss the opportunity with the full moon?”
“It would seem so.”
“All right, recap time. Thoth, moon god, is the key to the city of Ra, sun god.”
Concentrating on Sam’s voice, an echo of a memory teases the borders of Castiel’s conscious. He chases it, only to realize that it’s more of a theory than an actual memory. There are bits and pieces of myths and lectures he’s attended through the years, and there’s something, something, that connects it all.
“Oh, my God,” Castiel says, when it finally shifts into place. “Amun-Ra. The City of Amun-Ra.”
“What?”
“Sam, the ankh that Dean found, are you sure that it’s the Ankh of Thoth?”
Sam blinks at him, looking confused. “I didn’t see it, but I suppose it is? Eckhart was ecstatic over the thing.”
“Three, the number is three.”
“Cas?”
“Thoth used to be the moon god before becoming the god of wisdom. The title was inherited by Khonsu, who was the son of Amun and Mut. Amun then became Amun-Ra - the father of all gods.”
Sam’s nod is slow and measured. “I follow, but I don’t see what you mean…” but his eyes are widening before he can finish his own sentence. “Cas, you’re a genius!”
Castiel grins. “The triad.”
“Thebes,” Sam says, the word joined by a laugh. “The City of Amun-Ra is in Luxor!”
“Which means Victor had been right,” Castiel says, rolling with the revelation. “The city should be just south of Cairo.”
“That’s a six hour trip, on a boat. How long do you think it’ll take us by horse?”
Running a hand across the horse’s mane, Castiel huffs. “Eight hours, approximately.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to outrun Eckhart and his men?”
Sam’s enthusiasm is a nice change of pace, but Castiel has to shake his head. “Do you honestly think they won’t be waiting for us the moment we arrive at the camp?”
A particularly sharp gust of wind leaves Sam sputtering, and Castiel squinting when sand gets in his eyes.
The desert climate is severe in every way possible, and part of Castiel wishes that they won’t be waiting for them, just so he can settle down on a cot and sleep for a few hours, basking in the knowledge that Dean is safe.
“Dean says we’ll be safe inside the city,” Sam says, and Castiel looks at him.
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing much. I thought he was delusional, that it was the fever talking.”
Castiel swallows around the knot in his throat. “He didn’t mention Amun-Ra?”
“I’m saying that he didn’t mention much of anything. He told me where you’d be, told me to come get you because it was important; said we’ll be safe inside the city.”
Thumb scratching against the horse’s reins, Castiel sniffs. “How did he know where I was?”
The question hangs heavy, and Castiel infers that Sam himself is still having trouble coming to terms with whatever it was that happened with Dean.
“I don’t know,” Sam says, sounding tired beyond his years. “I went in blind. God knows I wasn’t expecting to find you, and yet… there you were. He mentioned that you had to be there to find the city, and then this, and… I don’t know what to think, or what to say.”
God of wisdom.
Sickening dread twists and thrashes in Castiel’s gut. He has no idea what happened during his absence, but he can already tell that the consequences are less than favorable.
“Did he go into the river?” Castiel asks, recalling Dean’s telling of the myth.
Sam casts him a blank look, and nods. “He was gone for three days. Washed up on shore this morning.” At Castiel’s gasp, he adds: “Alive. He’s alive.”
A cloud of despair looms overhead, and Castiel develops trouble breathing. Thankful of being mounted on a horse, his knees begin to tremble, and he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to stand even if he tried. Worry and grief cut through him so sharply that his eyelashes grow wet with unshed tears.
“Promise me he’s okay, Sam.” His words waver, and he relies solely on his horse to guide the way. “Please.”
Sam is quiet for a long moment, but eventually reassures him. “He’s alive and breathing, Cas, I promise. He most likely needs a couple of days to recover, but he’ll be fine.”
It isn’t much to go on, but Castiel nods. For now, it’s enough.
“On the bright side, we now have a solid heading, you’re back, and Dean is in one piece,” Sam continues, nudging Castiel’s foot with his own. “We’re gonna make it through this, Cas. Just you watch.”
Castiel tries his best to offer a smile, because Sam is right. Soon they will all be together, and together, they will be unstoppable.
They will pull through, see the journey to the very end, and save the world. The archaeologist, the treasure hunter, and the librarian.
They sound relatively harmless, but in the face of danger and ruin, to protect their family, they will give it everything they’ve got.
❖
The nudge of sleep dissolves when he and Sam arrive at the camp.
Unsurprised, Castiel slows his horse and casts Sam a glance, but the Winchester is too busy looking through the crowd to notice it.
At the mouth of the desert stand dozens of soldiers, with Eckhart at the front, looking unstoppable in his billowing black coat. He salutes them, and Castiel’s frown deepens.
“Nice of you to rejoin us, gentlemen,” Eckhart says, clapping his gloved hands together. “Just in time to head out, too. Isn’t that right, Herr Winchester?”
A young soldier pulls Dean from the crowd, keeping him upright with a hand to his chest. He’s wrapped up in blankets, head hanging low and swaying from side to side.
Eckhart is speaking again, but Castiel too busy stumbling off his horse and falling onto the sandy ground in clumsy movements driven by the need to make sure that Dean is all right. He’s vaguely aware of Sam doing the same behind him.
Castiel pushes through the wall of men who try in vain to hold him back, but with an order barked out by Eckhart, they all step back and clear the way.
The young man holding Dean in place is the last to pull away, only doing so when Castiel is within reach, letting Dean falls to his knees with a quiet groan. Castiel is there right then, heart hammering wildly within his chest as he tries to straighten Dean up, to look at him, but after several furtive tries he gives up, and lets him slump against his chest.
Wrapping his arms around him, Castiel’s breathing hitches as he whispers kind words into Dean’s ear, holding him tight enough to bruise. The movement tugs at his wound, but Castiel couldn’t care less about that.
A hand to Dean’s cheek, Castiel tries to get him to look up, to check for any signs of violence or an explanation for the frailness he’s seeing, but there’s nothing. Dean’s eyes are open and out of focus, his lips pale in the moonlight, and his skin cold to the touch. He looks lifeless, and Castiel can feel those last threads of heat flush out of his body in understanding.
But Dean breathes then, mumbles out a “Cas?” and Castiel nearly releases a wild sob.
“Yes, Dean, I’m here now,” he whispers, lips pressing against the bridge of Dean’s nose. “I’m here.”
Dean hums, lips twitching into a tiny smile. “Glad to ‘ear it.”
Castiel chuckles, still breathless and borderline panicked. “Don’t talk, my love. Save your energy.” He whispers the words to Dean’s cheek, and he smiles when those green eyes finally move to focus on him.
“That’s new,” Dean says, every word sounding like a struggle.
Castiel shushes him, holding him tight enough to fend off the cold from both their bodies. He listens to Dean’s steady breathing, feels the rhythmic beating of his heart against the palm of his hand.
It’s at that precise moment that Castiel becomes hyperaware of the silence all around him.
Dozens of people have been stunned into silence, and he can sense his shoulders becoming tense, for he has made a huge mistake. It occurs to him now that Victor’s remarks about his and Dean’s bond have only been in jest, and that no one truly believed that the two of them, as men, have found a certain kind of comfort within each other’s arms.
Castiel squeezes his eyes shut in horror. God only knows that the mercy he and Dean are to be shown will only last until the quest has been completed. Afterwards, it’s anybody’s guess what the method of disposal will be, for there is no place for men who love men in this new world order.
A hand to Castiel’s shoulder startles him, but calm washes over him when he sees that it’s only Sam standing across from him, hands extended.
With a shuddering sigh, Castiel hands Dean over to his little brother.
The sound of shifting sand makes Castiel tense again, and looking to his side, he can see Eckhart’s silhouette approach him. Pulling the jacket closer to him, Castiel stands up and faces him, chin held high. He’s ready to defend what he has to, even if the repercussions are to be grave.
Eckhart stands inches away from him, tall and imposing, hair slick and shining under the moon. He’s a handsome fellow, Castiel decides, and it’s a shame that his foul personality and putrid soul make him so unlikable. Castiel longs to dance upon the very grave he’ll put him in.
“Herr Milton,” he says, eyes hard and nearly black in the darkness around them. “I believe you have been informed of the situation at hand?”
Castiel squares his shoulders, eyes narrowing with overwhelming anger. “I know enough.”
“Excellent. In that case, we have no need to waste time on debriefing.” The people present scatter at the wave of his hand. “We leave for Luxor in thirty minutes.”
Clenching his jaw, Castiel watches Eckhart walk away, shouting orders as he goes.
“Cas?” Sam calls from behind him.
He turns to see Sam holding a nearly catatonic Dean to his side, his arm slung around Sam’s shoulders. Wordlessly, Castiel follows him to their tent.
“We can’t risk moving Dean this way,” Castiel says once he steps inside Sam and Dean’s temporary sleeping quarters. “Even by boat it would be too risky.”
He helps Sam set Dean on the sleeping bag, then verifies that he’s securely wrapped in the blankets. Just for a moment, Castiel allows his hand to linger on Dean’s cheek for a hint of reassurance.
“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” he hears Sam say, but his mind is on other matters.
“How do they know where the city is located?” He and Sam pieced the puzzle together during their ride back to camp. There is no possible way for them to know.
“I told ‘em,” Dean says out of the blue, startling them both.
Castiel watches as Dean tries to straighten up, and he helps him as far as leaning him against the tent wall. There isn’t much of a difference in Dean’s appearance, his eyes still glossy and unseeing, face pale and muscle not really functioning the way they should, but he seems aware of the world around him.
Sam crouches in front of him, and places a hand on his ankle. “Dean?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, and chuckles, but his lips don’t exactly move. Castiel frowns at how disturbed he is by it.
“What do you mean?” Castiel presses, allows himself to shift and sit by Dean’s side, borrowing some of his body heat. “How did you know?”
“Sam didn’t tell you.”
It isn’t phrased as a question, which causes Castiel to give Sam a hard look. “No, he didn’t.”
“I like to call it the All-Seeing Eye effect,” Dean says with a hint of humor. His words sound looser around his tongue. “Stuff just… pops into my head.”
Finding Dean’s hand, Castiel’s squeezes it. He’s confused, troubled, but not skeptical. Castiel has witnessed enough - the last straw being Dean’s vacant eyes - to not believe in the fantastical stories weaving themselves around him.
“Like a psychic?” Castiel’s words are tentative, afraid of discovering how far is too far.
Dean answers with a squeeze of his own. “You okay?” he asks instead, thumb jerkily caressing the back of Castiel’s hand. “Victor didn’t do anything to you, did he? Besides make you wear a skirt.”
“It’s a shendyt,” Castiel and Sam say in unison, and Dean’s mouth stiffly forms into a smile.
“That’s my boys,” he says, and tries to wiggle the foot Sam is holding onto.
“We’re heading out in twenty,” Sam says while looking down at Dean’s foot. Castiel understands the open sadness worn so blatantly on his face, so he looks away in respect. “We should get ready for the trip back. At least we’ll be near Cairo. There should be a hospital there. Just in case.”
“Sounds good, Sammy.
“Cas, stay with him.”
And he doesn’t need to be told twice.
Castiel watches Sam grab two canteens and head outside.
“I’d hold you tenderly but,” Dean says jokingly, still squeezing Castiel’s hand. “I hope you understand.”
Nodding his head, Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek.
“You missed the spot. A little more towards the mouth.”
Castiel chuckles at that, and gently cradling Dean’s jaw, turns his face to soundly kiss his lips. Soft and dry, it’s nothing but a gentle press. “Better?”
Dean hums. “Much.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“I am all right,” Dean says, stiffly maneuvering himself to fall onto Castiel’s space. “My body isn’t exactly working how it should but, my mind’s crisp and clear.”
Understanding what Dean is trying to do, Castiel sits closer, wrapping his arms so that they’re as close as possible. “What happened?”
“Long story short? Thoth happened.” Dean flinches at the name. “Knowledge of the gods is a lot vaster than you may ever be able to think. Miracle I’m still talking… but that may have been Ma’at’s doing.”
It sounds like nonsense, but Castiel listens, tracing absent circles along Dean’s shoulder.
“She doesn’t like that these sons of bitches are toying with her balance. She’s a mighty fine lady once you get past the whole ostrich thing.”
Realization comes with the word ostrich, and Castiel recalls the ostrich feather common in Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. “Why was she there?” he asks, considering that the goddess of balance is usually by Osiris’ side, judging souls for the afterlife. “Dean?”
“Yeah, I may have walked through Hell for a few eternities. It’s no big deal. Not as bad as you think once you get past the tormented souls and fucking Anubis looking at you for milliseconds that feel like the force of a thousand supernovas are going off within every atom of your very being-”
“Dean…”
“Your body deteriorates after a few years, flesh and bone hanging only to come back again and you can feel it. You can feel every miserable second, every breath of fire and rot. The agonizing ache in your bones - always running, you have to run; if you don’t they’ll catch you and they’ll eat you, spit out your bones and chew on your soul-”
“Dean!” Castiel shouts loud enough to snap him out of it.
Dean’s words bring forth the jittering of a thousand fire ants prickling underneath Castiel’s skin, and his ears ring to the point where it becomes painful. He can feel something hot trickling out of them. A scream builds under his chin, and he fears that if he starts, he will never be able to stop.
There’s horror, there’s hopelessness, and it chews away at Castiel’s seams.
Dean gasps then, stopping his invocation-like words, eyes wide and terrified.
And like flipping a switch, the veil of terror is gone.
Castiel is left gasping, hand clutching at his own chest, refusing to move at all. “D-Dea-”
“I’m sorry,” he hears Dean whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry…” His breathing hitches, and his hand trembles in Castiel’s hold. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, Dean, it’s okay, don’t.” Castiel tries to sooth him, to calm him, but he can see that there is nothing he can do. Dean is withdrawing again, locking himself behind the unseeing eyes and unresponsive affliction.
Castiel remains in place, his core shaken and distressed.
Even the air inside the tent smells different, poignant with the stench of corpses locked away for a million years.
This is the power sealed inside Dean’s fragile human mind.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but Castiel turns around when he feels eyes boring into his back. Sam is standing by the door, eyes wide and gleaming with unshed tears. By his feet are three bags, and Castiel figures that he’s been there the entire time.
“What are you going to do?” Sam asks, words muffled and hoarse.
“I don’t know.” All Castiel wants to do is scream.
❖
To Sam’s relief, they head off north in a caravan of cars and tanks specially designed to weather the desert terrain. Either way, he imagines it would make little difference if they went upstream on a ship. After Dean’s episode back in the tent, Sam is assured that nothing will ever scare him to that level again. He’s afraid to even close his eyes.
He, along with Dean and Castiel, rides in the back of a Ford convertible.
His pocket watch says it’s two in the morning.
The silence in the car is absolute, with Bela riding on the passenger’s side and the driver looking too constipated to say much of anything. Dean is slumped over, fast asleep, with his head on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel dozes off, but forces himself awake every so often, shifting in his seat and better accommodating Dean’s weight.
He and Sam occasionally exchange significant looks, but not a single word is spoken. They’re on the way to Thebes, Dean is indisposed, and there isn’t a remote chance of doing anything about it.
Soon they will have to start the final chapter of their journey, and Sam fears what he will find. There is still no word from John, he misses Jessica dearly, Dean is teetering over the precipice of insanity, and the chances that Sam is the key to some big event later on during the day are pretty high.
The situation only gets increasingly worse the more he thinks about it.
Dean jerks by his side, and he’s quick to place a hand on his arm. Castiel too holds him down, but instead of a fit, Dean sags and begins snoring again.
The two of them let out a sigh.
Sam notices Bela looking at him through the rearview mirror, but neither one of them says a thing on the subject.
The car eventually crosses through Giza, but the pyramids inspire little excitement in the cold, somber night.
❖
They reach Luxor just before dawn breaks over the Valley of the Kings, and Castiel has never seen such a sight.
He’s unceremoniously hauled out of the car, and he hears Sam cursing as they do the same to him. Castiel knows he should feel affronted, should say something for the rudeness, but his heart swells with wonders born from wonders.
The sky above him is still an inky black, stars faintly glimmering every here and there. But the horizon is already turning a soft pink, the first rays of the sun creeping over the dry and rocky fields of the necropolis.
Castiel sees it, fleetingly catching the corner of his eyes before he turns to face it. The gloaming stirs awe beyond his wildest imagination as the lightening black fades into blue, and slowly begins turning into the orange of a new day. It makes shadows play along the sprawling temples of Luxor and Karnak, its monuments that hold the past in stone gates and immovable gods.
“Lord in Heaven,” Sam says from somewhere behind him, but Castiel is rapt.
The hum of cicadas fills the deathly quiet, echoing through the stone ruins.
A beat of tranquility perches over the valley, unifying them in a strange sense that smells otherworldly.
Dean appears by his side, startling Castiel. He’s standing without anybody’s help, and he looks strangely healthy in the new light.
“Sam,” Dean says, and Castiel takes a step back. The understanding flows in until it floods.
Sam is the key.
Castiel gets to stand on the sidelines for now.
“Get the key,” Dean continues, eyes steady towards the rising sun.
Castiel watches as Sam tersely approaches Bela rather than Eckhart, both of who are wearing mirror expressions of astonishment. He asks for the ankh, and Bela holds his gaze as she produces a bundle of fabric from inside her blouse, handing it over.
Sam fumbles with the artifact, and quickly takes it to Dean.
They swap words Castiel can’t hear, and it’s only then that he notices how far Dean and Sam have walked. He can no longer see them, just their silhouettes against the brilliant sun that slowly begins its ascent. Castiel squints, hand over his eyes, but he still can’t look away from the surreal beauty.
Bela comes to stand beside him.
“For glory,” she says, holding her dainty hands to her chest.
The history lover in Castiel agrees with her; the other part, the humane part of him, simply wishes for their safety.
Side by side, they watch the dark figures move in tandem, a graceful pull and push of arms, followed by a serene pause.
Castiel sees the shape of the ankh being raised between the brothers, a black cross with a loop at its head, where the sun’s beam shines through. Sam takes it, and turns towards the rising sun.
He’s burning, Castiel’s mind whispers; he’s burning like a wick, holding the flame that consumes him within the heart of the gods. The light is but a halo of flames that purifies, sanctifies, and rebirths an entity within Sam’s body. The key.
Eventually, it becomes too difficult to look on, and Castiel turns his head to stare at the temple of Karnak, only to find that it’s no longer there. Bela realizes this too, but her gasp is canceled out by the rising chorus of cicadas, and soon they are all forced to clap their hands over their ears.
The ground beneath Castiel’s feet begins to quake. Thunder claps overhead despite there being no cloud in sight. The noise grows, the river rumbles, and the sun is blinding.
But Castiel has to look. Even if it turns him to salt, he has to look, and he does.
At long last, above the Valley of the Kings, stands the ancient City of Amun-Ra.
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