[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter One
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.
“Tutankhamen,” Professor Samuel Winchester announces, cringing when the chalk grates against the chalkboard, “and his lost tomb have long been a subject of debate among the most brilliant of archeologists before my time. In fact, after twenty years of painstaking research, Jones was sure he had discovered where the pharaoh’s final resting place was. But, what’s the number one rule?”
“X never marks the spot,” the classroom answers in unison, emitting a handful of stifled yawns and tapping pens.
Nodding his head, the professor etches a large X over the drawn map, and encloses it in a circle. “X never marks the spot. If it looks easy, odds are you’re looking in the wrong place.”
And speaking of looking in the wrong place, the professor stops talking in favor of looking in the direction that most of his students seem to be looking. The giggles and dreamy sighs are all telltale signs he knows well, but he’s still surprised at the sight of his brother waving at him through the window on the door. He gives him a withering look he hopes conveys the level of irritation he’s feeling at being interrupted in the middle of a lecture, but his brother holds up a tiny package and shrugs.
“Uh, fine then. We’ll leave this here for the time being,” Sam says to his class, before turning to open the classroom door when the shuffling sound of students gathering their things becomes too loud to think. “I want you all to read up on Richardson, chapter ten!”
He stands by and watches them all file out, nodding uncomfortably when several of the women wink at him. One of them leaves an apple at his desk. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam notices his brother grin at the girls, but all they do is scoff and hurry into the hallway.
“Full house?”
“Tell me what’s so important that it couldn’t wait until the lecture was over? Ten minutes, Dean, that’s it. Couldn’t you wait twenty more minutes?” Sam grabs the eraser and turns his back to Dean, cleaning up today’s detailed image of the Valley of the Kings.
“Priorities,” Dean answers simply, and drops a small beige package onto Sam’s desk, sending papers fluttering and pens rolling to the floor. “I stopped by your office to wait for you, and when I got there I saw a strange fella in black walking out the door. I thought you were inside, but when I turned to ask him where you were, he was gone. Just like that. I found this on your desk.”
Sam frowns at the tightness in Dean’s words. “What is it?”
“See for yourself.”
Taking off his suit jacket, Sam drapes it over his chair and reaches for the small bundle of wrinkled paper. He takes a seat while he carefully peels away whatever Dean didn’t tear to shreds. What he finds is unexpected.
“Dad’s journal?”
“Apparently. Came with this attached to it,” Dean says, and hands over an envelope. “Signed by your favorite grandpa.”
“He’s your grandfather, too,” Sam counters with a quiet laugh.
The wrinkling paper sounds grating in the silence of the big classroom, accompanied only by the constant tap of Dean’s shoes against the wooden floor. Dust motes float in the orange beams of sun that come through the old windows, making Sam turn away from the glare that bounces off the bronze bowl he brought in today, as an example of materials used during ancient religious rituals.
His brow furrows as he reads the typed letter, running a hand across his mouth when he comes across the signature. He puts down the letter with a shake of his head, in disbelief of what he just read. “What does M.O.L. stand for?”
“No idea. I thought that might ring some sort of bell for you, Professor Sammy.” The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches as he says it, but the would-be smile fades as he clears his throat. “So Dad is missing, and grandpa wants us to go find him. Doesn’t that sound fishy to you?”
Sam looks up at Dean, puzzled. “What makes you think that?”
Dean does grin this time, as he leans over to pluck a pen from the decorative coffee mug Sam keeps on his desk. He’s got the gleam in his eye that tells Sam he’s clearly up to something, and Sam can’t help but shift in his seat, a slow smile spreading across his face. “What is it, Dean?”
“It’s a code. A sloppy one if you stop and think about it, but I think Henry was in a hurry when he typed up the letter. Look.” Dean leans over the desk so that he can see.
Sam watches attentively as his brother circles every capital letter on the document, including the displaced ones he hadn’t caught when he read it the first time. Dean then writes them on the margins of the letter. “An anagram.”
“Just take out the ones that are used correctly and…” In the messy handwriting that belongs only to Sam’s brother, Dean rearranges the letters until he spells out two very simple words that make Sam snort in disbelief.
FIND IT
“I see what you mean by sloppy. It’s like he didn’t even try to be discreet,” Sam says.
“Well, you didn’t notice.”
John served in the war and for someone to get the jump on him would prove no easy task. Something about the situation doesn’t settle well as Sam churns the information over in his head. Aside from that, Grandpa Henry rarely communicated with anyone outside his innermost circle. Sam is starting to see why Dean doubts the legitimacy of the communication.
“What do you propose we do, then?” Sam asks. His fingers fiddle with the leather cover of the journal, but he doesn’t open it. “The semester still isn’t over. I can’t just hop on a plane and fly on over to Germany.”
“You couldn’t even if you wanted to. If you need to get into Germany, you’re going to have to do it by train, or car,” Dean says, and pointedly looks down at the bomber jacket Sam purchased for him just last week. With the war in full swing, it increases the difficulty of the impromptu mission.
There’s a knock on the door that startles them both, sending Dean back up to his feet, while Sam sits a little straighter in his seat. He swivels the chair towards the door, but also stands when he sees an unfamiliar man standing just outside the classroom.
“I can guarantee you safe passage,” the man says.
Sam subtly moves closer to Dean.
The man’s accent had sounded thick and curling. His dark hair has been slicked to the side, and small, round glasses are perched on his nose, hiding away fair-colored eyes. Not all Germans are Nazis, Sam thinks rationally, but he knows Dean far too well that he can sense rather than feel him tensing up beside him. The long, dark coat and black gloves the man wears doesn’t ease his mind.
“Who the hell are you?” Dean bites out defensively, and seems to be unfazed by the steadying glare Sam gives him.
“Eckhart,” the man says, finally stepping into the classroom and reaching out his hand. “I’m here on behalf of Henry Winchester.”
Before Dean can react, Sam is moving towards the man, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Forgive my brother, he’s been having a rough day, it would seem.” Behind him, Dean scoffs.
Eckhart nods stiffly, and doesn’t bother offering a polite greeting. “You must be Professor Winchester.”
“Call me Sam. This here is Dean.”
Dean salutes him, but Eckhart doesn’t spare him a glance.
“Right, the pleasure’s all mine,” Dean says dryly. “Why is it that you’re here, instead of Henry?”
Sam winces at Dean’s tone, but he knows that once his brother is on the defensive, there’s no stopping him. Dean is going to get to the bottom of it, and there will be no little brother or manners to stop him. With that in mind, Sam steps back and lets Dean do the talking.
“I’m afraid your grandfather has far more urgent issues at hand that he needs to see to personally.”
“Oh, like his son being held as a prisoner of war isn’t important?” Dean is barely containing his indoor voice as he strides up to Eckhart, staring him dead in the eye. Sam can see his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. “Well, you can tell Henry that he’s a lousy excuse for a father, and that he has no right to demand that his grandkids fix his damn problems.”
Eckhart looks disgusted as he turns his face away and grabs a handkerchief from inside his coat. Sam tries not to laugh when the man dabs it against his nose. The odds that Dean’s breath smells of whiskey are pretty high, even if the clock is just barely striking noon.
“Your familial problems are none of my concern, Mr. Winchester. I am here to deliver a message and that I shall do,” Eckhart says before sidestepping Dean in order to face Sam. “Our organization acknowledges you as the best archaeologist of our era, Professor. If anyone is to know the last possible whereabouts of John, we trust it to be you. Are you familiar with his research?”
There’s something in the way Eckhart asks the question that makes Sam uneasy. It almost sounds demanding, and judging by the minuscule shift of Dean’s head, Sam knows he isn’t the only one who noticed it.
With a polite smile, Sam answers, “No, sir, I’m afraid not. My father and I haven’t been in contact for several years.”
Eckhart does not look convinced, but he pulls out a leather envelope from his coat pocket nonetheless. “Then your journey will be a long one. I’ve arranged with the Dean of Faculty for a substitute during your absence. All expenses will be paid in full by our organization-”
“There’s only one ticket in here,” Sam interrupts after having gone through the papers.
“I’m sorry?”
“If you want me to go anywhere, I’m going to need two of everything.”
The muscles of Eckhart’s jaw clench, his already foul expression turning into something stormy. Sam could swear the man’s cheeks turn a bright red. “Why?”
“Because,” Dean says, and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We come in twos.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Adjusting his bow tie, Sam gives Dean a crooked smile. “We’re a team, Mr. Eckhart. You see, I find the object in theory, and Dean does the actual hunting. Our system hasn’t failed us yet.”
The idea of doubling expenses seems to turn bitter in Eckhart’s mouth, but he doesn’t protest. Maybe because the money isn’t directly coming out of his pocket, but Sam cares little to nothing. He isn’t going anywhere without Dean, and that’s final.
“Your plane leaves at six o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll have your extra ticket then.”
“Plane? Did he say plane?”
Sam ignores Dean. “Lastly, I want to know if I can trust you.”
The bell goes off overhead and the sound of students milling along the hallway drowns out the clock ticking above Sam’s chalkboard.
Tenseness settles between all three of them. Sam is ready to back down, but John is missing, and if they don’t go and look for him, then who will?
Eckhart smiles, then, small and secretive, and not the least bit trustworthy. “It would be wise if you trusted no one along your journey, Professor.” At least he was honest.
Carefully, Eckhart removes a ring from his gloved hand. Its top is flat, round, and carries a strangely shaped star carved into the gold. Along the band are black and faded and intricate markings that resemble twisting vines. The bottom of the ring is flat, probably due to long years of tapping fingers against a table. When it’s dropped onto his palm, Sam immediately recognizes it as Henry’s ring.
Sam gives the man a nod before passing the ring to Dean. “Six o’ clock.”
“You’ll have a driver escort you to the airport twenty minutes before your departure. It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.” Inclining his head, Eckhart’s barely-visible smile widens a fraction of an inch. “Godspeed.” And with that, he leaves.
“Well?” Dean prods, turning to Sam with an unimpressed look.
Sam answers it with a sigh. “Jessica is going to kill me.”
❖
Jessica nearly kills him.
Dean has to hide his laughter behind a coat he’s folding as he stands over his luggage, packing the essentials he’ll need for a trip which he has no idea how long will take. He has four pairs of slacks, three shirts, two coats, an extra pair of boots, and a fancy three-piece suit Sam insists he take.
Instead of lingering on the fact that they’ll arrive in Germany by airplane, Dean focuses on Jessica’s ongoing rant as she paces back and forth across Sam’s living room floor. Her tiny heels make a rhythmic clack-clack-clack that allows Dean to hum a tune. It’s almost hypnotic.
“You are insane. The both of you are. Of all places!”
“We’ve faced worse,” Sam says as he tries to assuage her fears. “Remember when I told you about the Hobitos?”
“Sam’s right,” Dean throws over his shoulder, slamming the lid of his luggage shut before turning around and sitting on it. “Nothing will ever beat the cannibalistic tribes of South America.”
“They weren’t cannibals, Dean,” Sam says, and frowns disapprovingly. “They were a warrior tribe who didn’t take well to strangers.”
“And chased you with poisoned darts because you stole their golden deity,” Jessica finishes, but there’s a slight curl to thin lips.
Not for the first time, Dean wonders how Sam even managed to woo such a dazzling woman. She is way too much for him, but Dean’s happy for his not-so-little brother. He can’t help the grin that bursts on his face when Sam leans in to press a kiss to Jessica’s cheek.
Dean heads into the kitchen to give them a moment of privacy. He grabs three wine glasses from the cabinet and a bottle of champagne Sam has kept hidden for years, in case of a special occasion. The original plan had been to save it for whoever got married first, but Dean figures that after this journey has come to an end, they’ll have enough to buy an entire cellar of the most expensive booze in all of America.
Because John has found the missing clue.
On the last page of his journal, the word Munich stood out, underlined several times. Dean wasn’t expecting a detailed map of the find; he knew more than anyone that John wasn’t trusting when it came to sharing information. He’d write the clues down, but the more important stuff he’d keep in his head. Never leave a strategy where the enemy can see.
This also means that their trip will take longer than any expedition Dean has ever been on before, because he and Sam are going to have to piece the clues together themselves.
With the bottle pinned under his arm, Dean is glad to see that Sam and Jessica are a decent space apart. He doesn’t remark on her dabbing tears from her eyes with Sam’s handkerchief.
“I think this calls for a toast,” Dean says, setting the glasses and bottle down on the small table.
Sam chuckles and moves over to the gramophone, setting for the sweet tones of Vera Lynn’s voice to fill the air in celebration. “I thought we weren’t supposed to open that, see who won.”
Dean shrugs and pops the cork, making Jessica squeal when the pop startles her. “It’s obvious who the winner is, Sammy,” Dean says, bursting with so much pride he thinks his chest is about ready to cave in on itself.
Jessica does the honors of serving their drinks. “What shall we toast to, gentlemen?”
“To the lovebirds,” Dean says, raising his bubbling glass with a solemn but comical expression.
“To the greatest find since the Rosetta Stone,” Sam adds; he laughs when Jessica jabs him on the ribs.
“To you boys coming back safe and sound,” she says, gracing them both with a smile that could win any man’s heart.
Their glasses chink.
Jessica leaves shortly after, leaving the brothers to their packing and last-minute preparations.
“Why can’t we take a boat? I’ve done it a million times, Sam. Transatlantic cruises are the past, present and future of travel.” Dean’s voice is measured and tight, meant to come off as casual, but he knows Sam can pick up on his distress.
“U-boats, Dean,” says Sam, trying to be patient with his brother’s fear of flying. “Besides, we can’t dock in England, and detouring to Spain will delay us more than a week.”
“But we can fly into England just fine, can we?” Dean slams his fedora on top of his luggage as he sets it by the door. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
“No, Dean, it’s not. The Royal Air Force has better control over their skies; they’ll let us land in their territory. If it makes you feel better, we’ll take a boat to France, and then we’ll take the train into Munich. Less air time.”
“No, it doesn’t make me feel better!” Dean nearly yells out the words, and Sam has to stop what he’s doing to look over at his brother. “Dad’s missing, we’re dive-bombing into a Nazi hotspot… We don’t even know if he found what he was looking for. What if we go all that way for nothing, huh? What then? What if it’s a trap?”
Sam doesn’t hold back the sigh. “Is this about Lisa?”
Dean blinks, taken aback. “What are you, deaf?”
“It is, isn’t it?”
Dean heaves a breath and turns to face the living room window. Outside, the sun is already setting, bathing the lawn and bushes in an orange light. His automobile gleams in the sunlight, and behind it, he can see the neighbors walking down the street, holding hands. It’s a quiet neighborhood; homely and safe.
He doesn’t want to talk about Lisa, about what could have been. Sam’s wrong, because this isn’t about her. This is about Sam and Jessica, about what Sam’s leaving behind in order to go adventuring with his big brother. This is about Dean’s legitimate fear of flying, and the deeper fear of losing his father. This is about Dean being selfish and not going by himself, instead he’s dragging Sam into danger once more when he should stay here, in his comfortable little home, teaching in his quaint little classroom at a prestigious university.
“Lisa and I called it quits a few months ago,” Dean confesses. He can see Sam’s reflection on the window in front of him, and he closes his eyes at the disappointment he sees there.
“You’ve been gone almost three months,” Sam says.
“I needed a break.”
“Dean-”
“Sam, I’m as sober as can be, and I’m not in trouble with the law. Let’s just…” Dean stops to clear his throat, and then turns with a smile with a determined nod. “Let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we? It’s been years since we’ve gotten something this big on our plates.”
There’s a short moment of awkward silence, but Sam eventually drops it and nods his head, moving over to stop the gramophone. “You, uh, think he actually found them?”
Dean sits back on the couch, finally deeming himself set for the trip. “The tablets? I’m not even sure that’s what he went looking for, but who knows? I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”
Worrying his lower lip, Sam combs back the long hair that insists on flopping into his eyes. He stands in the middle of the room, looking far too old for his age when he finally asks, “Why would you think this is a trap?”
“Call it a hunch; I just don’t trust the guy,” Dean says. Henry’s ring means nothing; for all Dean knows, the old man is probably dead and rotting away behind the doors of his exclusive book club. The fact that Dean is prejudiced also plays a part, but he’d rather not annoy Sam with his ‘bigoted ways’. “We play things close to the vest from now on. I’m only going to say this once: no sharing information unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve gotten jumped by enough treasure hunters to play nice with some chum.”
Taking the set of neatly folded maps from the table, Sam slips them into his satchel, along with a compass and their father’s journal. “Of all people, I should know the value of information, Dean.”
“You’ve lived a sheltered life, kid. You don’t know the horrors of the real world, when a wise guy crowds you in a dark alley-”
“You’re quoting a film,” Sam says while rolling his eyes.
“Am not,” Dean says defensively, crossing his arms and huffing indignantly.
“You aren’t the only one who goes to the cinema.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Are we done here? I’d like to get some shut-eye before we hit Europe tomorrow.”
Humming to himself, Sam looks around his impeccably organized living room. Impeccable by Dean’s standards, anyways. Knowing Sam, he’d probably be stressed by the handful of books strewn over the couch.
“I think we can call it a night, sure.”
Yawning dramatically , Dean stretches out on the sofa and makes himself comfortable, propping his head on a pillow. “Shut the light on the way out.”
Sam snorts. “Wouldn’t you prefer your bed? God knows when the next time you’ll have a mattress under you will be.”
Dean waves him off. “I’m good, Sammy. You go tend to that glorious mane of yours and turn in.” Resting an arm over his eyes, Dean listens as Sam waddles across the floor for a few more minutes - perhaps picking what books he’ll bring for the sake of entertainment - before shutting the light off.
When he hears the bedroom door click shut, Dean sits up, rubbing the corner of his eyes. He’s tired, but he knows sleep will elude him until the wee hours of the morning. Sleeping on the airplane might prove to be more effective, but he snorts just as soon as the thought emerges.
The sky is still tinged a bruised purple, telling him that the sun isn’t that far away from the horizon just yet. It’s still early, not even seven in the evening, and he can hear Sam restlessly walking around his bedroom. No one is going to get any sleep tonight, that much is obvious.
Getting up from the couch, Dean quietly sneaks outside for a breath of fresh air. The living room smells faintly of Jessica’s perfume, and while pleasant, he’d rather not wallow in the thought of company he doesn’t have.
The heat of the day still radiates from the concrete sidewalks of Sam’s humble house, and Dean can feel it seeping in through the cotton of his black slacks. Lights filter out of the neighbors’ homes, curtains drawn but shadows dancing around tell him stories of the families that have turned in for the night. The tree in Sam’s front lawn sways in the soft breeze, pink petals of early blooms drifting dreamily onto the freshly mowed grass.
It’s a little slice of paradise under the Massachusetts sky.
Dean wonders when - if ever - he’ll manage to get himself a place like this, or his own Jessica with a brilliant smile and equally brilliant eyes.
He’d sure like that.
Maybe she’d like adventures too, and wouldn’t mind getting chased by crazy natives or surprised by snakes and spiders. Dean pictures his other-half as not exactly a wife, but a companion that would rather accompany him on his expeditions, rather than stay at home and bake him a pie. That’s not to say that he minds someone who could bake a pie, but that’s beside the point.
“If you want to talk about it,” Sam says from the door, “I’m right here.”
Dean isn’t at all startled by the sudden breach of silence, and he turns his eyes skyward, where he can finally see the first twinkle of scarce stars here and there. “Nah, I’m good.” Trust Sam to pry for an emotional reunion. “Just needed some fresh air.”
Sam steps outside, leaving the door open behind him as he comes to stand by Dean’s side. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get much sleep tonight,” he says, stating the obvious. “It’s too noisy out.”
Not a single cricket can be heard, but Dean understands what he means. One’s own head can make far more noise than any busy street. “That makes two of us.”
They stand is silent companionship, until the night chill begins to set in. When the crickets finally do start to chirp, Sam interrupts the peaceable quiet. “Casablanca is playing at the cinema in town. If we hurry, I think we can make the nine o’clock showing.”
Dean considers it for a brief moment, before deciding that whether he stayed in or not, he wasn’t going to catch a wink of sleep; might as well bask in some good old American entertainment. Maybe Ingrid Bergman’s pretty face will give him a hint of good luck before he leaves, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll find his own romance to remember overseas.
“I’ll get my coat.”
❖
Dawn finds both Winchesters in the living room, with Sam curled on the loveseat, feet hanging off the armrest and snoring softly as the first rays of sunlight seep through the open curtains.
Dean makes his rounds before waking him, taking a moment to relieve himself from all the beer he had a few hours earlier when they hit a bar after the film ended. He hums a song as he washes his hands and brushes his teeth; he runs a comb through his hair to set his honeyed locks into place. He looks halfway presentable, but he can’t do better than that.
Walking into the kitchen, Dean prepares two cups of coffee, and doesn’t bother spiking his own. He pokes and tweaks things that are still out of place: a few unwashed dishes, a discarded tie strewn over a chair, a dust bunny beside the stove-because who knows when they will be back, or in what condition they’ll find themselves once they do. Perhaps that’s John’s military upbringing pushing him on, but Dean doesn’t question it. Having things organized is never a bad thing.
The clock is close to striking five when he finally barges back into the living room, nudging Sam’s hanging arm with his foot. “Rise and shine, Dopey. We’re outta here in thirty.”
Sam grumbles against the pillow he’s currently drooling on, determined to not pay attention to Dean’s foot that is still kicking him hard enough to probably be annoying. “Leave me alone,” Dean hears him say, although it sounds more like m’ve me amone.
“Fine, you deal with Eckhart’s snooty face once he gets here and finds you sleeping still. Not my problem.”
Dean sets the mugs on the table between both couches and quickly slips into the spare bedroom he calls his own to change his shirt. The current one he’s wearing smells of cigar smoke and cheap perfume, two smells he’d rather travel without. Not bothering to dump it into the dirty laundry, he leaves it folded in half on top of his bed. He briefly debates on whether he should use suspenders or not, and puts them on once he remembers that he didn’t pack any last night.
He scratches at his nose as he gives the room one last onceover, taking in the faded flag pinned to the wall, the stack of records beside his bed, and the new bomber jacket hanging from the bedpost. It isn’t like it’s the first time he’s ever been away from his not-home, but there’s always this sense of what-if when the morning comes, when he has to jump on a boat or a train and leave to some exotic land. On impulse, he grabs the jacket and closes the door behind him.
Sam is sitting on the ledge of the couch, gangly limbs spread out all over as he blows swirls of steam from his mug. He looks like a mess, with dark circles under his eyes and pale cheeks. Dean hopes he doesn’t come down with something, after getting rained on during their walk back last night.
“Morning,” Sam mumbles, scratching at his cheek as he yawns loud enough to wake the neighbors.
“Glad to see you finally decided to join the world of the living,” Dean says, by form of greeting.
Sam mumbles something unintelligible and sits back to enjoy his coffee; it takes him at least three more cups to wake up. Once he’s coherent enough to walk around without falling over, Dean turns to leaf through yesterday’s newspaper, allowing him some time to get those last minute preparations done before they leave.
As expected, a burgundy Cadillac pulls up in front of Sam’s driveway at twenty minutes to six.
Neither Winchester speaks as two men in black load their luggage into the back of the car, nor does either mention the small arsenal of guns they smuggled between their three piece suits and dog-eared maps.
The drive, too, is quiet and tense.
Dean refrains from shifting uncomfortably every time the men upfront exchange brief words he can’t quite catch. Their accent is far too thick, and if the tensing of Sam’s jaw is anything to go by, he isn’t the least bit at ease himself. It’s the longest twenty minutes of their life, and Dean never thought he’d live to see the day where the sight of an airplane inspired such relief.
Haverhill Riverside Airport is the thing of nightmares, Dean immediately concludes. All it consists of is a tiny communications building and a wasted tarmac that disappears into a neighboring forest. The cyclone fence hangs bent and rusted, and several chickens cluck and strut their way across the land.
A metal capsule stands sad and lonely on the strip, swaying and groaning whenever a feeble gust of wind swirls through the trees.
“I’m swimming.”
“Dean,” Sam warns, gripping Dean by his elbow as their drivers unload their luggage. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“Safe? I don’t think we’re looking at the same thing here. Look at it, Sam! That thing is a deathtrap on wings!” Dean turns away with a hand over his mouth, trying to take a moment to breathe in calm and sereneness, and not puke those donuts they’d had on the way. “Oh God.”
“Gentlemen.” Dean groans at the sound of Eckhart’s voice, not needing another excuse to be sick. “I am glad you decided to take the trip.”
“Trust me,” Dean says, straightening up and clearing his throat. It is sheer willpower that keeps him from throwing up. “Not like we had a choice.”
“Your father must be proud of having raised such honorable men,” Eckhart says, beady eyes hidden behind the glare of the morning sun against his glasses. He’s smiling, too, something that makes Dean undoubtedly uneasy. “Here are your extra tickets.”
Sam takes the bundle of papers - probably to give Dean a chance to compose himself - and shuffles through them. He seems satisfied with what he finds there, because he slips them into the pocket inside his jacket. “Thank you, Herr Eckhart,” Sam says, offering his most brilliant and respectful grin that borders on sarcastic.
Beside him, Dean chokes back a laugh, disguising it as a cough. Eckhart’s smile twitches, and it’s the final nail on the coffin. There’s something else going on, as both already suspected, but both brothers keep on professional smiles.
“Have a pleasant trip,” Eckhart says with a hint of measured annoyance.
“Will do,” Dean says, tipping his fedora with a flourish. “Shall we, Sammy?”
Sam fiddles with his bow tie, something Dean recognizes as being a nervous tic of his, before nodding his head and slipping his hands into his pockets. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
There’s something soothing about the knowledge that Dean isn’t the only one on edge, be it because of the airplane, the journey, or their sponsors in general. At least he isn’t alone this time around, and Dean feels like he can face giants standing by Sam’s side. Together, the Winchester brothers are an unstoppable force, and the thought makes Dean hum with peace.
The pilot - a short and burly man who seems to be running on high blood pressure, judging by the unhealthy red tinge of his cheeks - pushes the rolling ladder up to the small airplane, with the help of two boys at least half of Sam’s age; the pilot’s nephews, most likely.
“After you,” Dean says, gesturing Sam towards the rickety ladder.
With the sun heating up that late spring morning, and not a single cloud in the sky, Dean thinks that it’s a good day to travel, despite the wreck he’s about to board. He waits until Sam’s gigantic body tucks its way inside before Dean takes that first step, then another, and another. Baby steps, he tells himself, before ducking his head and stepping into the cabin.
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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.
“Tutankhamen,” Professor Samuel Winchester announces, cringing when the chalk grates against the chalkboard, “and his lost tomb have long been a subject of debate among the most brilliant of archeologists before my time. In fact, after twenty years of painstaking research, Jones was sure he had discovered where the pharaoh’s final resting place was. But, what’s the number one rule?”
“X never marks the spot,” the classroom answers in unison, emitting a handful of stifled yawns and tapping pens.
Nodding his head, the professor etches a large X over the drawn map, and encloses it in a circle. “X never marks the spot. If it looks easy, odds are you’re looking in the wrong place.”
And speaking of looking in the wrong place, the professor stops talking in favor of looking in the direction that most of his students seem to be looking. The giggles and dreamy sighs are all telltale signs he knows well, but he’s still surprised at the sight of his brother waving at him through the window on the door. He gives him a withering look he hopes conveys the level of irritation he’s feeling at being interrupted in the middle of a lecture, but his brother holds up a tiny package and shrugs.
“Uh, fine then. We’ll leave this here for the time being,” Sam says to his class, before turning to open the classroom door when the shuffling sound of students gathering their things becomes too loud to think. “I want you all to read up on Richardson, chapter ten!”
He stands by and watches them all file out, nodding uncomfortably when several of the women wink at him. One of them leaves an apple at his desk. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam notices his brother grin at the girls, but all they do is scoff and hurry into the hallway.
“Full house?”
“Tell me what’s so important that it couldn’t wait until the lecture was over? Ten minutes, Dean, that’s it. Couldn’t you wait twenty more minutes?” Sam grabs the eraser and turns his back to Dean, cleaning up today’s detailed image of the Valley of the Kings.
“Priorities,” Dean answers simply, and drops a small beige package onto Sam’s desk, sending papers fluttering and pens rolling to the floor. “I stopped by your office to wait for you, and when I got there I saw a strange fella in black walking out the door. I thought you were inside, but when I turned to ask him where you were, he was gone. Just like that. I found this on your desk.”
Sam frowns at the tightness in Dean’s words. “What is it?”
“See for yourself.”
Taking off his suit jacket, Sam drapes it over his chair and reaches for the small bundle of wrinkled paper. He takes a seat while he carefully peels away whatever Dean didn’t tear to shreds. What he finds is unexpected.
“Dad’s journal?”
“Apparently. Came with this attached to it,” Dean says, and hands over an envelope. “Signed by your favorite grandpa.”
“He’s your grandfather, too,” Sam counters with a quiet laugh.
The wrinkling paper sounds grating in the silence of the big classroom, accompanied only by the constant tap of Dean’s shoes against the wooden floor. Dust motes float in the orange beams of sun that come through the old windows, making Sam turn away from the glare that bounces off the bronze bowl he brought in today, as an example of materials used during ancient religious rituals.
His brow furrows as he reads the typed letter, running a hand across his mouth when he comes across the signature. He puts down the letter with a shake of his head, in disbelief of what he just read. “What does M.O.L. stand for?”
“No idea. I thought that might ring some sort of bell for you, Professor Sammy.” The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches as he says it, but the would-be smile fades as he clears his throat. “So Dad is missing, and grandpa wants us to go find him. Doesn’t that sound fishy to you?”
Sam looks up at Dean, puzzled. “What makes you think that?”
Dean does grin this time, as he leans over to pluck a pen from the decorative coffee mug Sam keeps on his desk. He’s got the gleam in his eye that tells Sam he’s clearly up to something, and Sam can’t help but shift in his seat, a slow smile spreading across his face. “What is it, Dean?”
“It’s a code. A sloppy one if you stop and think about it, but I think Henry was in a hurry when he typed up the letter. Look.” Dean leans over the desk so that he can see.
Sam watches attentively as his brother circles every capital letter on the document, including the displaced ones he hadn’t caught when he read it the first time. Dean then writes them on the margins of the letter. “An anagram.”
“Just take out the ones that are used correctly and…” In the messy handwriting that belongs only to Sam’s brother, Dean rearranges the letters until he spells out two very simple words that make Sam snort in disbelief.
FIND IT
“I see what you mean by sloppy. It’s like he didn’t even try to be discreet,” Sam says.
“Well, you didn’t notice.”
John served in the war and for someone to get the jump on him would prove no easy task. Something about the situation doesn’t settle well as Sam churns the information over in his head. Aside from that, Grandpa Henry rarely communicated with anyone outside his innermost circle. Sam is starting to see why Dean doubts the legitimacy of the communication.
“What do you propose we do, then?” Sam asks. His fingers fiddle with the leather cover of the journal, but he doesn’t open it. “The semester still isn’t over. I can’t just hop on a plane and fly on over to Germany.”
“You couldn’t even if you wanted to. If you need to get into Germany, you’re going to have to do it by train, or car,” Dean says, and pointedly looks down at the bomber jacket Sam purchased for him just last week. With the war in full swing, it increases the difficulty of the impromptu mission.
There’s a knock on the door that startles them both, sending Dean back up to his feet, while Sam sits a little straighter in his seat. He swivels the chair towards the door, but also stands when he sees an unfamiliar man standing just outside the classroom.
“I can guarantee you safe passage,” the man says.
Sam subtly moves closer to Dean.
The man’s accent had sounded thick and curling. His dark hair has been slicked to the side, and small, round glasses are perched on his nose, hiding away fair-colored eyes. Not all Germans are Nazis, Sam thinks rationally, but he knows Dean far too well that he can sense rather than feel him tensing up beside him. The long, dark coat and black gloves the man wears doesn’t ease his mind.
“Who the hell are you?” Dean bites out defensively, and seems to be unfazed by the steadying glare Sam gives him.
“Eckhart,” the man says, finally stepping into the classroom and reaching out his hand. “I’m here on behalf of Henry Winchester.”
Before Dean can react, Sam is moving towards the man, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Forgive my brother, he’s been having a rough day, it would seem.” Behind him, Dean scoffs.
Eckhart nods stiffly, and doesn’t bother offering a polite greeting. “You must be Professor Winchester.”
“Call me Sam. This here is Dean.”
Dean salutes him, but Eckhart doesn’t spare him a glance.
“Right, the pleasure’s all mine,” Dean says dryly. “Why is it that you’re here, instead of Henry?”
Sam winces at Dean’s tone, but he knows that once his brother is on the defensive, there’s no stopping him. Dean is going to get to the bottom of it, and there will be no little brother or manners to stop him. With that in mind, Sam steps back and lets Dean do the talking.
“I’m afraid your grandfather has far more urgent issues at hand that he needs to see to personally.”
“Oh, like his son being held as a prisoner of war isn’t important?” Dean is barely containing his indoor voice as he strides up to Eckhart, staring him dead in the eye. Sam can see his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. “Well, you can tell Henry that he’s a lousy excuse for a father, and that he has no right to demand that his grandkids fix his damn problems.”
Eckhart looks disgusted as he turns his face away and grabs a handkerchief from inside his coat. Sam tries not to laugh when the man dabs it against his nose. The odds that Dean’s breath smells of whiskey are pretty high, even if the clock is just barely striking noon.
“Your familial problems are none of my concern, Mr. Winchester. I am here to deliver a message and that I shall do,” Eckhart says before sidestepping Dean in order to face Sam. “Our organization acknowledges you as the best archaeologist of our era, Professor. If anyone is to know the last possible whereabouts of John, we trust it to be you. Are you familiar with his research?”
There’s something in the way Eckhart asks the question that makes Sam uneasy. It almost sounds demanding, and judging by the minuscule shift of Dean’s head, Sam knows he isn’t the only one who noticed it.
With a polite smile, Sam answers, “No, sir, I’m afraid not. My father and I haven’t been in contact for several years.”
Eckhart does not look convinced, but he pulls out a leather envelope from his coat pocket nonetheless. “Then your journey will be a long one. I’ve arranged with the Dean of Faculty for a substitute during your absence. All expenses will be paid in full by our organization-”
“There’s only one ticket in here,” Sam interrupts after having gone through the papers.
“I’m sorry?”
“If you want me to go anywhere, I’m going to need two of everything.”
The muscles of Eckhart’s jaw clench, his already foul expression turning into something stormy. Sam could swear the man’s cheeks turn a bright red. “Why?”
“Because,” Dean says, and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We come in twos.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Adjusting his bow tie, Sam gives Dean a crooked smile. “We’re a team, Mr. Eckhart. You see, I find the object in theory, and Dean does the actual hunting. Our system hasn’t failed us yet.”
The idea of doubling expenses seems to turn bitter in Eckhart’s mouth, but he doesn’t protest. Maybe because the money isn’t directly coming out of his pocket, but Sam cares little to nothing. He isn’t going anywhere without Dean, and that’s final.
“Your plane leaves at six o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll have your extra ticket then.”
“Plane? Did he say plane?”
Sam ignores Dean. “Lastly, I want to know if I can trust you.”
The bell goes off overhead and the sound of students milling along the hallway drowns out the clock ticking above Sam’s chalkboard.
Tenseness settles between all three of them. Sam is ready to back down, but John is missing, and if they don’t go and look for him, then who will?
Eckhart smiles, then, small and secretive, and not the least bit trustworthy. “It would be wise if you trusted no one along your journey, Professor.” At least he was honest.
Carefully, Eckhart removes a ring from his gloved hand. Its top is flat, round, and carries a strangely shaped star carved into the gold. Along the band are black and faded and intricate markings that resemble twisting vines. The bottom of the ring is flat, probably due to long years of tapping fingers against a table. When it’s dropped onto his palm, Sam immediately recognizes it as Henry’s ring.
Sam gives the man a nod before passing the ring to Dean. “Six o’ clock.”
“You’ll have a driver escort you to the airport twenty minutes before your departure. It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.” Inclining his head, Eckhart’s barely-visible smile widens a fraction of an inch. “Godspeed.” And with that, he leaves.
“Well?” Dean prods, turning to Sam with an unimpressed look.
Sam answers it with a sigh. “Jessica is going to kill me.”
❖
Jessica nearly kills him.
Dean has to hide his laughter behind a coat he’s folding as he stands over his luggage, packing the essentials he’ll need for a trip which he has no idea how long will take. He has four pairs of slacks, three shirts, two coats, an extra pair of boots, and a fancy three-piece suit Sam insists he take.
Instead of lingering on the fact that they’ll arrive in Germany by airplane, Dean focuses on Jessica’s ongoing rant as she paces back and forth across Sam’s living room floor. Her tiny heels make a rhythmic clack-clack-clack that allows Dean to hum a tune. It’s almost hypnotic.
“You are insane. The both of you are. Of all places!”
“We’ve faced worse,” Sam says as he tries to assuage her fears. “Remember when I told you about the Hobitos?”
“Sam’s right,” Dean throws over his shoulder, slamming the lid of his luggage shut before turning around and sitting on it. “Nothing will ever beat the cannibalistic tribes of South America.”
“They weren’t cannibals, Dean,” Sam says, and frowns disapprovingly. “They were a warrior tribe who didn’t take well to strangers.”
“And chased you with poisoned darts because you stole their golden deity,” Jessica finishes, but there’s a slight curl to thin lips.
Not for the first time, Dean wonders how Sam even managed to woo such a dazzling woman. She is way too much for him, but Dean’s happy for his not-so-little brother. He can’t help the grin that bursts on his face when Sam leans in to press a kiss to Jessica’s cheek.
Dean heads into the kitchen to give them a moment of privacy. He grabs three wine glasses from the cabinet and a bottle of champagne Sam has kept hidden for years, in case of a special occasion. The original plan had been to save it for whoever got married first, but Dean figures that after this journey has come to an end, they’ll have enough to buy an entire cellar of the most expensive booze in all of America.
Because John has found the missing clue.
On the last page of his journal, the word Munich stood out, underlined several times. Dean wasn’t expecting a detailed map of the find; he knew more than anyone that John wasn’t trusting when it came to sharing information. He’d write the clues down, but the more important stuff he’d keep in his head. Never leave a strategy where the enemy can see.
This also means that their trip will take longer than any expedition Dean has ever been on before, because he and Sam are going to have to piece the clues together themselves.
With the bottle pinned under his arm, Dean is glad to see that Sam and Jessica are a decent space apart. He doesn’t remark on her dabbing tears from her eyes with Sam’s handkerchief.
“I think this calls for a toast,” Dean says, setting the glasses and bottle down on the small table.
Sam chuckles and moves over to the gramophone, setting for the sweet tones of Vera Lynn’s voice to fill the air in celebration. “I thought we weren’t supposed to open that, see who won.”
Dean shrugs and pops the cork, making Jessica squeal when the pop startles her. “It’s obvious who the winner is, Sammy,” Dean says, bursting with so much pride he thinks his chest is about ready to cave in on itself.
Jessica does the honors of serving their drinks. “What shall we toast to, gentlemen?”
“To the lovebirds,” Dean says, raising his bubbling glass with a solemn but comical expression.
“To the greatest find since the Rosetta Stone,” Sam adds; he laughs when Jessica jabs him on the ribs.
“To you boys coming back safe and sound,” she says, gracing them both with a smile that could win any man’s heart.
Their glasses chink.
Jessica leaves shortly after, leaving the brothers to their packing and last-minute preparations.
“Why can’t we take a boat? I’ve done it a million times, Sam. Transatlantic cruises are the past, present and future of travel.” Dean’s voice is measured and tight, meant to come off as casual, but he knows Sam can pick up on his distress.
“U-boats, Dean,” says Sam, trying to be patient with his brother’s fear of flying. “Besides, we can’t dock in England, and detouring to Spain will delay us more than a week.”
“But we can fly into England just fine, can we?” Dean slams his fedora on top of his luggage as he sets it by the door. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
“No, Dean, it’s not. The Royal Air Force has better control over their skies; they’ll let us land in their territory. If it makes you feel better, we’ll take a boat to France, and then we’ll take the train into Munich. Less air time.”
“No, it doesn’t make me feel better!” Dean nearly yells out the words, and Sam has to stop what he’s doing to look over at his brother. “Dad’s missing, we’re dive-bombing into a Nazi hotspot… We don’t even know if he found what he was looking for. What if we go all that way for nothing, huh? What then? What if it’s a trap?”
Sam doesn’t hold back the sigh. “Is this about Lisa?”
Dean blinks, taken aback. “What are you, deaf?”
“It is, isn’t it?”
Dean heaves a breath and turns to face the living room window. Outside, the sun is already setting, bathing the lawn and bushes in an orange light. His automobile gleams in the sunlight, and behind it, he can see the neighbors walking down the street, holding hands. It’s a quiet neighborhood; homely and safe.
He doesn’t want to talk about Lisa, about what could have been. Sam’s wrong, because this isn’t about her. This is about Sam and Jessica, about what Sam’s leaving behind in order to go adventuring with his big brother. This is about Dean’s legitimate fear of flying, and the deeper fear of losing his father. This is about Dean being selfish and not going by himself, instead he’s dragging Sam into danger once more when he should stay here, in his comfortable little home, teaching in his quaint little classroom at a prestigious university.
“Lisa and I called it quits a few months ago,” Dean confesses. He can see Sam’s reflection on the window in front of him, and he closes his eyes at the disappointment he sees there.
“You’ve been gone almost three months,” Sam says.
“I needed a break.”
“Dean-”
“Sam, I’m as sober as can be, and I’m not in trouble with the law. Let’s just…” Dean stops to clear his throat, and then turns with a smile with a determined nod. “Let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we? It’s been years since we’ve gotten something this big on our plates.”
There’s a short moment of awkward silence, but Sam eventually drops it and nods his head, moving over to stop the gramophone. “You, uh, think he actually found them?”
Dean sits back on the couch, finally deeming himself set for the trip. “The tablets? I’m not even sure that’s what he went looking for, but who knows? I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”
Worrying his lower lip, Sam combs back the long hair that insists on flopping into his eyes. He stands in the middle of the room, looking far too old for his age when he finally asks, “Why would you think this is a trap?”
“Call it a hunch; I just don’t trust the guy,” Dean says. Henry’s ring means nothing; for all Dean knows, the old man is probably dead and rotting away behind the doors of his exclusive book club. The fact that Dean is prejudiced also plays a part, but he’d rather not annoy Sam with his ‘bigoted ways’. “We play things close to the vest from now on. I’m only going to say this once: no sharing information unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve gotten jumped by enough treasure hunters to play nice with some chum.”
Taking the set of neatly folded maps from the table, Sam slips them into his satchel, along with a compass and their father’s journal. “Of all people, I should know the value of information, Dean.”
“You’ve lived a sheltered life, kid. You don’t know the horrors of the real world, when a wise guy crowds you in a dark alley-”
“You’re quoting a film,” Sam says while rolling his eyes.
“Am not,” Dean says defensively, crossing his arms and huffing indignantly.
“You aren’t the only one who goes to the cinema.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Are we done here? I’d like to get some shut-eye before we hit Europe tomorrow.”
Humming to himself, Sam looks around his impeccably organized living room. Impeccable by Dean’s standards, anyways. Knowing Sam, he’d probably be stressed by the handful of books strewn over the couch.
“I think we can call it a night, sure.”
Yawning dramatically , Dean stretches out on the sofa and makes himself comfortable, propping his head on a pillow. “Shut the light on the way out.”
Sam snorts. “Wouldn’t you prefer your bed? God knows when the next time you’ll have a mattress under you will be.”
Dean waves him off. “I’m good, Sammy. You go tend to that glorious mane of yours and turn in.” Resting an arm over his eyes, Dean listens as Sam waddles across the floor for a few more minutes - perhaps picking what books he’ll bring for the sake of entertainment - before shutting the light off.
When he hears the bedroom door click shut, Dean sits up, rubbing the corner of his eyes. He’s tired, but he knows sleep will elude him until the wee hours of the morning. Sleeping on the airplane might prove to be more effective, but he snorts just as soon as the thought emerges.
The sky is still tinged a bruised purple, telling him that the sun isn’t that far away from the horizon just yet. It’s still early, not even seven in the evening, and he can hear Sam restlessly walking around his bedroom. No one is going to get any sleep tonight, that much is obvious.
Getting up from the couch, Dean quietly sneaks outside for a breath of fresh air. The living room smells faintly of Jessica’s perfume, and while pleasant, he’d rather not wallow in the thought of company he doesn’t have.
The heat of the day still radiates from the concrete sidewalks of Sam’s humble house, and Dean can feel it seeping in through the cotton of his black slacks. Lights filter out of the neighbors’ homes, curtains drawn but shadows dancing around tell him stories of the families that have turned in for the night. The tree in Sam’s front lawn sways in the soft breeze, pink petals of early blooms drifting dreamily onto the freshly mowed grass.
It’s a little slice of paradise under the Massachusetts sky.
Dean wonders when - if ever - he’ll manage to get himself a place like this, or his own Jessica with a brilliant smile and equally brilliant eyes.
He’d sure like that.
Maybe she’d like adventures too, and wouldn’t mind getting chased by crazy natives or surprised by snakes and spiders. Dean pictures his other-half as not exactly a wife, but a companion that would rather accompany him on his expeditions, rather than stay at home and bake him a pie. That’s not to say that he minds someone who could bake a pie, but that’s beside the point.
“If you want to talk about it,” Sam says from the door, “I’m right here.”
Dean isn’t at all startled by the sudden breach of silence, and he turns his eyes skyward, where he can finally see the first twinkle of scarce stars here and there. “Nah, I’m good.” Trust Sam to pry for an emotional reunion. “Just needed some fresh air.”
Sam steps outside, leaving the door open behind him as he comes to stand by Dean’s side. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get much sleep tonight,” he says, stating the obvious. “It’s too noisy out.”
Not a single cricket can be heard, but Dean understands what he means. One’s own head can make far more noise than any busy street. “That makes two of us.”
They stand is silent companionship, until the night chill begins to set in. When the crickets finally do start to chirp, Sam interrupts the peaceable quiet. “Casablanca is playing at the cinema in town. If we hurry, I think we can make the nine o’clock showing.”
Dean considers it for a brief moment, before deciding that whether he stayed in or not, he wasn’t going to catch a wink of sleep; might as well bask in some good old American entertainment. Maybe Ingrid Bergman’s pretty face will give him a hint of good luck before he leaves, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll find his own romance to remember overseas.
“I’ll get my coat.”
❖
Dawn finds both Winchesters in the living room, with Sam curled on the loveseat, feet hanging off the armrest and snoring softly as the first rays of sunlight seep through the open curtains.
Dean makes his rounds before waking him, taking a moment to relieve himself from all the beer he had a few hours earlier when they hit a bar after the film ended. He hums a song as he washes his hands and brushes his teeth; he runs a comb through his hair to set his honeyed locks into place. He looks halfway presentable, but he can’t do better than that.
Walking into the kitchen, Dean prepares two cups of coffee, and doesn’t bother spiking his own. He pokes and tweaks things that are still out of place: a few unwashed dishes, a discarded tie strewn over a chair, a dust bunny beside the stove-because who knows when they will be back, or in what condition they’ll find themselves once they do. Perhaps that’s John’s military upbringing pushing him on, but Dean doesn’t question it. Having things organized is never a bad thing.
The clock is close to striking five when he finally barges back into the living room, nudging Sam’s hanging arm with his foot. “Rise and shine, Dopey. We’re outta here in thirty.”
Sam grumbles against the pillow he’s currently drooling on, determined to not pay attention to Dean’s foot that is still kicking him hard enough to probably be annoying. “Leave me alone,” Dean hears him say, although it sounds more like m’ve me amone.
“Fine, you deal with Eckhart’s snooty face once he gets here and finds you sleeping still. Not my problem.”
Dean sets the mugs on the table between both couches and quickly slips into the spare bedroom he calls his own to change his shirt. The current one he’s wearing smells of cigar smoke and cheap perfume, two smells he’d rather travel without. Not bothering to dump it into the dirty laundry, he leaves it folded in half on top of his bed. He briefly debates on whether he should use suspenders or not, and puts them on once he remembers that he didn’t pack any last night.
He scratches at his nose as he gives the room one last onceover, taking in the faded flag pinned to the wall, the stack of records beside his bed, and the new bomber jacket hanging from the bedpost. It isn’t like it’s the first time he’s ever been away from his not-home, but there’s always this sense of what-if when the morning comes, when he has to jump on a boat or a train and leave to some exotic land. On impulse, he grabs the jacket and closes the door behind him.
Sam is sitting on the ledge of the couch, gangly limbs spread out all over as he blows swirls of steam from his mug. He looks like a mess, with dark circles under his eyes and pale cheeks. Dean hopes he doesn’t come down with something, after getting rained on during their walk back last night.
“Morning,” Sam mumbles, scratching at his cheek as he yawns loud enough to wake the neighbors.
“Glad to see you finally decided to join the world of the living,” Dean says, by form of greeting.
Sam mumbles something unintelligible and sits back to enjoy his coffee; it takes him at least three more cups to wake up. Once he’s coherent enough to walk around without falling over, Dean turns to leaf through yesterday’s newspaper, allowing him some time to get those last minute preparations done before they leave.
As expected, a burgundy Cadillac pulls up in front of Sam’s driveway at twenty minutes to six.
Neither Winchester speaks as two men in black load their luggage into the back of the car, nor does either mention the small arsenal of guns they smuggled between their three piece suits and dog-eared maps.
The drive, too, is quiet and tense.
Dean refrains from shifting uncomfortably every time the men upfront exchange brief words he can’t quite catch. Their accent is far too thick, and if the tensing of Sam’s jaw is anything to go by, he isn’t the least bit at ease himself. It’s the longest twenty minutes of their life, and Dean never thought he’d live to see the day where the sight of an airplane inspired such relief.
Haverhill Riverside Airport is the thing of nightmares, Dean immediately concludes. All it consists of is a tiny communications building and a wasted tarmac that disappears into a neighboring forest. The cyclone fence hangs bent and rusted, and several chickens cluck and strut their way across the land.
A metal capsule stands sad and lonely on the strip, swaying and groaning whenever a feeble gust of wind swirls through the trees.
“I’m swimming.”
“Dean,” Sam warns, gripping Dean by his elbow as their drivers unload their luggage. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“Safe? I don’t think we’re looking at the same thing here. Look at it, Sam! That thing is a deathtrap on wings!” Dean turns away with a hand over his mouth, trying to take a moment to breathe in calm and sereneness, and not puke those donuts they’d had on the way. “Oh God.”
“Gentlemen.” Dean groans at the sound of Eckhart’s voice, not needing another excuse to be sick. “I am glad you decided to take the trip.”
“Trust me,” Dean says, straightening up and clearing his throat. It is sheer willpower that keeps him from throwing up. “Not like we had a choice.”
“Your father must be proud of having raised such honorable men,” Eckhart says, beady eyes hidden behind the glare of the morning sun against his glasses. He’s smiling, too, something that makes Dean undoubtedly uneasy. “Here are your extra tickets.”
Sam takes the bundle of papers - probably to give Dean a chance to compose himself - and shuffles through them. He seems satisfied with what he finds there, because he slips them into the pocket inside his jacket. “Thank you, Herr Eckhart,” Sam says, offering his most brilliant and respectful grin that borders on sarcastic.
Beside him, Dean chokes back a laugh, disguising it as a cough. Eckhart’s smile twitches, and it’s the final nail on the coffin. There’s something else going on, as both already suspected, but both brothers keep on professional smiles.
“Have a pleasant trip,” Eckhart says with a hint of measured annoyance.
“Will do,” Dean says, tipping his fedora with a flourish. “Shall we, Sammy?”
Sam fiddles with his bow tie, something Dean recognizes as being a nervous tic of his, before nodding his head and slipping his hands into his pockets. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
There’s something soothing about the knowledge that Dean isn’t the only one on edge, be it because of the airplane, the journey, or their sponsors in general. At least he isn’t alone this time around, and Dean feels like he can face giants standing by Sam’s side. Together, the Winchester brothers are an unstoppable force, and the thought makes Dean hum with peace.
The pilot - a short and burly man who seems to be running on high blood pressure, judging by the unhealthy red tinge of his cheeks - pushes the rolling ladder up to the small airplane, with the help of two boys at least half of Sam’s age; the pilot’s nephews, most likely.
“After you,” Dean says, gesturing Sam towards the rickety ladder.
With the sun heating up that late spring morning, and not a single cloud in the sky, Dean thinks that it’s a good day to travel, despite the wreck he’s about to board. He waits until Sam’s gigantic body tucks its way inside before Dean takes that first step, then another, and another. Baby steps, he tells himself, before ducking his head and stepping into the cabin.
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