Non Timebo Mala: Chapter 19
Chapter 19
The instant he woke, Dean knew it was going to be a crappy day. He was lying face down in a dirty holding cell, his cheek pressed into something damp which he’d rather not think about, and his head was pounding as if Jupiter was throwing a tantrum inside it. Most of his clothes had been taken leaving him wearing nothing more than his boots and loin wrap and his arms prickled in the cold dankness in which he found himself. He groaned and reached back to gingerly rub the knot at the base of his skull.
His mind began to dredge up the memories of last night, chasing away the last remnants of unconsciousness, and Dean swore under his breath as he took in his new surroundings. He was sitting in the last cell of a long row, mirrored across the way by another with a walkway down its center, and almost all the cells were filled with a sea of miserable people. Ragged souls looked out at him with gaunt faces and dead eyes that had long since given up hope. He searched every cell he could see and sighed in relief when he didn’t spot Sam among the prisoners. His little brother would have been hard to hide and he tried to take some comfort in the idea that maybe Sam had escaped.
Dean sighed and thumped his forehead against the bars, an action he immediately regretted as his headache increased. “Great,” he rumbled, looking up at the sky as if directing his gripe to the gods themselves, “This is just friggin’ awesome.” He pushed off of his door and collapsed into one of the cleaner corners of his cell. The image of Azazel’s smiling face popped into his mind and he curled his lip in distaste. The bastard had killed one of his fellow politicians and now Dean was going to be the one to take the fall for it. He doubted shouting his innocence was going to get him anywhere either. No one would believe a soldier with a discipline issue over a well known and powerful senator. He grumbled a few less than polite suggestions for what he’d like to do to the smug asshole when he finally got out.
Dean’s heart suddenly tightened though as the memories of the previous night trickled back in and clicked into place. Azazel had been at Michael’s house and he’d hinted that he’d somehow found out about the affair between Dean and Castiel, a fact that could place them all in trouble. He didn’t know what Azazel had told Michael but he didn’t think Castiel’s brother would hesitate for a moment to carry out his threats and he hoped they weren’t too late to save the old woman. How would Castiel ever forgive him if he’d let his mother die all because he hadn’t acted fast enough to get her out? That is, if he ever even got to see Cas again. Killing a senator didn’t exactly carry a light sentence so he could only guess what his punishment was going to be. Beheading, maybe? At that moment, Dean couldn’t bring himself to really care. He was more worried about what was happening to his lover. If Azazel knew about them, had he done something to Cas? Had he hurt him? Had Castiel gone outside as planned, looking for Dean’s help only to find himself alone at Azazel’s mercy?
A mental image came to Dean’s mind unbidden, Castiel hurt and surrounded by Azazel and his men, and it was all Dean could do not to dig his way out of his cell just to make sure Cas was ok. He had to find a way to escape, had to find the young man with the beautiful blue eyes that had fought at his side as his equal and saved his life. He needed to tell Cas how much he’d come to mean in so short a time. He needed to protect him, wanted to protect him, and that desire was even greater in the face of the fact that he knew Castiel could and would do the same for him. “Cas,” he said in a whisper that was half prayer. If the gods had any mercy at all, they would at least let Dean ensure the vibrant young man he’d fallen for was free and safe. Then again, the gods weren’t exactly on Dean’s list of favorite people at the moment so he couldn’t count on their help.
No, Dean needed to find his own way out. He checked every inch of his cell but found no easy answers and with no windows anywhere to be seen, he couldn’t even tell how long he’d been unconscious. His answer came when a scrawny old man walked down the row of cells tossing a small bowl in each one filled with something that looked like it’d come of the wrong end of Impala. Apparently, this was breakfast. “Oh yeah, that’s appetizing.” Dean kicked the bowl aside and grabbed the old man’s arm before he could shuffle away again. “Hey, hey! I’m not gonna hurt you, ok?” he said as the servant tried to wriggle free in a panic, “I just need know where I am. What jail is this?”
The man paused and shook his head at him. “Not a jail, boy. You’re in the holding cells for the games.”
“Games?” Dean asked incredulously, “what’dya mean, ‘games’?”
“The games, boy. The arena?” The old man pointed a gnarled finger skyward and that’s when Dean realized the murmur of sound he’d been hearing in the background was the thunder of a crowd taking their seats. He’d almost tuned it out entirely but now that soft white noise had taken on a whole new menace. They weren’t going to behead him, they were going to put him into gladiatorial combat to watch him fight to the death, and that was if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, well, then they’d just be feeding him to wild animals for the crowd's amusement.
He let his hand drop and the old man skittered away while Dean pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off his headache. He had never been afraid of a good fight before and he’d seen enough blood during his tenure in the military that such things didn’t frighten him but he knew that this wouldn’t be a fair fight. He wouldn’t be walking away from this. Were he a slave bought for the games, he might be able to prove himself an able enough warrior to earn his freedom but a criminal? No, they would keep throwing things at him until he died, especially given the nature of his supposed crime. “Dammit!” he snarled, “Sam…where the hell are you?”
The next few hours seemed to pass far too quickly for Dean as he waited for his turn to go topside. He watched with dread as the cells around him emptied one by one. Groups of men were dragged from their confines, some screaming, some crying, some merely going catatonic and shitting themselves, and all Dean could do was watch. He could hear their cries for mercy echoing down the hallway long after they were removed until at last he was the only one still sitting in his cell. Finally a group of four men in full armor came for him. Apparently he warranted a much higher level of security to ensure he wouldn’t try to escape and he would have been flattered if it weren’t for that whole ‘about to die horribly’ thing. Dean rose to his feet and stared down his guards. Death he could handle, it would be like paying a bill that had finally come due, but not seeing Castiel again, not being able to make sure he was ok, was more than Dean wanted to think about.
He thought about trying to put up a fight but he had no weapons or armor and against four armed men, he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. He squared his shoulders as much as he could and jerked his arm away when one of them reached for him. “I can walk,” he snapped, “my damn legs aren’t broken.” He pushed past them and quickly found himself in the center of their little group as they led him down the hallway. They made their way through several dark corridors until the ground finally sloped up and a pair of doors came into view.
A man was waiting there with a simple set of armor that would barely afford any protection but Dean figured it was better than what the other prisoners had received. They rarely spared armor for people they considered little more than fodder. He would have been grateful if it weren’t for the fact that he was being fed into a giant meat grinder and this was just a way of making sure his suffering lasted longer. He snatched the armor out of the man’s hand and began strapping it on, his gaze flicking around as he looked for any last hope of getting out of this.
“All right,” Dean growled, “let’s get this over with. Ya bunch of vultures.” He snatched up his sword and stalked off toward the double doors which opened before him. He was forced to squint in the brilliant light of mid-morning as he stepped out and a great roar burst up around him like an ocean wave breaking over his head. Thousands of people were packed along the walls above, a swirl of color and waving arms, all shouting in excitement. It made him feel sick to know they were all looking forward to watching him die. “Can’t any of you people find a better hobby,” he grumbled as he stalked toward the center of the arena.
The ground beneath him was packed dirt and sand, each step setting off a small dust cloud as he walked, and he knew landing on it was a great way to tear up his skin. More blood to please the crowd. Across the way he spotted a set of small dark figures jogging toward him. Three young gladiators pulled up short twenty feet away and turned toward the balcony where Dean spotted a senator sitting in the shade. He thought for a brief moment it was Azazel come to watch his handiwork but the man was older and more compact of frame.
The gladiators saluted the senator and Dean offered his own salute though his was considerably less polite. The crowd riled and the cries became deafening. Romans loved a good scandal and they were eating up the rebellious soldier who was apparently showing no remorse for the murder he’d committed. Dean hated them all for it. He sulked back to face the three men across from him. “Oh THIS is fair,” he spat. An official made his way down to the group and he held out a long wooden pole to measure the proper distance between the men. When the fighters had all taken their places, he yanked the pole away and the action began at once.
The men lunged at Dean but he could tell right away from their clumsy strikes that they were novice fighters, men that had volunteered in their hope of glory and fame, and he almost felt sorry for them. They had no idea they’d been put up against someone infinitely better trained. Dean tucked and rolled between two of them, wheeling up around and bashing the back of one man’s helmet so hard he could hear teeth click and he let the momentum carry him around into a leap that slammed the tip of his sword into the upper thigh of another fighter.
That was one down. The wounded man screamed in agony and fell to the ground. He wouldn’t be getting back up on that leg any time soon which Dean was grateful for. He didn’t REALLY want to kill the kid. He shuffled back out of the wild swing aimed at him and smacked it way off to his right with the flat of his blade. A sharp knee to the gut followed and Dean watched yet another opponent hit the ground with a surprised “OOF!” He barely spared a glance as he kicked the man’s kidney and stepped over the writhing body. He didn’t want to have to take any more lives than was necessary.
The last remaining fighter was backing up slowly, trying to gain some distance from Dean so he could think through his strategy a little better, but Dean afforded him little time. He dropped his chin and set his most fierce scowl in place as he stalked with murderous intent toward the remaining fighter. His intimidation worked like a charm and the last fighter looked at him with wide-eyed uncertainty. A few pathetic swings were taken which Dean easily avoided and he jogged around to the man’s right before tucking, skidding around, and then slashing at the thick leather straps holding the man’s armor in place. It fell to the ground with a clang and the crowd went wild.
Dean paused to smirk at the sound. He’d never been famous but his show thus far had made quite the impression apparently and he couldn’t help a little swell of pride at knowing his fighting prowess was being appreciated. His mood dropped however as the three fighters slinked away and a huge beast of a man rolled out of the door where they had disappeared. The crowd roared in excitement as the gladiator crossed the arena. He was much larger than Dean and his face was entirely covered in a thick helmet pocked with holes for breathing and sight. A large plume rose above his head on either side, hemming in a long bronze crest, and heavy armor covered his left leg. The entire left side of his body was concealed behind a massive square shield and in his hand he gripped a short wickedly sharp sword. Dean glanced down at the small round shield on his arm and then back up to the wall of bronze heading his way. He swallowed heavily and took a step back.
“Ok, Winchester,” he said as he bolstered his nerves, “you can do this. It’s just like fighting a Gaul…or a bear…a big bear…in armor.” He closed his eyes and cussed again. When he opened them, he was forced to look up into the face of the other fighter. The official stood between them once again and measured out the distance before calling a start to the fight. Dean had barely enough time to skitter backward as a sword swung at him and he barely missed having his head chopped off. This was no novice fighter, this was a trained professional who had been doing this for most of his life, but Dean was no beginner either and he knew from experience what it was to have to fight to survive. He tried his trick of rolling around to catch the other fighter’s back but every attempt was thwarted and he had to back off quickly to avoid the retaliating strikes aimed at him. Every blow he knocked aside was powerful enough to send vibrations up his arms until Dean’s shoulder ached from it.
He could hear the crowd calling out in awe and joy over the skill being displayed but it was hardly comforting as he found himself struggling just to keep himself intact. He dipped low and tried to strike at the fighter’s leg below the shield but his sword clanged uselessly off the greave and he earned a hard bash to the face for his efforts. Dean rolled backward with the blow, sparing himself a broken nose, but his arms chaffed across the hard ground and he felt the burn of skin rubbed raw as he regained his feet. He coughed and spat out the blood trickling over his lips from his left nostril. The gladiator didn’t afford him much breathing room and he pressed his attack with a series of swift precise slashes in the hope of finding a hole in Dean’s defenses. Dean shuffled backward, giving ground again and again as he searched frantically for a weak area he could attack. The crowd was chanting for blood around them and he tried to tune them out as much as possible.
Their swords glinted in the harsh sunlight as they carried out their dance of life and death. A particularly well aimed strike opened a thin line along Dean’s ribs and he winced as he pulled away and circled to the left. He blinked as sweat stung his eyes and slid into his cuts, setting them on fire. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever and he hoped maybe the other fighter would get tired soon from having so much more armor to carry. He was searching so hard for an opening to use that he almost didn’t register the change in the crowd’s roar. It rippled around in a wave of shock and cries of protest burst forth. It took him a moment to register the addition of a new fighter to the arena and he swore under his breath. This was it. He wasn’t going to be able to hold off two of them. He was surprised however, as was the rest of the crowd from the sound of it, when the newcomer flung himself at the gladiator’s back and sliced a heavy line across his shoulders.
Dean blinked in confusion and stared into a very familiar set of blue eyes. “Cas?” he asked numbly.
Castiel quickly took up a position at Dean’s side and looked him over with open worry. “I’m here as is Sam. We just have to buy him some time.”
Dean stared dumbfounded for a moment before a slow smile broke out on his face. “I…uh…I love you, you know,” he shouted over the cries around them.
Castiel smiled fully then, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. “I know.”
Dean chuckled in disbelief and the two of them turned back to face the very confused gladiator in front of them. It didn’t take them long to have him on the defensive. The pair worked with perfect timing, driving the man back into one another so that when he faced one, his body was vulnerable to the other, and soon enough he took a knee in surrender. He raised his sword in a plea for mercy and Dean didn’t bother waiting to see if the senator would grant it. He simply stepped around him and made his way to Castiel’s side. “You hurt?” he asked, checking over his lover’s almost nude frame.
“I’m fine,” Castiel replied. He watched as Dean continued to look him over and he cocked his head to the side. “Dean, I said I’m fine.”
“I know,” Dean replied distractedly, “but you are not just fine. You are fine. Damn, you look hot in that.”
Castiel blushed and ducked his head. “Dean, I do not believe this is the appropriate time or place for that.”
Dean smirked. “Well, hells, Cas, all these people came for a show. I think we should give ‘em one.” He chuckled at the look of embarrassed horror that crossed his lover’s face but his mirth was short lived as the ground below them vibrated ever so slightly. He glanced around in time to see four trap doors slide open and from each one a large, slightly emaciated tiger slinked out. He instinctively turned and tried to put Castiel behind him but they were surrounded on all sides. “Cas…you said Sam was doing something about this, right?” He tried not to sound as nervous as he felt.
Chapter 18 Master Post Chapter 20