[D/C BigBang 2013] For Love, For Glory - Chapter Three
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.
They arrive at the library fifteen minutes later, and Dean wishes there was a way to capture its beauty and store it away. Perhaps he can get himself a photograph. “It’s a castle,” he says, pointing at the ancient building while laughing in Sam’s direction. “It’s an actual castle.”
As Sam’s personal treasure hunter, Dean has been around the world. He’s seen caves carved by nature to look like a human skull, and he’s seen Hindu temples reclaimed by vines and bugs the size of his head. Dean has seen paper dragons and moose bigger than Sam, but he’s never come face to face with an honest to God castle. Stone spires and magnificent arches, stones worn with age creating a fortress that once stood against foreign invaders, with dragons that froze while climbing its walls. But above all, it looks so much like the castles his mother enjoyed drawing in her spare time.
“Welcome to HQ,” Aaron says, opening the trunk.
The rain has lessened to a drizzle, but there isn’t a break in the sky: an omen that the bad weather is going to continue throughout the day.
Dean watches Aaron head inside empty-handed, and turns to Sam who is slinging his bag across his shoulders and grabbing his additional luggage. “I’m guessing he isn’t really a chauffeur.” His shoes squeak against the wet cobblestone.
“Should have brought an umbrella,” Dean says, before grabbing his own stuff and heading inside.
The inside of the library is surprisingly hot, not to mention big, with a sprawling receiving area that breaks off into four hallways. Much like Delémont’s museum, suits of armor stand guard at the entrance of each one. Flags hang from each archway: one with a lion, the other a bird, one has a horse, and the fourth one an emblem comprised of two swords and a crown.
Stone floors are covered with thick red carpet, all the way up to the elevated center of the room, where Dean can see a series of long tables stacked with books and several lamps.
“Whoa,” Sam mutters, and Dean grins at how dewy his eyes look.
“Willkommen in Deutschland, Herr Winchester,” greets a man, roughly in his forties, but the way he saunters down the stairs with a raunchiness to behold says he still feels twenty. He’s wearing a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Dean half expects him to pull out a cigar at any given moment. “My name is Balthazar Rochester and I will be your host during your stay.”
He shakes both their hands with a look of exquisite boredom that makes Dean’s eye twitch. Some people Dean just doesn’t trust, but this man is a case all of his own.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam says, as polite as always.
“Same here,” is all Dean offers.
“Come along, and I’ll give you a tour of the place. You can leave your luggage right where it is, I’ll see that it is taken to your rooms,” Balthazar says, skipping back up the short flight of stairs. He looks over his shoulder once to check if they’re both keeping up with him. “Now, tell me, how was your trip?”
“Long,” Sam says.
“Stressful,” Dean adds, nearly dragging his feet as he makes his way up into the elevated floor at the center of the room.
“I am very sorry to hear that, as I’m also sorry for having to improvise on your accommodation plans. Did Aaron…?”
“Yes, he told us on our way here. I assume you have some information on what it is we’re to look for,” Sam says, using that tone he uses when he’s holding seminars on the Hellenic Pantheon. It usually means no-nonsense.
“They wouldn’t have sent for you otherwise.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The Men of Letters, of course. Who else? Didn’t your grandfather tell you?” Balthazar stops then, turns to face both of them with a steady stare. Dean catches a flicker of doubt in his blue eyes, tenseness in his brow that reeks of suspicion. “If you didn’t look so much like your father, I would have you arrested for spies. Tell me what you know.”
“We’ll tell you if you get us breakfast,” Dean says, stepping in before Sam can begin his long and winding rant. Forget the tour, his stomach is rumbling and he can’t keep running on a stale cup of coffee.
Balthazar looks down at Dean, as if something foul-smelling was being held beneath his nose. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Cassie isn’t here yet, so we can wait until our dear librarian decides to arrive to discuss this. Wait here.”
Dean and Sam stay behind at the center of the room, and are both amazed to see that what they had thought was a fourth hallway, is actually the library part of the castle. Endless upon endless rows of books line both sides of the passage, all of them lit by strategically placed lamps that reflect light off the gold-colored railings and bronze artifacts mounted on marble pedestals. At the very end, on the left side, is a spiral staircase.
Dean would have focused his attention on all of this, if it weren’t for a niggling question at the back of his head. “Milton’s a librarian?”
“And translator, apparently.”
Scratching at his neck, Dean idly notes that he’s in desperate need of a shave. “A librarian named Milton.”
“Dean,” Sam warns, clearly reading between the lines. “Would it kill you to act like a professional for once?”
“I am,” Dean says, holding up his hands with a chuckle. “I mean, pretty librarian sounds more like your card to play, but hey, if she looks anything like February’s Miss Stacy, well…” Aside from the fact that Dean once had a lady friend that went by the same name, he’s willing to become a charming devil. “I’m thinking red hair, green eyes, hmm? What do you say?”
“I say you’re gross, and that I’m happily engaged.”
“Yeah, yeah, you bluenose.”
❖
If there is one thing Germans got right, it’s their version of an American diner.
A half an hour later, and Dean has a stack of flapjacks, scrambled eggs, the crunchiest sausages to ever grace his mouth, seasoned potatoes and a pot full of coffee. Sam has shoved whatever professionalism he so desperately clings to into his pocket, and scoffs down his breakfast like a soldier. It’s delicious and hearty and hits the spot after a long journey.
The front doors open and close with a loud clang that goes unnoticed by all but Dean and Balthazar, judging by the way the Englishman leans over his chair and instantly gets up, nearly bounding across the floor and into the receiving area. Dean hears casual chatter, but it’s drowned out by the crunch of sausage.
“Dean, Sam - I’d like you to meet our dear librarian,” Balthazar says, still out of sight.
Sam rolls his eyes when Dean stands up and quickly wipes his mouth, but the frown quickly turns into a bout of laughter when the mysterious librarian finally comes into view.
In Dean’s defense, he is simply startled at being faced with something he was never expecting.
Cassie Milton is not a red haired librarian with green eyes. She isn’t even a woman.
The librarian introduces himself. “Castiel Milton, at your service,” and his voice is a deep reverberation in his chest.
Dean is left gaping for the slightest bit of a second, taking in the tousled dark hair that seems to have never been introduced to a comb. Behind a pair of small round glasses is a pair of rich blue eyes that could set the most brilliant of sapphires to shame. Dean’s eyes roam the expanse of barely-there stubble, chapped lips whose corners tip upward in a discreet but polite smile.
One second, and Dean thinks of every other man he’s deemed mildly attractive, and he wastes no time in concluding that this Castiel fellow is definitely something else. Heck, Dean can wager that none of his previous lady friends can compare.
“Dean,” he says, taking Castiel’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Dean Winchester.” If his eyes linger, no one can really blame him, and it’s not like Castiel’s eyes don’t linger as well. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m Sam,” Sam proclaims, loudly, as he pushes Dean out of the way to shake the man’s hand.
“The esteemed Professor Winchester,” Castiel says, his smile increasing in magnitude. “It is quite the honor, if I do say so.”
“Honor is all mine,” Sam says, and retakes his seat.
Dean continues to stand there, torn between feeling dejected at being snubbed, and feeling lightheaded at the stunning picture. He needs to keep his head, focus on the important matter at hand, but he’ll be damned if he can’t admire Castiel from afar. Dean’s no stranger to enjoying things he knows he can’t touch, but there’s no problem with sweetening the view.
“I hope you all haven’t started without me,” Castiel says, taking a seat across from Sam and beside Balthazar. “I’d hate for any of you to have to repeat yourselves.”
“Not at all, we were actually waiting for you.” Balthazar serves Castiel a cup of coffee. “As the ice breaker, I’ll inform you that these two are unaware of the Men of Letters,” he explains, passing the sugar on to Castiel.
Castiel nods his head, adds six spoons of sugar to his coffee, and Dean makes a face. If the man doesn’t end up diabetic, it would be a damn miracle. “Then, under what premise did Henry explain the situation?”
“All he sent was a letter,” Sam says, pulling out said letter from his rucksack and handing it over to Castiel.
“Interesting,” Castiel mutters, taking the letter out of the envelope. “I take it he didn’t deliver it personally?”
“Some Kraut named Eckhart did,” Dean says.
“Eckhart?” Balthazar’s question is sharp. His eyes narrow in on Dean. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty positive, buddy.”
“Are you familiar with the name?” Castiel pushes the glasses up his nose as his eyes hover across the letter.
“Commander Eckhart of the SS,” Balthazar says, and runs a hand across his face as he thinks. “If this man was on American soil-”
“This man got his hands on official correspondence from the M.O.L.. God knows the damage he’s already done.”
“Okay, I get it.” Dean speaks up and tries to garner everyone’s attention away from the panicking. “Care to enlighten us on what you think is going on? Just to set things straight, Sam and I haven’t seen Henry in years.”
“Beneath Henry’s name are the letters MOL,” Castiel explains.
“Men of Letters,” Sam says, piecing that bit together.
Castiel nods. “The Men of Letters are a society dedicated to guarding secrets that could unravel the world within the blink of an eye. Science, religion, politics - all of these things will have no meaning or credence if these secrets are exposed.”
“Secrets like what, exactly?” Sam says, leaning up and resting his weight on his elbows, completely enraptured by the subject.
“No one knows,” Balthazar says with a shrug. “The amount of knowledge is limited to rank within the society. We’ve reason to believe that Henry was pretty high up on the food chain.”
The way he says the word ‘was’ makes Dean uneasy.
“So it’s possible that the bad guys are using us to get to him?” It’s the most logical thing Dean can think of, and he’s relieved to see Sam nod his approval.
Castiel considers the statement, then promptly shakes his head. “Unlikely, if Eckhart already has some sort of footing.” He waves the letter to show what he means, before slipping it back into the envelope and handing it back to Sam. “The SS work clean, they cauterize after they strike. They wouldn’t bring you two into the picture unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Meaning we have something they need,” Dean says, until it finally clicks. “The journal.”
Castiel’s smile is genuine, and it’s only then that Dean notices. The two of them are stringing the Winchesters along. They know, and they just want to see if the brothers are astute enough to piece everything together themselves.
“I have reason to believe John Winchester knew he was being watched, so he sent the journal to you before he was incarcerated,” Castiel says. He sits back and sets his eyes on Dean, as if he’s looking for something he’s still not sure of. “Of course, what you tell me throws a wrench in my theory.”
“Why would they deliver what they need when it was already in their clutches?” Sam sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Dean takes a moment to look at everyone sitting at the table, and he hesitates to say what is on his mind, especially since it is so painfully obvious. He thinks that, maybe, it’s a stupid idea and he’s looking at it the wrong way, and that’s the reason why no one’s thought of it yet. But when has that ever stopped him from speaking up? “Maybe because they needed a translator?” The moment of silence that follows makes him want to sink into his seat, but instead he shrugs and plays it cool. “What?”
“That’s absurd,” Castiel says, frowning at Dean.
“Think about it, Cas. Whatever is going on, they wanted us to come here, to the point where they sent private communications about our current whereabouts. Aaron said so himself, between you and us we can piece together whatever the hell it was that Dad’s looking for. Those Nazi sons of bitches are good - so good that we all bought into it without a second thought. Simple, clean, and no one suspected a thing.”
Drumming his fingertips against the chair’s armrest, he looks to each one of the men present, thinking he’s outdone himself in his stupidity. But it’s the slightly wide-eyed look that Cas is giving him that makes it all slot into place.
Oh. Oh crap.
Dean is sure John would be proud of his poker face at that moment, as he raises his eyebrows and grins, encouraging the others into thinking that it’s all a good idea… and that no one should mention him nicknaming the nerdy librarian ‘Cas’.
“Y-Your logic is sound,” Castiel says, clearing his throat and hiding his face behind a mug as he sips at his coffee. “I do not feel at all pleased that I’ve been thrown into the fray, but I fear you may have a point, Dean.”
First name basis and Dean didn’t even break a sweat.
Balthazar makes a sound between an amused snort and a chuckle, but Sam is a complete sport and carries the conversation down a more professional path. “Then you’re aware of the logograms?”
“Aware, yes. Can I translate them? No, I’ve already tried. There is just no possible way to trace to the source of origin,” Castiel says, before pushing his chair away and walking down into the library. “The Men Of Letters sent a copy of the script to the library, and insisted that I could translate it. God knows what made them think that. I may speak fifteen languages, but gibberish isn’t one of them. At first I thought it may be Celtic or Scandinavian, but the syntax is all wrong - too abstract, too old to mean anything.”
“He’s one smart cookie,” Dean mutters. He can only smirk at Sam when he gives him that look that says ‘one more word out of you, and you’re sleeping in the car’.
“I thought it may be a closer relative to Sumerian,” Sam says, and Dean is struck, not for the first time, with the thought that he’s just tagging along in this expedition for brains. The time is inappropriate, the thought itself is inappropriate, so Dean tells that little voice to shut up.
Castiel returns with a book in tow, and mumbles his thank you to Balthazar, who is kind enough to clear out a space on the table for him. He puts it down and leafs through it, settling on a page filled with numbers and logograms. “The script is different, but the time frame might be more accurate. I sent them a communication several weeks ago, saying that there really was no possible way of translating this. I’ve yet to get their reply.”
“A few wee-wait, how long ago are we talking here?” Dean leans on the table, the gears in his head turning. “That letter is six days old, and John went missing a month ago.”
“Late March, perhaps? I suspect the MOL may have known of the Reich’s intentions for quite a while, but I fear I don’t have the answers you seek. Most of the information Balthazar and I have is heavily influenced by speculation, nothing more. I will help you, but my reach only extends so far,” Castiel says, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“You may have to accept that finding your father is not their top priority,” Balthazar adds, trying to appease. “Whatever it is these folks are looking for, it’s big.”
“How big?” Sam says.
“Big enough to change the course of the war.” Castiel’s voice is grim and tight, and looks away as he says it, the heaviness of his words weighing down on him. “The Fuhrer is convinced that the occult will give him the leverage he needs to win.”
“The occult?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean says with a laugh. He immediately sobers up at the tense looks both Castiel and Balthazar give him. “There’s no way you can be serious.”
“Necromancy, telepathy, flying saucers - there isn’t a single thing Hitler has not tried. The object he seeks is rumored to hold great power, and what I would normally dispel as a load of crock has been of keen interest for the MOL,” Castiel says, drumming his fingers against the surface of the book. “I had hoped that, maybe, someone such as yourself could offer their professional input.”
Sam loosens the knot on his tie before moving the same hand to cover his mouth. He shakes his head in defeat. Dean knows that Castiel may have narrowed it down - but to what, exactly, they have no idea. Half of the things explained make little to no sense, and like Castiel said, whatever did just sounded like complete bull.
“Okay,” Dean says, taking in a deep breath and exhaling calm and slow. He’s eaten already, but he’s tired, and no amount of aspirin can cure the headache pounding in his skull. “How about we call it a night and mull this over to the sight of our eyelids?”
Castiel straightens away from where he’s hunched over the book with a tired nod of his head, and Dean imagines how stressful this must be for the librarian. He and Sam may be in this for John, but he figures - if the heaviness around his eyes is anything to go by - that Castiel too has a direct connection with this mess. Dean just isn’t sure of what it is just yet.
“Of course,” Castiel says, closing the book and dropping it onto his seat. “It’s been a long day.”
“Thirty-six hours,” Dean testily carifies.
“Castiel will show you to your rooms, gentlemen. Shower, sleep, and I expect you down for supper,” Balthazar says, patting Castiel’s shoulder with a steady look. “There will be enough wine to go around, rest assured.”
The chairs scrape loudly against the polished floors quickly after the initial clatter of silverware has faded, a cloud of coughs and murmured words soon following. The clock above library hallway strikes a quarter to noon.
“I’ll see to this myself,” Dean hears Balthazar say to Castiel, as he takes the dishes out of the librarian’s hands. “You take them to their quarters.”
“Why me?”
Balthazar grins knowingly. “A little social interaction might do you some good, Cassie.”
Dean turns away before he’s caught listening.
“So, what are your thoughts on this?” Sam says, tapping a hand to Dean’s elbow to get his attention.
“What do I think? I think they’re all nuts, that’s what. The occult? The guy even mentioned flying saucers, for Pete’s sake.”
“It all makes sense, Dean, at least what Castiel said about the Men of Letters, and Eckhart, too.”
“Good to see it made some sense to someone, at least.”
“Right this way.” Castiel interrupts the two of them without much preamble, leaving Balthazar behind to clean up the mess.
Draping their jackets over their elbows, Sam and Dean follow Castiel down the left corridor, the one under the lion flag.
Leaded windows decorate the left wall in sets of three, with fleurs-de-lis at the top of each frame. Rain continues to pitter-patter against the panes, and thunder booms and lightning cracks as they make their way along the carpeted paths. Gas lamps are lit at every corner to make up for the somber lighting the storm brought in. They cast shadows along the suits of armor and old portraits of faces Dean doesn’t recognize, but maybe Sam does.
The right wall is covered with tapestries, and it may take him a moment to make the connection, but he realizes it, Dean nudges at Sam’s side. “Would you look at that?”
One of the tapestries contains a cottage and two children holding hands. At the top window peeks out an old lady, and along the water well is a trail of gumdrops. The following one is of a girl sitting on the sill of the only window, her unending hair falling along the side of a tall tower.
Dean recognizes most of them, but before either Winchester can comment on it, Castiel speaks up from ahead. “Grimms’ fairy tales,” he says without slowing his step. “Those tapestries are several decades old, and are our pride and joy.”
“They’re amazing,” Sam comments, and Dean has to agree. The one that features a dancing skeleton particularly fascinates him.
“Thank you.”
Taking a left turn and descending three short steps, they arrive at a hall with six wooden doors. The hallway is darker than the ones they took to get here, far gloomier, and Dean dreads that their rooms will actually turn out to be dungeons. “Guessing this is it?”
Castiel nods only once, and takes a keyring that hangs from an ornamental candelabrum. “I trust that your quarters will suit your needs,” he says, unlocking the door with a small amount of difficulty. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the library. We open in ten minutes.”
It’s hard to remember that the castle is a functioning library open to the public when they’re being treated like foreign ambassadors worth their weight in gold. Dean nods absently, too busy being amazed by the décor of the room, and the decently sized bed that beckons him to lie down and snore until tomorrow morning. It’s antiquated and medieval, but luxuriously simple in a way everything European tends to be.
Sam walks over to their luggage and immediately starts rummaging through his things, perhaps looking for a change of clothing considering that they’ve been wearing the same suits for the past day and a half. They both probably reek of sweat and oil.
Dean turns around to face Castiel, who is still standing just outside the door, looking at him with a curious expression. His face is guarded and eerily blank, but his glasses reflect the light from the nearby lamps, making his eyes gleam with the illusion of tears. It takes Dean off guard for a quick second, but he breaks into a smile once his brain catches up. “I guess this is where I say thanks. For the hospitality, I mean.”
Castiel rapidly blinks, as if it’s only then that Dean has come into focus. “It’s a pleasure to have you and your brother, and I apologize in advance for any inconvenience you may stumble upon.”
Nodding his head, Dean leans against the doorframe and slips his hands into his pant pockets. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. “What do you say we swing by the nearest joint and catch a drink later on?” At the confused look, Dean adds, “Just you and me.”
The moment of clarity is easy to catch as Dean learns that Castiel may not be the expressive type, but his eyes sure say a lot. Right now, they’re saying that Dean isn’t worth the time - but the corner of those thick lips say otherwise as they tip upward. Had Dean not been paying attention, he would have missed the action completely.
“I’m afraid I have a thing called standards, Mr. Winchester.”
“My brother’s taken.”
“And so I should settle for you?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Dean says, holding out his hand, just inches away from Castiel’s forearm. He doesn’t really know what he means exactly, maybe it’s just his insecurities shining through in a moment of weakness, but he regrets saying it. “I, uh, all I mean is that I got some time on my hands, is all. And I can’t think of a better way of spending it.” He makes sure to accent his words with his most charming smile.
Castiel deadpans. “So I only get the scrap of your attention.”
“Christ, that’s not-I-That’s not what I…”
With a withering sigh, Castiel presses the bedroom key into Dean’s palm. He doesn’t look offended, but he does look bored half to death. Unimpressed would be the perfect word to describe him, but call Dean crazy, there’s something there. There is no way to put a name to it, but the sole fact that Castiel didn’t react as if he were atrociously disgusted is a good a sign as any. “I may be plenty of things, but easy isn’t one of them. Try a little harder, Mr. Winchester, and then we’ll see.”
Bingo.
Dean watches Castiel as he walks away, all six feet of graceful movement and a hint of arrogance between his shoulders. He knows he’s won, and he’s flaunting it unabashed.
“Just call me Dean!” he calls, and maybe Castiel acknowledges him, maybe he doesn’t, but he’s playing hard to get just three hours after they’ve met, and that counts as a success in Dean’s book.
He waits until Castiel’s silhouette disappears over a corner before closing the bedroom door.
Sam is stepping out of the bathroom, dressed in striped pajamas that make him look two feet taller than he already is. His hair is damp, and dark circles underline his eyes, but he’s wearing a dopey grin as he moves across the room that tells Dean he’s up to something. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, shrinking into himself like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Holding up a finger, it’s all the warning Dean is going to give him. “I’m taking a shower,” he announces, just to say something to break the awkwardness of the moment. Grabbing the first pair of pajamas he can find, he disappears behind the bathroom door.
Yawning widely enough to swallow the bar of soap, Dean rubs at his eyes as he turns the shower knobs. The water is blissfully hot, and he’s already thinking about flopping into bed while he strips down. He groans aloud when he takes off his pants, and notices that he still has the hand stains on his thighs. Castiel probably thinks he’s a slob as well.
Goosebumps erupt across Dean’s skin and he shivers as the water pelts against his back, working on the knots the long trip has worked into his muscles. He runs hands through his hair and lathers it up, scrubbing off all of the sweat, rain and grease that has tagged along since he left Sam’s place. He makes sure to scrub behind his ears.
As far as first impressions go, he is certain he’s butchered this one, although he’s not sure how severely. Of the many things Dean Winchester is good at, leaving a lasting first impression has always been his forte. There is nothing a good suit and freshly slicked hair can’t do when aided by the trademark Winchester charm: a confident grin, a slight tip of the hat, and what Jessica so fondly likes to call the ‘Winchester Charisma’. It had gotten him a meeting with the director of humanities at Sam’s university, helped him land a job as Sam’s personal field-man. It had ladies giggling and hiding behind their delicate kerchiefs as they offered their hands for him to kiss.
And then there was Castiel.
Unimpressed, detached, and smart Castiel, who will only bat an eyelash if there is something of great historical value at stake. Dean figures he somehow falls into that category, but he’s unsure as to how. He’s the treasure hunter, the one who does the dirty work for the pristine scholars who spend their lives behind their desks. Like Sam frequently reminds him: ‘if you want to be a good archaeologist, you have to get out of the library’. Unfortunately, not everyone shares Sam’s mindset of the field.
Dean wonders what kind of scholar Castiel is, and if it’s worth pursuing those lovely eyes and elegant hands.
Rinsing off, Dean slips into his nightclothes and steps out into a dark room. Sam has drawn the curtains and dimmed the lamps, and his massive body is already sprawled across one of the beds in an ungraceful mess. It’s times like these that make it hard to remember that Sam is already a man in his late twenties, and not the kid who bugged Dean for a game of catch after school.
Pulling down the bed sheets, Dean turns down the lamps until they flicker off. With a full belly, fresh bath, and an interesting thought in his head, he lets himself fall onto the bed. It’s a little uncomfortable, but screw it. At least there’s a pillow and no annoying springs digging into his back.
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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.
They arrive at the library fifteen minutes later, and Dean wishes there was a way to capture its beauty and store it away. Perhaps he can get himself a photograph. “It’s a castle,” he says, pointing at the ancient building while laughing in Sam’s direction. “It’s an actual castle.”
As Sam’s personal treasure hunter, Dean has been around the world. He’s seen caves carved by nature to look like a human skull, and he’s seen Hindu temples reclaimed by vines and bugs the size of his head. Dean has seen paper dragons and moose bigger than Sam, but he’s never come face to face with an honest to God castle. Stone spires and magnificent arches, stones worn with age creating a fortress that once stood against foreign invaders, with dragons that froze while climbing its walls. But above all, it looks so much like the castles his mother enjoyed drawing in her spare time.
“Welcome to HQ,” Aaron says, opening the trunk.
The rain has lessened to a drizzle, but there isn’t a break in the sky: an omen that the bad weather is going to continue throughout the day.
Dean watches Aaron head inside empty-handed, and turns to Sam who is slinging his bag across his shoulders and grabbing his additional luggage. “I’m guessing he isn’t really a chauffeur.” His shoes squeak against the wet cobblestone.
“Should have brought an umbrella,” Dean says, before grabbing his own stuff and heading inside.
The inside of the library is surprisingly hot, not to mention big, with a sprawling receiving area that breaks off into four hallways. Much like Delémont’s museum, suits of armor stand guard at the entrance of each one. Flags hang from each archway: one with a lion, the other a bird, one has a horse, and the fourth one an emblem comprised of two swords and a crown.
Stone floors are covered with thick red carpet, all the way up to the elevated center of the room, where Dean can see a series of long tables stacked with books and several lamps.
“Whoa,” Sam mutters, and Dean grins at how dewy his eyes look.
“Willkommen in Deutschland, Herr Winchester,” greets a man, roughly in his forties, but the way he saunters down the stairs with a raunchiness to behold says he still feels twenty. He’s wearing a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Dean half expects him to pull out a cigar at any given moment. “My name is Balthazar Rochester and I will be your host during your stay.”
He shakes both their hands with a look of exquisite boredom that makes Dean’s eye twitch. Some people Dean just doesn’t trust, but this man is a case all of his own.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam says, as polite as always.
“Same here,” is all Dean offers.
“Come along, and I’ll give you a tour of the place. You can leave your luggage right where it is, I’ll see that it is taken to your rooms,” Balthazar says, skipping back up the short flight of stairs. He looks over his shoulder once to check if they’re both keeping up with him. “Now, tell me, how was your trip?”
“Long,” Sam says.
“Stressful,” Dean adds, nearly dragging his feet as he makes his way up into the elevated floor at the center of the room.
“I am very sorry to hear that, as I’m also sorry for having to improvise on your accommodation plans. Did Aaron…?”
“Yes, he told us on our way here. I assume you have some information on what it is we’re to look for,” Sam says, using that tone he uses when he’s holding seminars on the Hellenic Pantheon. It usually means no-nonsense.
“They wouldn’t have sent for you otherwise.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The Men of Letters, of course. Who else? Didn’t your grandfather tell you?” Balthazar stops then, turns to face both of them with a steady stare. Dean catches a flicker of doubt in his blue eyes, tenseness in his brow that reeks of suspicion. “If you didn’t look so much like your father, I would have you arrested for spies. Tell me what you know.”
“We’ll tell you if you get us breakfast,” Dean says, stepping in before Sam can begin his long and winding rant. Forget the tour, his stomach is rumbling and he can’t keep running on a stale cup of coffee.
Balthazar looks down at Dean, as if something foul-smelling was being held beneath his nose. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Cassie isn’t here yet, so we can wait until our dear librarian decides to arrive to discuss this. Wait here.”
Dean and Sam stay behind at the center of the room, and are both amazed to see that what they had thought was a fourth hallway, is actually the library part of the castle. Endless upon endless rows of books line both sides of the passage, all of them lit by strategically placed lamps that reflect light off the gold-colored railings and bronze artifacts mounted on marble pedestals. At the very end, on the left side, is a spiral staircase.
Dean would have focused his attention on all of this, if it weren’t for a niggling question at the back of his head. “Milton’s a librarian?”
“And translator, apparently.”
Scratching at his neck, Dean idly notes that he’s in desperate need of a shave. “A librarian named Milton.”
“Dean,” Sam warns, clearly reading between the lines. “Would it kill you to act like a professional for once?”
“I am,” Dean says, holding up his hands with a chuckle. “I mean, pretty librarian sounds more like your card to play, but hey, if she looks anything like February’s Miss Stacy, well…” Aside from the fact that Dean once had a lady friend that went by the same name, he’s willing to become a charming devil. “I’m thinking red hair, green eyes, hmm? What do you say?”
“I say you’re gross, and that I’m happily engaged.”
“Yeah, yeah, you bluenose.”
❖
If there is one thing Germans got right, it’s their version of an American diner.
A half an hour later, and Dean has a stack of flapjacks, scrambled eggs, the crunchiest sausages to ever grace his mouth, seasoned potatoes and a pot full of coffee. Sam has shoved whatever professionalism he so desperately clings to into his pocket, and scoffs down his breakfast like a soldier. It’s delicious and hearty and hits the spot after a long journey.
The front doors open and close with a loud clang that goes unnoticed by all but Dean and Balthazar, judging by the way the Englishman leans over his chair and instantly gets up, nearly bounding across the floor and into the receiving area. Dean hears casual chatter, but it’s drowned out by the crunch of sausage.
“Dean, Sam - I’d like you to meet our dear librarian,” Balthazar says, still out of sight.
Sam rolls his eyes when Dean stands up and quickly wipes his mouth, but the frown quickly turns into a bout of laughter when the mysterious librarian finally comes into view.
In Dean’s defense, he is simply startled at being faced with something he was never expecting.
Cassie Milton is not a red haired librarian with green eyes. She isn’t even a woman.
The librarian introduces himself. “Castiel Milton, at your service,” and his voice is a deep reverberation in his chest.
Dean is left gaping for the slightest bit of a second, taking in the tousled dark hair that seems to have never been introduced to a comb. Behind a pair of small round glasses is a pair of rich blue eyes that could set the most brilliant of sapphires to shame. Dean’s eyes roam the expanse of barely-there stubble, chapped lips whose corners tip upward in a discreet but polite smile.
One second, and Dean thinks of every other man he’s deemed mildly attractive, and he wastes no time in concluding that this Castiel fellow is definitely something else. Heck, Dean can wager that none of his previous lady friends can compare.
“Dean,” he says, taking Castiel’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Dean Winchester.” If his eyes linger, no one can really blame him, and it’s not like Castiel’s eyes don’t linger as well. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m Sam,” Sam proclaims, loudly, as he pushes Dean out of the way to shake the man’s hand.
“The esteemed Professor Winchester,” Castiel says, his smile increasing in magnitude. “It is quite the honor, if I do say so.”
“Honor is all mine,” Sam says, and retakes his seat.
Dean continues to stand there, torn between feeling dejected at being snubbed, and feeling lightheaded at the stunning picture. He needs to keep his head, focus on the important matter at hand, but he’ll be damned if he can’t admire Castiel from afar. Dean’s no stranger to enjoying things he knows he can’t touch, but there’s no problem with sweetening the view.
“I hope you all haven’t started without me,” Castiel says, taking a seat across from Sam and beside Balthazar. “I’d hate for any of you to have to repeat yourselves.”
“Not at all, we were actually waiting for you.” Balthazar serves Castiel a cup of coffee. “As the ice breaker, I’ll inform you that these two are unaware of the Men of Letters,” he explains, passing the sugar on to Castiel.
Castiel nods his head, adds six spoons of sugar to his coffee, and Dean makes a face. If the man doesn’t end up diabetic, it would be a damn miracle. “Then, under what premise did Henry explain the situation?”
“All he sent was a letter,” Sam says, pulling out said letter from his rucksack and handing it over to Castiel.
“Interesting,” Castiel mutters, taking the letter out of the envelope. “I take it he didn’t deliver it personally?”
“Some Kraut named Eckhart did,” Dean says.
“Eckhart?” Balthazar’s question is sharp. His eyes narrow in on Dean. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty positive, buddy.”
“Are you familiar with the name?” Castiel pushes the glasses up his nose as his eyes hover across the letter.
“Commander Eckhart of the SS,” Balthazar says, and runs a hand across his face as he thinks. “If this man was on American soil-”
“This man got his hands on official correspondence from the M.O.L.. God knows the damage he’s already done.”
“Okay, I get it.” Dean speaks up and tries to garner everyone’s attention away from the panicking. “Care to enlighten us on what you think is going on? Just to set things straight, Sam and I haven’t seen Henry in years.”
“Beneath Henry’s name are the letters MOL,” Castiel explains.
“Men of Letters,” Sam says, piecing that bit together.
Castiel nods. “The Men of Letters are a society dedicated to guarding secrets that could unravel the world within the blink of an eye. Science, religion, politics - all of these things will have no meaning or credence if these secrets are exposed.”
“Secrets like what, exactly?” Sam says, leaning up and resting his weight on his elbows, completely enraptured by the subject.
“No one knows,” Balthazar says with a shrug. “The amount of knowledge is limited to rank within the society. We’ve reason to believe that Henry was pretty high up on the food chain.”
The way he says the word ‘was’ makes Dean uneasy.
“So it’s possible that the bad guys are using us to get to him?” It’s the most logical thing Dean can think of, and he’s relieved to see Sam nod his approval.
Castiel considers the statement, then promptly shakes his head. “Unlikely, if Eckhart already has some sort of footing.” He waves the letter to show what he means, before slipping it back into the envelope and handing it back to Sam. “The SS work clean, they cauterize after they strike. They wouldn’t bring you two into the picture unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Meaning we have something they need,” Dean says, until it finally clicks. “The journal.”
Castiel’s smile is genuine, and it’s only then that Dean notices. The two of them are stringing the Winchesters along. They know, and they just want to see if the brothers are astute enough to piece everything together themselves.
“I have reason to believe John Winchester knew he was being watched, so he sent the journal to you before he was incarcerated,” Castiel says. He sits back and sets his eyes on Dean, as if he’s looking for something he’s still not sure of. “Of course, what you tell me throws a wrench in my theory.”
“Why would they deliver what they need when it was already in their clutches?” Sam sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Dean takes a moment to look at everyone sitting at the table, and he hesitates to say what is on his mind, especially since it is so painfully obvious. He thinks that, maybe, it’s a stupid idea and he’s looking at it the wrong way, and that’s the reason why no one’s thought of it yet. But when has that ever stopped him from speaking up? “Maybe because they needed a translator?” The moment of silence that follows makes him want to sink into his seat, but instead he shrugs and plays it cool. “What?”
“That’s absurd,” Castiel says, frowning at Dean.
“Think about it, Cas. Whatever is going on, they wanted us to come here, to the point where they sent private communications about our current whereabouts. Aaron said so himself, between you and us we can piece together whatever the hell it was that Dad’s looking for. Those Nazi sons of bitches are good - so good that we all bought into it without a second thought. Simple, clean, and no one suspected a thing.”
Drumming his fingertips against the chair’s armrest, he looks to each one of the men present, thinking he’s outdone himself in his stupidity. But it’s the slightly wide-eyed look that Cas is giving him that makes it all slot into place.
Oh. Oh crap.
Dean is sure John would be proud of his poker face at that moment, as he raises his eyebrows and grins, encouraging the others into thinking that it’s all a good idea… and that no one should mention him nicknaming the nerdy librarian ‘Cas’.
“Y-Your logic is sound,” Castiel says, clearing his throat and hiding his face behind a mug as he sips at his coffee. “I do not feel at all pleased that I’ve been thrown into the fray, but I fear you may have a point, Dean.”
First name basis and Dean didn’t even break a sweat.
Balthazar makes a sound between an amused snort and a chuckle, but Sam is a complete sport and carries the conversation down a more professional path. “Then you’re aware of the logograms?”
“Aware, yes. Can I translate them? No, I’ve already tried. There is just no possible way to trace to the source of origin,” Castiel says, before pushing his chair away and walking down into the library. “The Men Of Letters sent a copy of the script to the library, and insisted that I could translate it. God knows what made them think that. I may speak fifteen languages, but gibberish isn’t one of them. At first I thought it may be Celtic or Scandinavian, but the syntax is all wrong - too abstract, too old to mean anything.”
“He’s one smart cookie,” Dean mutters. He can only smirk at Sam when he gives him that look that says ‘one more word out of you, and you’re sleeping in the car’.
“I thought it may be a closer relative to Sumerian,” Sam says, and Dean is struck, not for the first time, with the thought that he’s just tagging along in this expedition for brains. The time is inappropriate, the thought itself is inappropriate, so Dean tells that little voice to shut up.
Castiel returns with a book in tow, and mumbles his thank you to Balthazar, who is kind enough to clear out a space on the table for him. He puts it down and leafs through it, settling on a page filled with numbers and logograms. “The script is different, but the time frame might be more accurate. I sent them a communication several weeks ago, saying that there really was no possible way of translating this. I’ve yet to get their reply.”
“A few wee-wait, how long ago are we talking here?” Dean leans on the table, the gears in his head turning. “That letter is six days old, and John went missing a month ago.”
“Late March, perhaps? I suspect the MOL may have known of the Reich’s intentions for quite a while, but I fear I don’t have the answers you seek. Most of the information Balthazar and I have is heavily influenced by speculation, nothing more. I will help you, but my reach only extends so far,” Castiel says, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“You may have to accept that finding your father is not their top priority,” Balthazar adds, trying to appease. “Whatever it is these folks are looking for, it’s big.”
“How big?” Sam says.
“Big enough to change the course of the war.” Castiel’s voice is grim and tight, and looks away as he says it, the heaviness of his words weighing down on him. “The Fuhrer is convinced that the occult will give him the leverage he needs to win.”
“The occult?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean says with a laugh. He immediately sobers up at the tense looks both Castiel and Balthazar give him. “There’s no way you can be serious.”
“Necromancy, telepathy, flying saucers - there isn’t a single thing Hitler has not tried. The object he seeks is rumored to hold great power, and what I would normally dispel as a load of crock has been of keen interest for the MOL,” Castiel says, drumming his fingers against the surface of the book. “I had hoped that, maybe, someone such as yourself could offer their professional input.”
Sam loosens the knot on his tie before moving the same hand to cover his mouth. He shakes his head in defeat. Dean knows that Castiel may have narrowed it down - but to what, exactly, they have no idea. Half of the things explained make little to no sense, and like Castiel said, whatever did just sounded like complete bull.
“Okay,” Dean says, taking in a deep breath and exhaling calm and slow. He’s eaten already, but he’s tired, and no amount of aspirin can cure the headache pounding in his skull. “How about we call it a night and mull this over to the sight of our eyelids?”
Castiel straightens away from where he’s hunched over the book with a tired nod of his head, and Dean imagines how stressful this must be for the librarian. He and Sam may be in this for John, but he figures - if the heaviness around his eyes is anything to go by - that Castiel too has a direct connection with this mess. Dean just isn’t sure of what it is just yet.
“Of course,” Castiel says, closing the book and dropping it onto his seat. “It’s been a long day.”
“Thirty-six hours,” Dean testily carifies.
“Castiel will show you to your rooms, gentlemen. Shower, sleep, and I expect you down for supper,” Balthazar says, patting Castiel’s shoulder with a steady look. “There will be enough wine to go around, rest assured.”
The chairs scrape loudly against the polished floors quickly after the initial clatter of silverware has faded, a cloud of coughs and murmured words soon following. The clock above library hallway strikes a quarter to noon.
“I’ll see to this myself,” Dean hears Balthazar say to Castiel, as he takes the dishes out of the librarian’s hands. “You take them to their quarters.”
“Why me?”
Balthazar grins knowingly. “A little social interaction might do you some good, Cassie.”
Dean turns away before he’s caught listening.
“So, what are your thoughts on this?” Sam says, tapping a hand to Dean’s elbow to get his attention.
“What do I think? I think they’re all nuts, that’s what. The occult? The guy even mentioned flying saucers, for Pete’s sake.”
“It all makes sense, Dean, at least what Castiel said about the Men of Letters, and Eckhart, too.”
“Good to see it made some sense to someone, at least.”
“Right this way.” Castiel interrupts the two of them without much preamble, leaving Balthazar behind to clean up the mess.
Draping their jackets over their elbows, Sam and Dean follow Castiel down the left corridor, the one under the lion flag.
Leaded windows decorate the left wall in sets of three, with fleurs-de-lis at the top of each frame. Rain continues to pitter-patter against the panes, and thunder booms and lightning cracks as they make their way along the carpeted paths. Gas lamps are lit at every corner to make up for the somber lighting the storm brought in. They cast shadows along the suits of armor and old portraits of faces Dean doesn’t recognize, but maybe Sam does.
The right wall is covered with tapestries, and it may take him a moment to make the connection, but he realizes it, Dean nudges at Sam’s side. “Would you look at that?”
One of the tapestries contains a cottage and two children holding hands. At the top window peeks out an old lady, and along the water well is a trail of gumdrops. The following one is of a girl sitting on the sill of the only window, her unending hair falling along the side of a tall tower.
Dean recognizes most of them, but before either Winchester can comment on it, Castiel speaks up from ahead. “Grimms’ fairy tales,” he says without slowing his step. “Those tapestries are several decades old, and are our pride and joy.”
“They’re amazing,” Sam comments, and Dean has to agree. The one that features a dancing skeleton particularly fascinates him.
“Thank you.”
Taking a left turn and descending three short steps, they arrive at a hall with six wooden doors. The hallway is darker than the ones they took to get here, far gloomier, and Dean dreads that their rooms will actually turn out to be dungeons. “Guessing this is it?”
Castiel nods only once, and takes a keyring that hangs from an ornamental candelabrum. “I trust that your quarters will suit your needs,” he says, unlocking the door with a small amount of difficulty. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the library. We open in ten minutes.”
It’s hard to remember that the castle is a functioning library open to the public when they’re being treated like foreign ambassadors worth their weight in gold. Dean nods absently, too busy being amazed by the décor of the room, and the decently sized bed that beckons him to lie down and snore until tomorrow morning. It’s antiquated and medieval, but luxuriously simple in a way everything European tends to be.
Sam walks over to their luggage and immediately starts rummaging through his things, perhaps looking for a change of clothing considering that they’ve been wearing the same suits for the past day and a half. They both probably reek of sweat and oil.
Dean turns around to face Castiel, who is still standing just outside the door, looking at him with a curious expression. His face is guarded and eerily blank, but his glasses reflect the light from the nearby lamps, making his eyes gleam with the illusion of tears. It takes Dean off guard for a quick second, but he breaks into a smile once his brain catches up. “I guess this is where I say thanks. For the hospitality, I mean.”
Castiel rapidly blinks, as if it’s only then that Dean has come into focus. “It’s a pleasure to have you and your brother, and I apologize in advance for any inconvenience you may stumble upon.”
Nodding his head, Dean leans against the doorframe and slips his hands into his pant pockets. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. “What do you say we swing by the nearest joint and catch a drink later on?” At the confused look, Dean adds, “Just you and me.”
The moment of clarity is easy to catch as Dean learns that Castiel may not be the expressive type, but his eyes sure say a lot. Right now, they’re saying that Dean isn’t worth the time - but the corner of those thick lips say otherwise as they tip upward. Had Dean not been paying attention, he would have missed the action completely.
“I’m afraid I have a thing called standards, Mr. Winchester.”
“My brother’s taken.”
“And so I should settle for you?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Dean says, holding out his hand, just inches away from Castiel’s forearm. He doesn’t really know what he means exactly, maybe it’s just his insecurities shining through in a moment of weakness, but he regrets saying it. “I, uh, all I mean is that I got some time on my hands, is all. And I can’t think of a better way of spending it.” He makes sure to accent his words with his most charming smile.
Castiel deadpans. “So I only get the scrap of your attention.”
“Christ, that’s not-I-That’s not what I…”
With a withering sigh, Castiel presses the bedroom key into Dean’s palm. He doesn’t look offended, but he does look bored half to death. Unimpressed would be the perfect word to describe him, but call Dean crazy, there’s something there. There is no way to put a name to it, but the sole fact that Castiel didn’t react as if he were atrociously disgusted is a good a sign as any. “I may be plenty of things, but easy isn’t one of them. Try a little harder, Mr. Winchester, and then we’ll see.”
Bingo.
Dean watches Castiel as he walks away, all six feet of graceful movement and a hint of arrogance between his shoulders. He knows he’s won, and he’s flaunting it unabashed.
“Just call me Dean!” he calls, and maybe Castiel acknowledges him, maybe he doesn’t, but he’s playing hard to get just three hours after they’ve met, and that counts as a success in Dean’s book.
He waits until Castiel’s silhouette disappears over a corner before closing the bedroom door.
Sam is stepping out of the bathroom, dressed in striped pajamas that make him look two feet taller than he already is. His hair is damp, and dark circles underline his eyes, but he’s wearing a dopey grin as he moves across the room that tells Dean he’s up to something. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, shrinking into himself like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Holding up a finger, it’s all the warning Dean is going to give him. “I’m taking a shower,” he announces, just to say something to break the awkwardness of the moment. Grabbing the first pair of pajamas he can find, he disappears behind the bathroom door.
Yawning widely enough to swallow the bar of soap, Dean rubs at his eyes as he turns the shower knobs. The water is blissfully hot, and he’s already thinking about flopping into bed while he strips down. He groans aloud when he takes off his pants, and notices that he still has the hand stains on his thighs. Castiel probably thinks he’s a slob as well.
Goosebumps erupt across Dean’s skin and he shivers as the water pelts against his back, working on the knots the long trip has worked into his muscles. He runs hands through his hair and lathers it up, scrubbing off all of the sweat, rain and grease that has tagged along since he left Sam’s place. He makes sure to scrub behind his ears.
As far as first impressions go, he is certain he’s butchered this one, although he’s not sure how severely. Of the many things Dean Winchester is good at, leaving a lasting first impression has always been his forte. There is nothing a good suit and freshly slicked hair can’t do when aided by the trademark Winchester charm: a confident grin, a slight tip of the hat, and what Jessica so fondly likes to call the ‘Winchester Charisma’. It had gotten him a meeting with the director of humanities at Sam’s university, helped him land a job as Sam’s personal field-man. It had ladies giggling and hiding behind their delicate kerchiefs as they offered their hands for him to kiss.
And then there was Castiel.
Unimpressed, detached, and smart Castiel, who will only bat an eyelash if there is something of great historical value at stake. Dean figures he somehow falls into that category, but he’s unsure as to how. He’s the treasure hunter, the one who does the dirty work for the pristine scholars who spend their lives behind their desks. Like Sam frequently reminds him: ‘if you want to be a good archaeologist, you have to get out of the library’. Unfortunately, not everyone shares Sam’s mindset of the field.
Dean wonders what kind of scholar Castiel is, and if it’s worth pursuing those lovely eyes and elegant hands.
Rinsing off, Dean slips into his nightclothes and steps out into a dark room. Sam has drawn the curtains and dimmed the lamps, and his massive body is already sprawled across one of the beds in an ungraceful mess. It’s times like these that make it hard to remember that Sam is already a man in his late twenties, and not the kid who bugged Dean for a game of catch after school.
Pulling down the bed sheets, Dean turns down the lamps until they flicker off. With a full belly, fresh bath, and an interesting thought in his head, he lets himself fall onto the bed. It’s a little uncomfortable, but screw it. At least there’s a pillow and no annoying springs digging into his back.
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