fic: Lionheart (2/2)
A medium-sized arena had been set up on the other side of the field, obscured until then by the maze of tents. It was sort of like high school bleachers around a modest dirt field, where four armored figures were currently taking swipes at each other.
He and Sam climbed the rickety steps to sit amongst the crowd, and spent some time doing recon and watching the fights.
"Looks like some sort of nobility up there." Dean pointed to a shaded box of seats a ways away. A man and woman sat in the box, dressed in silky clothing rather than the ratty burlap and leather look everyone else was sporting. "I wonder if they own the sword? But why would they give it away…?"
"You know, I still don't get the appeal," said Sam. "It was really pretty but…"
"Dude, you didn’t get a closer look." Dean remembered looking into the depths of the gem, like seeing a glimpse of the future. "On second thought, don’t get close to it. You won’t like what you see."
Sam gave him a sidelong look, but before he could ask, Dean pointed below the box.
"See that banner over there? Do you think that’s the score board?"
"Yeah, it looks like they're using a bracket system." A banner with the many coats of arms was hung for all to see, some of the coats of arms crossed out already. "The winners of the first bracket fight each other, and then the winners of that second tier fight each other, and so on. Until it's down to the final two teams."
"Awesome! That means if there are a couple dozen teams then maybe we only need to do a few fights."
Sam did some quick math. "Actually yeah, maybe four."
That was good news. Just then, a loud cheer broke out from the crowd. The fight had ended.
Dean craned his neck to see. "And hey! It's just a fight to first blood, no need to die."
Sam looked happy about this until the wounded knight in question toppled over then, clutching his side before falling face first in the dust. A couple of medieval medics trotted out onto the field, but instead of carrying him out on a stretcher, grabbed an ankle each, and dragged the knight to the side of the arena and left him there. To top it all off, his lady love pulled off her helmet and stood over him, looking very disgusted by his poor performance.
Dean winced. "Yeesh."
Sam's mouth was just a pursed line. "Come on, let's go get gear."
Thanks to years of petty theft, Sam easily lifted someone's money purse and they went back to the booths and tents and bought a pair of leather britches each. Hopefully they would offer minor protection in the upcoming battle, but it would also be nice if people stopped staring at he and Sam’s jeans.
Next, they were off to buy armor from a smithy who had a shop set up near the arena. When Dean struggled into his, it was only sort of easy to move. Dean wondered if his usual moves would work in an outfit this heavy and clanky. At least he’d be able withstand a blow or ten without being completely skewered.
Which brought them to choosing a weapon.
"Sword shopping. This is the best day ever," said Dean seriously as he hefted a sabre, testing for the right grip and weight.
Sam's arms bulged as he lifted a broadsword. He swiped an arc in the air, the blade whizzing by Dean's neck, the tip nearly grazing Dean's adam's apple. Dean gulped under Sam's steady gaze.
"Ten bucks says we don't make it," said Sam.
"Don't you mean ten shillings?" Dean squeaked.
"Wrong millenium." A dark grin spread across Sam's face. "We're probably going to die, you know. But at least it might be fun."
Dean tried to look betrayed, rather than turned on. "You've changed your tune."
Outfitted and at least somewhat mentally prepared, they made it to the field with twenty minutes to spare. The fight before theirs seemed to last forever, until a very vicious knockout by a giant woman and her shorter lover. They both ripped off their helmets and started smooching as the audience wolf-whistled.
"Ah," said Dean, sneaking Sam a glance. He wondered if the audience expected the same sort of show if they won. Sam would probably stab him if he tried anything, not to mention that quick beheading that was sure to follow.
A referee announced them as they walked out into the center of the field of play. "Dean the Brave and Samar the Horrible!" he cried.
Sam bowed to the lord and lady in the top box as they'd seen the other couples do, and Dean followed suit. When he turned and gave a little wave to the crowd, he received an uninterested smattering of cheers.
"Ready?" he asked.
Sam, tugging at his chain mail in thought, nodded. "You know, we could start wearing armor on hunts."
Dean laughed. They both knew that that wasn't their style, but it was heartening that Sam was talking like they'd make it back to the second millenium.
"Chin up, Sammy. This will be a piece of cake," he said, trying to return the favor.
And if it wasn't...well. What a way to go.
Their opposition entered then, and the crowd roared.
"Well, that's not fair."
He could feel Sam square off next to him, readying himself for the fight. Dean didn't doubt that they could play dirty, do anything to make it out alive. But he seriously doubted their ability to be refined enough to pass as honorable men. He doubted his ability to feint and parry and draw blood without taking the other party's heads.
He jammed on his regulation metal bucket aka helmet, and drew the longsword he’d chosen. This was a good move, as there didn't seem to be any signal that the fight had begun, and Dean was surprised by a sudden movement to his right, barely visible through the helmet slit.
He reacted automatically, whirling with his sword out. His blade hit something solid and he stumbled back.
The crowd roared. The lady of the couple, who had big braids sticking out of her helmet and armor that was covered in dainty spikes, swung again, nearly taking Dean's head off with a fearsome-looking scythe.
"Angel of Death," Dean breathed, helmet already moist and hot inside. And although Sam almost fell down into the dirt laughing, he seemed to sober up pretty quick when he got a good look at the lady's paramore who stepped forward menacingly.
Dean heard Sam's muffled voice from his helmet as he took a small step back. "Aw, hell no."
"Not laughing anymore, sweetheart?" Dean called.
"Ha ha," said Sam, but it sounded a tad hysterical. Dean had no doubt his boy could handle this fight, but as Sam drew his sword he kept on the lookout anyway.
The fight was not over quickly. The man was wearing full plate armor with a spike-topped helmet, and although he wasn't quite as tall as Sam, he was about twice as built. Which was saying something given the way Sam's strong hands gripped the hilt of the sword, the way Sam's biceps flexed appealingly when he swung his sword in a clean arc to meet the newcomer's.
Dean had a regret, thinking maybe they shouldn't have opted for sleeveless armor that had seemed so good for mobility, and instead gotten some of those vambrace thingies so that their arms weren't hacked off at the elbow.
Welp, too late now. He ducked out of the way of the scythe and just caught the tail end of Sam in a grappling competition with the guy, Sam ultimately pinning him into the dirt with a hand on the other man's helmet, holding it by the spike, chest heaving.
Well, that was quick.
Sam pulled off his own helmet, shaking his messy hair out of his face. His eyes searched around the cheering crowd, then found Dean's. Their eyes held as Sam grinning at him. Dean grinned back, heart pounding. He had seen sexier shows of strength nowhere, not in real life or on TV.
"He's very attractive," the lady told Dean from far too close. "A disadvantage for you?"
"Oh shi-"
Dean had half a second to duck away as the woman's scythe came whizzing down toward him. As it was, he ended up on his back, her scythe hovering above him.
So they were at a draw, Sam with the man compromised, and Dean at the mercy of this fearsome woman.
He flipped up the hood of his helmet, better to grin at her from upside down, more a baring of teeth. "Believe me," he said. "He’s attractive, but I'm used to it." Then he looked beyond her shoulder and said, theatrically, "Oh no!" like something had happened to her lover.
When she looked over her shoulder immediately, he kicked the weapon out of her hands and flipped her onto her back with his sword at her neck.
"Oldest trick in the book," he said in English. Even though she clearly didn't understand him, it felt good for morale to gloat.
When Sam's dude saw what was happening, he stopped struggling under Sam immediately.
"And first blood," Dean said, giving the women the smallest nick he could with the tip of his sword.
And just like that, Sam and Dean won the first fight. The lady and dude walked off the field, heads bowed in shame, as the nobility in the box waved white handkerchiefs to signal the end of the match. Dean wondered if it was considered noble to leave one’s adversary mostly unwounded, or if it was a blow to the other knights’ pride.
"Knew you were fine," said Dean as he walked laboriously toward Sam. And he had.
Dean saw now that this competition was a tournament meant not to test one's mettle, but to test the trust each person had with their partner. These master swordsmen might be super badass on their own, but they obviously weren't used to the perils of fighting alongside the one you loved. Of having your weak spot bared for your enemy to see and of trusting that your other half could take care of himself.
Dean, however, had trained his whole life for this. Sam was pretty much always an inch away from death, and this wasn't Dean's first rodeo.
He and Sam would be fine.
Waiting for their next battle, he and Sam leaned against the stalls, watching the competition. Wyot, the first knight they'd encountered in the tent, seemed to be doing well for himself. His wife was equally gigantic and very handy with a sword. Dean kind of hoped they failed out, so he wouldn’t have to face people at least a foot taller than him who were awesome at sword fighting. It seemed like a bad idea all around.
"You know, it's good that armor is one-size-fits all," Sam mused, apparently not contemplating their possible demises.
"Speak for yourself," Dean said, adjusting his cuirass.
"Sir Dean the brave!"
Dean turned at the call, surprised to find an audience member holding out some kind of food.
"Hey, thanks!" He accepted it because who was he to turn down a present from an admirer? He examined it the pastry, then bit into it with gusto. It was flakey and warm, with cheese and herbs in there, too. "Oh my god, Sam. It's like a hot pocket."
He savored the next mouthful, eyes closed. "An old timey hot pocket. Only with less unidentifiable stuff in it." He groaned.
"Do you need a moment alone?" Sam asked, sounding somewhat scandalized.
"Thank god we came here, else I never would have experienced this ecstacy."
"So there are perks to armed combat. Who knew?" Sam said then turned at the sound of someone behind him.
"Sir! Sir!"
Dean licked the crumbs from his fingers, watching as Sam accepted a present of his own, a daisy from a child who was reaching as far as she could over the edge of the stands.
"Thanks, sweetheart," said Sam, smelling the flower.
Dean, who was strong of arm and spirit, felt a flush spread over his face and neck. When Sam put the flower in a chink in his armor for safekeeping, Dean had to look away.
He had to keep his head in the game. He kept his eyes steadfast on the fight happening out in the center of the arena, until it was time for their second match.
This time when they walked onto the field of play, the crowd, recognizing them, in fact welcomed them like old friends, chanting their names and throwing flowers.
Dean waved.
The competition also seemed to have secured the favor of the crowd, however, and Dean could see why. The woman was toting a net and a two-ended sword, and a guy roughly Dean's build and coloring threw off his cape to reveal a vest of daggers.
"You know, this is more like a gladiator ring than I'd imagined. Movies did not prepare me for this."
Sam didn't answer, too busy sizing up the competition. Dean paused, and followed Sam’s gaze. Maybe it was Dean’s imagination, but Sam seemed to be looking at the new guy with something like interest.
Dean suddenly remembered the swirling image in the time traveling gem. The gem that probably was a portal to the past, the present, and the future.
A future where Sam was going to be locked in an embrace with this knight, he suddenly realized. Their enemy.
Dean glared at the guy's stupid face, his green eyes and short cropped hair. A stupid hairstyle for a knight, even Dean knew that.
"I think I can take him," Sam said to Dean in a low voice.
"How could you," Dean hissed.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Fine, you take him. See if I care."
Dean scowled. "Not really my type." When Sam looked at him in confusion, Dean said, "Oh don't look so hurt, I know whose heart you want to fight for." He heavy air quoted.
"What?"
"Shove it, Sam." Dean shoved on his helmet again and then charged his competitor with a wordless battle cry. He took a wild swing at him, which the guy easily sidestepped and Dean rolled awkwardly in his armor so he didn't just land hard on his ass.
"My brother will never love you!" Dean yelled, once he'd struggled to his feet, and then charged again.
After that the fight was quick. Dean barreled into him before he could pull out any of his fancy daggers, then tackled him and sat on his back with his knees around the guy’s head until he gave up. The guy didn't know what hit him.
"You can't have him," Dean growled down into his face, which had the desired effect. The guy looked seriously worried. As well he should.
Sam had more trouble with the man's girlfriend because of getting ensnared in her net, but then Dean jumped on her back as well and took her down quick.
The crowd didn't know how to react to this behavior, vacillating between between booing and jeering, but there was no questioning that Sam and Dean would move on to the next tier.
"He was super weak," Dean told Sam.
"Right," said Sam.
Dean idly resheathed his sword. "Sooo...You didn't happen to hear anything I was discussing with him, did you?"
Sam didn’t answer, just wondered out loud. "Do you think there's some sort of radiation involved in jumping 700 years into the past?"
"Uh, why?"
Sam gave him a prissy eyebrow. "Because time travel seems to be getting to you."
With that, he left Dean to think about what he'd done.
The crowd was a harsh mistress. Dean thought back to just an hour ago, when he'd been beloved by all in attendance. Now, he was being used for target practice.
"Good aim, I’ll give them that," he said, pulling rotten produce out of his hair. "It must be all that archery." Something else spattered down on him from the stands. "Ah, right in the ear!"
It would have been smarter to keep his helmet on between battles, but he couldn't breathe well and the sun was shining merrily down on them, making it a very sweaty day indeed.
"Well I’m having a good time," said Sam, still annoyed and eating one of the plums that had been thrown their direction.
Dean considered explaining himself, that he'd saved Sam from having to choose whether to stay in the past for love or return to a future of crime and monsters, but a small part of him was worried Sam would choose the former.
"Yeah, well they like you," Dean said instead, just letting the rain of produce fall where it would. "Ugh."
Because while the crowd had officially turned against Dean, Sam had managed to compete in two matches without making a fool of himself, making a good name for himself in these parts.
Sam looked his way, at the pulp in Dean's hair. "Oh, I thought maybe this was tomato and that history books were wrong. It’s just rotten enough it so it has the consistency of tomato."
"I don't deserve this," said Dean. "Where is your sympathy? Aren't knights like you supposed to defend the weak and innocent?"
"Chivalry is dead," Sam deadpanned, tossing the plum pit at him.
Dean had the next laugh though, when their third fight was ended abruptly when Sam managed to one of their opponents a nasty bloody nose, just after the match began.
"First blood," Sam called to the top box.
The fancy man waved his dainty handkerchief signaling the fight was over. Sam had accidentally elbowed him.
Which meant that they'd somehow made it to the fourth and final fight. But that also meant the crowd felt they'd been cheated from a fight. Many of them booed as Sam and Dean walked off the arena.
"I'm not surprised," said Sam. "Although I'm very impressed. We only have one left." He dropped his sword and wiped at his mail.
"Right? Damn it’s hot though. Can’t wait to get out of this stuff." He made it slowly to the side of the ring, where he poured water over his head from a water skein he suspected might be made of an animal's bladder. "Of all the things we've pulled off, this one is pretty good."
Sam didn't respond, and when Dean looked over, Sam was biting his lip, distractedly watching Dean.
Dean held out the water skein. "Want some?"
Sam shook his head, face ruddy.
"Hey, you don’t look so good. You didn't catch the plague, did you?"
"Shut up- Hey!" Sam cried, jumping away as an apple core hit him in the face.
The knight whose nose Sam had broken was a crowd favorite it seemed, meaning the general goodwill toward Sam had now soured considerably.
"Fickle are the hearts of men," Dean told him.
Dean hadn’t really expected for them to make it to the final match. But here they were.
"Oh sweet Jesus, look who we're up against."
It was Wyot the gigantic, and his equally impressive partner.
"Hail, foreign friends," he greeted them, smile bright. "But not friends anymore."
Dean shook his head. "Wyot man, you know that hurts."
"And I am Etheldred the bold," said his partner. "Wife of Wyot."
"Nice to meet you," Sam said.
"Not too bold, I hope," Dean said to Etheldred after a beat, and then ran for his life when Wyot started after him.
Sam raised his sword. "En garde!" The words were bellowed as he charged Etheldred.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Etheldred turn and lunge for Sam as well. But Dean couldn't just stand there watching. He had problems of his own.
Wyot was circling him now, looking for an opportunity to strike. His stance looked murderous somehow. Maybe it was the giant sword.
Dean stepped forward with a quick swing, and Wyot's sword met his. Sparks flew. They both pulled back immediately, assessing each other for an opening, and then struck again.
For a full minute, all Dean could focus on was the clash of swords and the scuffling of his feet in the dirt. It dawned on him in a moment of pure euphoria that this was sword fighting. Real sword fighting! Followed quickly by the realization that there was no way he'd win this battle playing by the rules. Wyot was too good. He was tiring Dean out, waiting until Dean’s reflexes were slow enough to take advantage of a momentary lapse.
He jumped back to recalibrate, arms burning, and circled his opponent.
But before he could come up with a plan, in just the blink of an eyes, Wyot was suddenly hurtling towards him, sword held above his head and coming in for the kill.
Dean knew the blow was about to come, didn't have time to consider before one- two- three-
He took him out. The sidestep, where Wyot thought Dean would instead step in to meet his sword with his own. The kick to Wyot's knee from the side that made him buckle, followed quickly by the roundhouse kick to Wyot's wrist that had him dropping his blade to the hard, hot dirt.
Dean kicked the weapon away out of reach, and stood over Wyot heaving for breath, his sword at the ready if Wyot tried to tackle him.
But of course he didn’t. Wyot was a true knight, who wouldn’t dream of sacrifice his honor for trickery to win a fight.
The crowd seemed to draw in a breath as one, waiting for Dean’s move. Instead of swinging, however, Dean backhanded the side of Wyot's helmet.
It was nothing personal.
Wyot ripped off his helmet and threw it to the ground, looking somewhat dazed. His eyes were wide as his fingers felt at his neck where his helmet must have hit him with the force of Dean's blow.
His fingers came away red.
"Zounds," he said, but seemed more shocked than upset to have lost.
He blinked up from the shadow of Dean's forbidding form. And the crowd exhaled as Wyot accepted Dean's arm up.
Across the field, Sam was slumped with relief.
Dean wasn’t sure if Wyot was going to accept the defeat gracefully, and stood his ground as Wyot’s hand came toward him. But it was just for another of Wyot's earth-shaking shoulder slaps. "Well met, brother," he said, and Dean grinned back, feeling triumph.
He went and grabbed his sword from the ground, gave it a kiss and held it high toward the booing crowd.
"Dean, I think we won," Sam yelled over. His bangs were sticking to his forehead and his eyes were bright.
The lord and lady looked down at them from above, waving their hankies. "To the victors!" they cried.
Now early evening, after a long, hot day, all in attendance trooped to the tent village, which quickly took on the feeling of an open air festival. Dean wondered if they would be killed for an unchivalrous display on the tournament grounds, or congratulated by the masses, but no one seemed to hold it against them. Instead, someone brought out ye olde kegs and everyone partook heartily, including Sam who looked particularly fetching drinking his brew from one of the horn's of the sign-up guy's Viking hat.
"He's my friend now," Sam explained, four horns in.
"This stuff is deceptively potent, have you noticed?" Dean clinked his glass with a happy woman who might have said she won good money betting on him, but Dean couldn't be sure.
It was all good. No one seemed to hold any grudges, what happened on the tournament grounds seemed to have stayed on the tournament grounds. And Sam and Dean were the stars of the show. Everyone wanted to talk to them, yet barely anyone understood them.
Dean had the opportunity to show his one party trick, flipping a dagger in his hand and catching it behind his back, and Sam got uncharacteristically tipsy and began the arduous task of removing his armor, the party hot with bodies spilling out of the tent under the evening stars.
"Here, let me get that," said Dean, who’d taken his off half an hour ago. He turned Sam around and helped with the buckles, a strangely tender feeling as his fingers brushed the back of Sam’s neck at the clasp there, and at his lower back.
"Thanks," Sam said, and shrugged the rest off and left it in a heap. "Someone will use that, right?"
"Sure," said Dean, feeling dazed.
"On second thought," said Sam, and took his Lion King shirt off as well, ostensibly to wipe the sweat and grime from his flushed face.
Dean gulped down beer and stared. "Now that’s just showing off," he said. Sam was a vision, stripped down as he was to just his leather pants and stolen studded sword belt.
Sam paused in rubbing hand over his left pec, noticing Dean's gaze. "I think I have someone's blood on me," he said. "Weird how it happened a couple hours ago but this blood is hundreds of years old, right?"
As he frowned and continued checking for any smears he hadn't washed off, Dean did what was right and tore his eyes away from Sam's washboard abs to listen instead to the fancy dude from the box, who had been called on to give a speech.
"Brave warriors of the realm!" the man yelled.
There came an answering rabble.
"Artisans! Gentlefolk!"
More rallying cries.
"Today we have witnessed great show of might and dedication befitting the most honorable of knights. Fealty, which speaks to the strongest bond between us - love."
Dean snuck a glance at Sam, who definitely caught him looking.
"Now witness as I bestow upon our champions, the emerald sword: Samar the Horrible, Dean the Brave."
Sam scowled at the name and Dean led the way to the stage, suffering some intense back slaps along the way.
"To the victors go the sword!" The noble woman cried when they stood next to her.
"Yes!" Dean cheered along with the crowd. He was so ready to have that sword in his grasp. And to get home, of course, but hanging at this party wasn’t half bad.
"These men have truly shown valour, and proved their love!" the woman said.
Sam slung an arm around Dean's shoulders, and raised his fist, face happy.
"To the lovers go this sword-" the sword was displayed before them. Its green gem pulsed brightly, beautifully.
Sam turned his face into the side of Dean’s. "Nothing like a good clean victory," he said into Dean's ear, sending shivers down Dean’s spine.
Next to them, the lord had begun waxing poetic about the sword, clutching it to him. "Those who love by the sword, die by the sword. Speaking of swords, never a finer blade have mine eyes beheld."
"Oh no, it's bewitched him," Dean whispered, distantly aware it was bewitching him as well.
Dean stepped forward, dragging Sam with him, and reached out to take the sword. He needed to get his hands on it to see what the gem would tell him of his future.
"Quick, Greg," Sam hissed, and Greg stepped up onto stage, taking hold of Sam's belt as he waved a hand and turned to the crowd.
"It is I, the wizard." Greg called in what sounded to be passable speak of the times. "Now for an act of great magic." He waved his free hand, just as Dean got hold of the sword. He ran his fingers lovingly across the unwarbled surface of the gem.
Nothing happened. So caught up in getting close to the sword, the possibility of failure had slipped Dean’s mind. Maybe the time travel only went one way, maybe he and Sam would be trapped here forever.
"You won that sword unfairly," cried Wyot suddenly from the audience. He began pushing forward, attempting to reach the stage.
"Shit," Dean said, trying to clear his head of the sword’s effects. Wyot must be bewitched as well.
"Dean!" Sam yelled over the commotion. Dean turned to look at him, at the desperation on his face as Sam put his hand over Dean’s on the hilt, leaning in to his space. "Use the sword!"
A glimmer of an idea came to Dean, that maybe Dean hadn't yet completed what the sword wanted him to do. He looked at the gem and remembered what he'd seen in its depths, Sam in an embrace with someone just Dean's build. Maybe this had all been foretold.
He looked at Sam’s panicked face. He owed it to Sam to save him. Nothing else mattered, all else seemed to fall away.
He had to be true to his heart. He needed to fight for his love.
"Um, punch me later," he said, then he dragged Sam flush against him and laid one on him.
"Wow, they really do things differently where they're from," said the woman on stage, but Dean was too busy losing himself in the soft press of Sam’s mouth against his to hear anything further.
Beyond the pounding of his heart, the rush of blood to his head, he became aware of a green light growing in his peripheral vision, and finally he broke away to see that the gem had intensified to near blinding. It drew him in like a whirlpool.
There was a bright flash-
-and he blinked his eyes furiously until he could see again.
"There was no match for the valour of our fighters, and the strength of our shields!" a voice was yelling to the crowd, and for a moment Dean thought the sword hadn't brought them back at all, that they'd be stuck in an arguably cool but extremely dangerous time period forever. "All fought well this day. But there could only be one victor-"
The voice trailed off suddenly, and Dean blinked the stars from his eyes and saw that the crowd below was staring at them. The friendly-looking bunch was made up of a hundred or so colorful cosplayers munching on corn cobs and drinking from clean-looking steins of beer. And it was Charlie giving the rallying speech, dazzling with a red velvet cloak slung over a pleather vest and breeches.
Charlie had stopped speaking and was gaping at them.
Sam's hands were gripping Dean's shoulders, probably so he didn't lose Dean as they transgressed the boundaries of time and space. He stepped away quickly, as Dean likewise pulled his fingers out of Sam's belt loops with extreme awareness that everyone in the crowd was watching him do it.
"Ah," Sam said to them all, elbowing Dean further away. "Hello!"
"Now you have seen it, folks," said Dean, pulling words out of his ass. "We just appeared on stage, from...from somewhere else. Truly an act of great magic. Yes. The magic of the mighty wizard, Greg!"
Greg stepped forward, flapping his green robes. "Yes, an great act of magic! Alakazam!"
He gave a stilted bow and Sam and Dean followed suit to a smattering of applause. They then promptly shuffled off stage.
Charlie picked up where she left off. "And now, for our time-honored musical tradition. Bring on the bard."
On cue, a bard entered stage left, with a lute and some backup singers and began to tell a tale in song. Charlie jumped off the stage, looking so familiar and real, a friend when most of the time they didn't have one.
"Man, am I happy to see you," said Dean, overcome with gratitude. He swept her up in a hug, and after a second Charlie pulled Sam in as well. His arm was warm and big around Dean's shoulders for a few moments, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut.
Charlie pulled back finally, smiling. "And Greg, glad you're back in one piece too."
"Yeah," he said, nodding to Sam and Dean. "Thanks a million. Beers are on me tomorrow. But tonight? I gotta go find my girl."
Dean gave him a thumbs up. "There is no time like the present. Literally."
"Yeah, good luck man," Sam said.
"Dude, that was some Harry Potter shit right there," Charlie said as Greg left. "You just suddenly apparated onto the stage from out of nowhere!"
"Yes," Dean said. "And we were standing so close when we appeared because we were clutching each other for dear life! You know, so we weren’t lost in the great vortex of time."
"We have a lot to tell you," Sam cut him off. "It's going to blow your mind."
"And I can't wait to hear it. But first, do you have any idea how to get rid of the sword?" She gestured to where it was lying forgotten at the edge of the stage. "I've kept it nearby in case you zapped back somehow, but it gives me the heeby jeebies."
Dean went and got it, making sure a cloth was wrapped tightly around the hilt when he touched it. "Absofuckinglutely, your majesty. Is there a fire somewhere where we can try to melt it down?"
"Right outside. I don't know if it's hot enough, but you could try? Or maybe bury it?" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Anyway, I have to finish this show before the feast, but you're staying tonight, right?"
"Yep," said Dean. They'd gotten more than they'd bargained for today and deserved some relaxation.
"Great, I have an extra tent you can share. Although I only have one sleeping bag to lend you, so you’ll have to figure that one out."
"Great," Dean said, not thinking of the implications, of what Sam was probably thinking beside him. Nothing had to change or be weird now that Dean had forced Sam into a kiss - and Dean shouldn't feel bad about it, it had saved their asses, right?
He led Sam through the crowd and out of the back of the tent. When they came to a campfire, unmanned now that announcements were going on, he pulled the cloth from the sword, for one last look.
Looking at the blade in his hands, all he felt was a certain fondness for it, no longer that inextricable draw. Flickering firelight burnished the blade in gold. The gem though...the gem looked dull and empty now, where before it had been a living thing.
"Huh," Dean said. That proved something, although he wasn’t sure exactly what. That the enchantment had been real, at least. That to let Dean go back to this time period, the sword had asked Dean to confront his deepest desire, sensing somehow what he had been hiding away for a lifetime.
Even so, he was careful not to touch the gem again, just to be on the safe side.
"Ready to melt this time traveling fire poker?" he said, and held it over the campfire. Now to throw it into the fire where he imagined it would melt down like it was made of nothing but magic and wax. Soon all that would be left of this powerful tool would be a puddle and a memory of the lovers it had helped along the way.
Dean willed himself to let go.
"Err, hold up a second," said Sam, stopping Dean at the last moment.
Dean let himself hope, wildly, that maybe the sword was speaking to Sam. That it had sensed something in Sam as well, something dark and hidden deep...
"We're not keeping it," Sam clarified.
And Dean was disappointed, but the tired, unsurprised kind of disappointment. Of course Sam couldn't see the sword for what it was. Dean was alone with his big feelings, had worn them just below his skin for as long as he could remember, unwieldy and uncomfortable as any armor.
"But there's someone we should give it to," Sam continued.
"Huh?"
"When we came back." Sam looked back to the tent. "I think we brought some hitchhikers."
Dean was confused but wrapped the sword up again, and followed him back inside nevertheless. Sam made his way across the tent, pushing between folks and making a beeline to the kegs.
"I thought I saw someone out of place slip off stage when we landed," Sam said. "And it just hit me who."
He stopped where two large people were huddled in conversation, and Dean saw suddenly that he knew these two, that it was Wyot and Etheldred who had followed them through the portal. Dean remembered then that Wyot had gotten onto the stage to grab the sword. He must have ended up in the time traveling chain, along with his wife.
"Hail," said Sam.
They looked extremely out of place, staring at all the commotion, wide-eyed and eating slim jims. Dean could sympathize. Needless to say, they looked mightily relieved to see he and Sam.
"Hail, foreign friends," Wyot said.
"You," Dean said in his olden day speak that really had not gotten any better over the course of the day. "Want to go home?"
Wyot chewed his slim jim for a long while, staring around at the party going on, with the speakers that played fake old-timey music and the colorful streamers and funnel cakes. "I will stay," he decided. "I am interested in this magic world."
Etheldred nodded. "I as well."
"It's not the same always," Sam told them. "Most days, it's very different." He leaned toward Dean. "God, I wish I knew more nouns. And verbs for that matter."
The knights shook their heads. "Much death at home. Here, it is happy."
Dean thrust the sword out, wrapped in the cloth again.
"Magic," Dean said, and Wyot nodded sagely, sliding the sword into his belt.
"If you ever need to get back to your time, touch the gem," said Sam. He then gave them all the cash he had in his wallet, just a couple twenties. "Gold."
"Many thanks," said Wyot, and opening another Slim Jim.
"That can't possibly be good for you." When the guy just blinked at him, Sam said, "Nevermind. Luck be with you."
As they departed, Dean glanced back in time to catch what he thought might be a glint of the gem which seemed to flash in the crowd, but when he blinked it was gone.
"It was a good sword," said Sam sympathetically.
"Thanks, I’ll miss it," Dean said, mock serious. "But also good riddance. I’ve learned something today. Don’t touch swords you don't know."
"Wyot and Etheldred will be fine," Sam said, brow furrowed, looking back again. "Will they be fine?"
"Will any of us?" Dean said, with a poetic sigh befitting Chaucer. "And yeah, we'll let Charlie know what's up and maybe they'll have a network of LARPers who can help get them on their feet. I'm sure anyone would be thrilled to add super cool and forever in-character friends to their guild."
Charlie was now on the podium. Beside her, a lady dressed as a fairy was making an announcement about the milkshake tent, listing flavors she had on offer, including dragonfruit and medieval mint.
"We'll tell her later, she seems busy," said Sam.
They stopped at the side of the stage, partially obscured by the heavy velvet curtains. Dean noticed that Sam looked nervous now, a look he'd seen today in the arena, like Sam was gathering all his courage for a battle he didn't know if they could win.
Dean nudged him with his shoulder. "Hey, what's up?"
Sam was avoiding eye contact. "Um," he said. "Good job today."
"Yeah, you too. You’d make a really convincing knight, you know."
"No, I mean...breaking the curse. You did good." Sam said it meaningfully and the smile slowly slipped from Dean’s mouth.
They both knew what he was referring to.
Even so Dean looked away, aiming for nonchalant, unsure if he pulled it off. "What? Um, what curse? There was no curse. Just some mumbo jumbo a fake wizard made up."
"The enchantment on the sword. It was real. Obviously." Sam's face had gone red, and Dean snuck a glance, mildly horrified that Sam would bring it up instead of denying everything if it killed him. That was Dean’s policy, and it should be Sam’s too.
He hoped that Sam would stop there and let him off the hook, but Dean never got his wish, did he? Sam had always been a tenacious bastard when he thought he was onto something, couldn’t let anything go. As usual, he barrelled on through. Laughed a little self-consciously, he said, "It took me awhile, but I finally figured out what it all means. With the gem, I mean. And the warning. Or instructions, more like."
"Great, I’m glad you solved the big mystery," Dean cut him off, before Sam could say something terrible, something sensitive about Dean's unrequited feelings. The truth was depressing as all hell and Dean certainly didn’t want Sam’s sympathy.
"It's like the guy was saying, the sword is a tool of chivalry for those who haven't yet found the courage," Sam continued. "It helps them find it within themselves to act. So as soon as the person enchanted by the sword follows their heart, the enchantment wears off."
"What an interesting theory," said Dean weakly. "You know, technically everything that happened today is ancient history, so why don't we let bygones be bygones and..."
"I'm right, aren't I? Dean, tell me I'm right."
Sam was still shirtless and kind of drunk and looked so desperate suddenly. It made that pain in Dean’s chest even worse.
Sam didn’t know what he was asking. And if Dean answered honestly, well, it would ruin everything. He wasn't brave enough, and Sam didn't deserve this. "Sam, I'm serious, let's just forget-"
"Please just tell me I’m right."
"Why? How could that possibly help anything?" And Dean had all but admitted it now. Things had spiraled out of control.
"Because I saw it, too, Dean. The gem."
Dean's head shot up. "What?"
"The gem was calling to me too, glowing green. Of course it was. Because I- Well, you know. And the only difference between you and me was I was just smart enough not to touch it."
"Sam..."
"I saw it, too," Sam repeated, meeting Dean's eyes. "Nothing has to change, if you don't want it to. But just know that I’m here if you want to...to talk about it."
Dean was sure he had misunderstood what Sam seemed to be saying. The hope alone could kill him, he knew it down to his bones.
He wasn’t sure of anything anymore except one thing of which he was completely certain: "I would rather do anything than talk about it, Sammy."
"Ok," Sam breathed, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and it was the shock of a lifetime when he put a hand to Dean's chest and shoved him further into the curtains, behind the large throne and out of sight.
Dean’s eyes hadn’t adjusted to the halflight and shadow, but he didn’t have to see anything to feel the breath of Sam's words against his cheek when he said, "Let's not talk about it, then," and brushed his mouth against Dean’s.
Dean found he loved not talking about it. He didn’t waste time with inaction, instead pressing in close, letting go of the doubt and just trusting for once that it would all turn out right. He trusted Sam.
"Well, that's all folks," he heard Charlie yell from out on stage. "Now, to feast!"
There was a cheer from the crowd, a sound of joy that Dean could fully get behind, and shouts of "long live the queen!"
Dean pulled away, nose brushing Sam’s. The feeling in his chest grew stronger, but this time it didn’t hurt.
"You know, I'm kind of sad we missed the tournament?" he said, running his hand up Sam's bicep.
"Oh, the lover's battle has just begun," said Sam brightly. He pressed closer. "Hey, is that your sword or-"
"Har har," said Dean.
Sam was grinning ear to ear, Dean could feel it against his mouth. It was the best reward for anything Dean had ever done.
"We’ve had a long, hard day...Maybe we should go to bed."
"Good grief," said Dean. He was still trying to catch up, even as Sam led him outside and past bright torches that lit their way through the dark.
"So, I happen to know we're sharing a tent…" said Sam, the hussy.
"Excellent," Dean said. "Long live the queen." Something they could all agree on.