Nile
>>Nile
TITLE: Nile
AUTHOR:
ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: Season 2 finale two parter.
GENRE: Gen.
CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, John Winchester, Bobby, YED, OCs.
SUMMARY: Set after season 2 and is about that…spoilery issue we all worry about *pets Dean*. Also? *deep breath* Involves Sam Winchester kissing Dean Winchester and yet this is not wincest but gen. Also? Ancient Egypt. And yet this is not AU. (My brain is broken. This is an attempt to break your brain too because I won’t be the only one with a broken brain here, m’kay? Yes. I am five years old. Really.)
RATING: PG-16. For some disturbing rites.
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I may take them on occasion to boldly go where they…may have gone before, but no, I do not own them.
NOTE:
hiyacynth’s fault. All she does is make me think of naked Sam Winchester. (Her inner editor/commentator also rocks as hard as her. Thank you, hon!)
Also? I shouldn’t be reading the books I’ve been reading. Also? Dear shiny flist, I do love you dearly, but you shouldn’t be encouraging me. Really. *facepalm* (Also? I probably shouldn’t say “also” the whole time. I’m just saying.)
Also covers found_fic_spn challenge nr 8.
(Ren)
The papyrus crackles in his hands. His head hurts.
.::::.
(Ba)
The walls around him are tall, solid, sturdy, bent inwards, meeting at some metaphorical zenith above him. Hieroglyphs and pictures seem to follow him in blue and green tones everywhere, more intense where light hits them, faded the more shadows approach. He wants to study them, but right now getting a feel of the place is important, despite the thudding on his head, the dizziness. He thinks he recognizes Osiris and Bastet in some of them, gods larger than the nameless people, their eyes more than just pigments on rock. He can play Indiana Jones later. The sandals are clapping too loud on the tiles, their sound coming back as echo. He’s used to wearing layers upon layers of clothing so right now this? Qualifies as stark naked to him, even though he hasn’t had much time to realize what he’s wearing or what he isn’t. He bends down, fumbles with the leather sandals, takes them off, carries them as he walks noiselessly, a big predator, like the shadow he’s used to chasing.
He must find Dean.
Something is moving in the distance, a small shape that gets larger as he walks to it, the outline familiar, and the word Dean catches in his mouth. Except it’s not. He should have known. A mirror is blocking the rest of the tunnel. There’s a thud that isn’t his jaw but the sandals dropping from limp fingers as he stands stock still. Because this? This is so fucked up it could qualify as an orgy.
In the warm light of torches Sam looks at himself with half opened mouth. His feet are bare against the tiles. Floor’s smooth under his feet, textured and as he moves to get the feel, his leg muscles flex. And there’s a lot of them, because the white shenti he’s wearing, flax he guesses, not wool, never wool, clings on his hips like a short flimsy towel. The rest is skin. And muscle that gleams tanned and well-oiled and Sam stares transfixed at his own image like a newborn Narcissus. He’s not vain. Most of the times he walks hunched, aware of how tall he is, but he feels his spine snap to attention doing justice to the statue that his body has become and at this moment all he can think of is Jess was right. I’m beautiful. Then he shakes his head.
This is him. This isn’t him.
There’s no hair falling on his face. He’s wearing a klaft, a square striped fabric that leaves only his face free, and metal discs gleaming gold on his chest. Gorgerin, he’s thinking. If it’s real gold I won’t have to scam anyone ever again. He takes a step closer to the mirror, watches the black kohl around his eyes making them brighter, almost feline and his first thought is shit, Dean’s never going to let that one go. Then the rational mind takes over and Sam looks around him, then back at his twin.
“Shit,” he groans, the sound carrying through old stone. “I’m in fucking Stargate.”
Only the echo replies.
.::::.
In times of shock there is a feeling of thirst and disorientation, Sam knows that. There’s also a feeling that the mind is totally open and has certain fixations. Like, hair. That’s all Sam can think of. Doesn’t matter where he is or when he is or what the fuck’s been happening, but the worst thing he can think of is that beneath the klaft, there will be his naked scalp. No hair. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue as long fingers slowly grip the fabric. No, he’s not thirsty. No, he’s not in shock. He can deal with shock. There was shock when he watched a ceiling burn his girlfriend and there was shock when a knife severed his spine and there was darkness but this…this can’t be shock. It’s too silly to be shock.
“Take it off, coward,” he mutters to himself and then his palm is on his forehead sliding everything backwards and there’s the soft sound of fabric hitting ground, and held breath being released.
His hair is still there. It looks darker, because it’s oiled back against his head like a second thick skin, cheekbones edgier, eyes slantier in their new-found freedom. But it’s there and his fingers move and ruffle it up frantically till it breaks some of its discipline and that makes him feel good. Makes him feel like himself again, makes him feel in control, makes him feel less…less…visceral. So yeah, he’s landed in fucking Stargate and yeah, he looks like the Chippendale version of a Pharaoh (and boy, would Dean get a kick out of Sam’s new career qualifications or what?) but his hair is alright. Ridiculously enough? The thought works. It calms him. Like his fucking almost name-saked Samson, Sam can think again relatively clearly. Yeah, he’ll figure a way out. The important thing (hair aside) is to keep moving.
He does. Except, when he turns around, the corridor is no longer there.
.::::.
There should have been an opening behind him, but what his hands touch now is solid rock. His fingertips pass over hieroglyphs and figures of gods on barges, but no matter where he presses, no secret panel opens.
“Open sesame,” he mutters, but doesn’t expect anything. He turns around, leans against the wall (one part of him hoping that the accidental leaning will result in a trapdoor like a movie cliché), looks upwards. It’s dark. He could attempt climbing, but there are no grips on the wall, and no matter how skilled he is, without the slightest grip there’s no way he can support his own body. He opens his eyes again, looks at the mirror, sighs. It’s the second time his mouth drops. In the mirror, he’s still leaning. Against thin air. The opening is still there, but his back, his skin touch stone and for a moment he feels dizzy at the discrepancy between what his touch tells him is there and what his sight tells him isn’t.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Endless Indiana Jones movie marathons about secret passages and magic and leaps of faith but when his fist slams against the wall it’s a wall and the pain is real.
He takes a deep breath. There’s only one thing to do. If he can’t move backwards…well…he’ll move forwards. Elementary, Watson, elementary.
He picks up the klaft from the floor, wraps it around his hand and arm in a makeshift padding. With the other hand he shields his eyes and tilts his head away from the mirror. He throws a punch, expecting the impact on his hand, the shards of glass (memories of Bloody Mary, wondering if there’s some karmic link between him and mirrors). There is impact alright. Impact of his own body hitting the ground as his own momentum takes him through the mirror like a fucking Alice in Wonderland (in the much beefier and Egyptian version, his mind snarks) and the feeling of having crossed still water. Vertical still water.
He’s wet. The skimpy clothes cling to him, his head feels way cooler, there’s moisture on his face. He wipes it off and here comes a thought he’ll never, ever, ever considered possible and won’t ever, ever, ever admit to having even if he has to die: he thinks he’s just smudged his eye make-up.
“This is getting fucking ridiculous,” he whispers getting up. He tries to focus. “Water can’t be vertical.”
“Sure it can. Waterfall,” Dean says and Sam’s first reaction is to roll his eyes (his probably smudged eyes) before he realizes that it’s Dean, Dean talking and relief grips him and he wants to rush to his brother except…he doesn’t.
Dean is standing some feet away, corridor stretching behind him, leaning against a wall, arms folded. He’s dressed in similar fashion to Sam, only his shenti and headgear are black and his gorgerin is more bronze-like and despite the kohl around his eyes and the leather sandals for some reason he still looks as if he’s wearing biker boots and a leather jacket. Must be a Dean thing. There’s no other scientific explanation for it.
“What?” Dean says looking at his fingernails. There’s a bracelet, heavy and bronze on his left arm, none of his rings or normal jewellery. He squints.
“Dude,” he says, fingers pointing vaguely at Sam’s face. “You look like the Crow. Only less…you know. Manly.”
“Dean, what the hell’s going on?”
“I think you know, Sam.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’ll figure it out. You always were the smart one.”
“Well, whatever the hell it is, we gotta find a way out.”
Dean smiles.
“Atta boy.”
“Come on,” Sam says walking towards Dean looking in the distance. “It’s bound to lead somewhere.”
He’s walking past him when Dean grips his arm. Sam turns to him, feels his heartbeats rise as he expects a yellow glow in Dean’s eyes. There is no yellow glow. He can’t hold his tongue.
“Christo.”
Dean waves it off.
“Long before he was born. And you’re looking at it the wrong way anyway,” Dean says. “It’s not about miles. Not about direction.”
“What is it about?”
Dean takes off his bracelet, slaps it on his brother’s arm like a handcuff.
“Blood,” he says. “Sammy.”
Then he smiles and starts running, and no matter how fast Sam runs, no matter how longer his legs are, in the distance the shadows claim Dean faster.
“DEAN!”
Sam doesn’t stop running. There is nothing but corridor, endless tunnel moving and winding around.
He can’t hear Dean’s sandals slap on the floor anymore. The only thing the corridors bring back is the echo of Sam calling out for his brother.
.::::.
(Sheut)
Directions don’t matter here. Time doesn’t matter here. Sam can’t measure them anyway. He has no idea where he is, only that this is not where he started from. The colours on the granite walls are different. They are black and gold. He leans against a wall, slides down, feeling the first tears prickle his eyes and the thought of smudging them even more makes him laugh. His breath eases. He needs to get it together and do what he’s always done best: think. And work with what he’s got. What has he got?
Skimpy clothes and no sandals. And Dean’s bracelet. Blood, Dean said, so Sam takes it off, moves it around his fingers. It’s an ouroboros, a snake eating its tail.
He tries to think. He’s tired and the adrenaline from running is wearing off and he needs to find Dean and figure this whole mess out…
…he opens his eyes.
“Hey, Sammy, rise and shine,” Dean says. He’s still in his Egyptian yet biker mode. “Figured it out yet?”
“No, Dean,” he says, can’t help the bitchface creeping in his voice despite the relief. “Why the hell did you run away from me?”
Dean seems unfazed.
“If you let time slip away like that, the shadows will claim me for good,” he says. “I won’t be coming back, you know that, don’t you, Sammy?”
“Yeah, I know that,” Sam says. “I know that, Dean, I’m doing everything I can.”
“Not yet,” Dean says. “Not yet you aren’t. Figured out my present yet?”
Sam looks wearily at his brother.
“No, Dean,” he says. “Not yet. Dean…are we dead?”
“Don’t know,” Dean says.
“Dad…” Sam says.
“I said I don’t know!”
“No, Dean, not dead, Dad,” Sam says scrambling up as John Winchester takes a step forward from the shadows.
“Hello, boys.”
.::::.
John Winchester is dressed in jeans, boots and a t-shirt and true to the whole fucked up ness there is the head of a Pharaoh stamped on the fabric covering his breast.
Sam hugs, then squints.
“Why aren’t you dressed like us?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t be caught dead in that stuff thankyouverymuch.”
“You are dead,” Dean helpfully points out.
“You are dead,” Sam frowns. “Oh crap. We’re dead, aren’t we?”
“Nonsense, boy,” John says. “Death is not linear.”
“Meaning…”
“It’s a matter of perspective.”
“If it’s a matter of perspective, what are you doing here, Dad?” Sam says taking a step back and he thinks he’s left his shock threshold so much behind that he wouldn’t be able to see it even with binoculars stuck to his smudged kohl eyes.
“What, you thought I’d miss out on the wedding?”
“What wedding?” Sam says. Dean, now standing next to his father, rolls his eyes.
“What do you think my present is for?” Dean says. “It’s a dowry.”
Then father and son take a step back. The shadows swallow them.
Sam is again alone.
.::::.
This time the corridor widens into a room of sandstone and limestone with red hieroglyphs. There’s a pool there, normal water that is not vertical.
On the other side of the pool is his brother. Dean’s lying on his back against red and black pillows and a leopard skin, head thrown back as a lithe woman in a see-through dress kisses her way down his gleaming chest, while three more women made from the same mould hover around him. An ankh gleams on his naked chest.
“Yeah,” Dean mutters throaty and his fingers grip her tangled black tresses. “Lower.”
He’s like the sleek, magnificent animal the skin of which he lies on, all senses and instinct. Then his head turns to Sam.
“Don’t crash my bachelor party,” he says. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding day?”
“I’m not the bride!” Sam says.
“Dude, there’s gotta be a bride and it damned well won’t be me,” Dean says. The woman lifts her head up.
“Cassie?” Sam asks.
“Get your own fun,” she says, licking her lips. There’s something red dripping down her mouth. The ankh slides and drops in the water.
“Dean!” Sam yells running towards him, because that is blood, that is blood and this is a fucking nightmare and his legs splash in the pool and there is a sound like the bowels of the earth opening as giant crocodiles leap over him, their mouth whispering Blood is important.
.::::.
“My beautiful Sam,” Jess says, and binoculars? No, not even the Hubble could make Sam’s threshold visible now. But there is sky above him, and there is a river around him, not just any river but the freaking Nile, and there is soft swaying, and no walls around him to press down his chest. They’re in a barge, filled with papyrus and lotus flowers.
There are ostrich feathers braided through her hair.
“Don’t you understand, my Sam?” she says. “The kingdom must be united. Lower and Upper Egypt as one.”
“What’s this got to do with me? With us? Any of us?” Sam asks.
“Look around you,” she says, spreading her arms like wings. There are palaces on the one side of the Nile, pyramids on the other, all rising high under the sun, gleaming. The stone and colours aren’t old, all seems brand new and ancient at the same time. Lotus flowers seem to bloom on one side as he watches, papyrus on the other.
“What is this, Jess?” he begs. “What is all this?”
“A break,” she replies coming close to him, then her arms hover above him, larger, feathers, and in their kind embrace he loses light once more.
.::::.
Sam groans. He’s in the dark again, but it’s too dark to be a corridor and he finds it hard to move. He’s wrapped and suddenly he realizes he’s in a sarcophagus, upright, struggling, moving for light and air and freedom. He screams.
The darkness turns even blacker.
.::::.
(Ib)
“Oh, Sam, how disappointing,” the yellow eyed demon says, holding a blade. He’s dressed like a high priest. Sam moves, frantically ripping and shredding the linen that held him like a spider victim. “All it took to make you scream is a freaking mummy disguise.”
“We killed you,” Sam says, hate there, tangible in his clenched fists. “Dean shot you, you son of a bitch!”
“Well… like your daddy said, death is kinda shifty, innit?” He licks the blade and Sam recognizes it, how can he not, same knife he dropped making a choice, same knife that dug in his spine minutes later.
“Blood’s important,” he says. “Gotta keep the blood line pure, don’t you? That’s why you gotta marry Dean.”
“What the hell are you talking about, you sick fuck?”
“If blood wasn’t important, wouldn’t have weaned you with some of mine, would I?” the demon says. “Life would have been much different if I hadn’t, don’t you think? Blood’s important. Friendly advice, is all. Wanna see something neat?”
Sam wants to say no, but it’s too late. The demon has already pushed the wall and it slides away.
Huge room, all red and black and gold.
“Necropolis,” the yellow eyed demon says. “You been there and were brought back, weren’t you, son?”
Sam wants to say to not fucking call him son, but he can’t. There’s a granite slab and a naked body lies there, surrounded by figures with jackal heads. Knife high in the air, sunk in the abdomen, organs taken out one by one, and he can’t see, can’t see who’s there, can’t see, doesn’t want to see, must see.
The jackal head with the knife takes off the mask. It’s the demon. His eyes are yellow and satisfied as he lifts his arm high, fingers wrapped around a bloody piece of flesh.
“I got the heart. Don’t matter if I’m dead, I got the heart,” he laughs and takes one step aside and it’s Dean on that table, it’s Dean, opened and ripped apart and Sam’s own heart stops.
Dean’s head swivels to him, glassy eyes conveying nothing but mild curiosity.
“I’m dead anyway,” he says. “Unite the land, Sammy,” and Sam wants to unite, Sam wants to do anything, say anything that is asked of him, anything at all.
Instead he screams and screams and screams.
.::::.
There’s blood flowing from his own chest, a gaping hole but that doesn’t matter because Sam’s still screaming.
The yellow eyed bastard, in his jackal head, is holding large scales on one hand. Dean’s heart is on one side.
“My heart is light,” Sam says, his own heart in hand. He’s the one that ripped it out. He places it on the scale. It balances.
“Your heart is heavy,” Bobby says. He’s a scribe, holding the Book of the Dead. “Your heart weighs as much as Dean’s.”
“My heart is Dean,” Sam says. “My heart is heavy. Shouldn’t there be a feather?”
Jess watches cross-legged. She picks an ostrich feather from her hair.
“You’re still seeing it the wrong way,” she says, placing the feather next to Dean’s heart and the scales tilt.
John picks up Dean’s heart.
“Heart must be lighter than the feather. Or you’ll both vanish,” he says. “Consumed by the Great Swallower.”
“Dean will die, Dad,” Sam implores. “I don’t know what to do!”
“Unite the land, son,” Bobby says. He’s holding two sceptres, one with a royal cobra, the other with a vulture. “Unite the blood.”
Now the scales hold Sam’s heart and a feather. The feather is lighter. Now John lets Dean’s heart next to Sam’s.
The scales tilt.
The hearts start beating.
“One and the same blood,” John says. “Unite.”
The darkness that falls tastes red.
.::::.
(Ka)
“Sam…Sammy!”
There are light slaps on his face and Sam’s eyes open, expecting to see corridors and hearts and blood. What he sees is the hotel room and Dean, still in his guard uniform, looking worried at him.
“You alright, man?” Dean asks, and there are no guts spilling out of him, he’s whole and Sam’s hands reach out and pat the chest and abdomen, much to Dean’s bewilderment. “You scared the fuck out of me, you were out for that long!”
“Out? Where…Dean I was in…I saw…”
“You saw stars and little birds,” Dean says, “remember? We broke in the museum and you bitched that gee that was a grand stellar idea and was I sure we wouldn’t get thrown back in jail again? Cuz you wanted to see the manuscript?”
“Manuscript.”
“Yeah, Sam, a manuscript. Cuz you been driving me insane with Egyptology, you been studying up every ancient culture that has resurrection rituals, remember, or did you hit your head that hard?”
And yeah, Sam does remember. He grips his head with both hands, then his chest.
“What happened?”
“You let your guard down, that’s what happened,” Dean says.
“I never let my guard down.”
“You do when you’ve been working yourself the way you have. Dude, you hardly get any sleep. You barely eat.”
“I must find a way.”
Dean tsks with his tongue.
“Look, Sam, I didn’t trade my life so that you could drive yourself to exhaustion. Man, you passed out!”
“I passed out?”
“Yeah, you passed out. One minute you were copying the papyrus, the next you passed out. You fell and hit your head hard. I had to carry you back to the car cuz you wouldn’t come out of it, and man, I’m telling you? Not an easy feat, Sasquatch. Thank god for my super muscles and my stealthy ninja technique.”
“Your what? And…what?” Sam says. He’s still dizzy and confused but it’s a relief to be back here, back now even if he’s still wearing the fake security guard uniform.
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean says, handing him a bottle of water and two aspirins. “You sure you’re ok? That’s quite a nasty bump.”
“I…dreamt of Egypt,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes and shoves a bag of takeout in Sam’s lap.
“Of course you did. Don’t you ever do that to me again, hear that, Sam? Ever.”
Sam puts the icy bottle on his head. It’s a relief. The world is crisp and cool and clear and doesn’t have high walls.
“Dean, where’s the copy?” he asks.
Dean fumbles in his pockets, finds a receipt he throws on Sam’s lap (Wal-mart, for hair colour and chocolate and bath pearls, and no, Sam won’t even ask) and then comes up with the Xerox.
Sam looks at it and starts laughing.
“Dean,” he says. “I think I found a way.”
“What, to build me a pyramid?”
“No. A way.”
Then Sam eats. Food hasn’t tasted this good for a long time.
.::::.
“You sure, Sam?” Bobby says.
“We got through most of it anyway. It’s going to work.”
Bobby shakes his head.
“I really want to know what the hell you been dreaming when you were out and got your epiphany but I’m scared to ask,” Dean says, passing the knife through Sam’s palms. Sam winces, then mirrors the gesture and cuts Dean.
“Good man.”
“I can see you vividly though,” he continues. His bloody palms unite with Sam’s as he recites “Hey, Sam, why is your pyramid larger than mine? I don’t know, Dean, maybe cuz I’m taller. Hey, Dean, who died and made you Pharaoh? You did, Sammy.”
Bobby coughs to mask his chuckle. Sam grins and winces at the same time.
“Shut up, Dean. We got to complete the rite.”
“Just for the record?” Dean says. “I’m going to be scarred for life, you know that, don’t you?”
“Just think of it as CPR,” Sam says. Their hands clasp tighter. “Remember, you got to keep your eyes open.”
“Scarred for life,” Dean mutters, then his lips lock on his brother’s, dark green eyes reflected in lighter green. Dean’s lips are soft. Smoke starts billowing around them as the candles flare. Everything turns white. A part of each is ripped off through each other and then something is searing hot and it connects and suddenly everything that was sucked out of them, cut off and drained, all that hollow and the pain is replaced by completeness.
They break off, blink at each other like stupid bunnies.
“I’ll be damned,” Bobby says. “I think I’m scarred now.”
“Oh yeah, you and me both,” Dean says wiping at his mouth furiously with his sleeve. “That? Never happened. EVER. You hear me?”
“Oh yeah,” Sam says, loud and clear. And it’s true. He realizes he can feel Dean, faintly, but there, at the edge of his mind. And they’re both thinking about Sam’s epiphany a week ago.
“My mind was giving me hints,” Sam says. “Dean, we got to get married.”
“What?!” Dean sputters. “Did you hit your head? No, wait, you did. Let’s go see a doctor.”
“No, Dean, not the way you think. Marriage is a metaphor. You know in Ancient Egypt, the Pharaoh’s task was to keep the kingdom united, the Upper and Lower Egypt.”
“You’re a geek, you know that, don’t you?”
“ And they had this ceremony called the Opening of the Mouth?”
“So?”
“It’s a ceremony that was supposed to give back the power of the senses to the dead. To make them ‘reborn’ in a sense. Give them a good afterlife.”
“And?”
“It got me thinking. And then I looked it up. And found it, combining other magic rituals. And combining…the marriage. I found it.”
“Found what, Sammy? Jesus, you’re driving me insane. You sound insane.”
“To unite our ka. Our souls. Bind them. One and the same. That’s what my subconscious was trying to tell me, can’t you see?”
“Not…really. So what happens if we bind our souls?”
“Whatever happens to the one, happens to the other.”
“Nononono, Sam, that is a bad idea.”
“No, Dean, it’s an excellent idea. It’s an idea that will keep both of us alive.”
“How, Sam? Enlighten me.”
“The deal was to keep me alive. Your soul and life for that. If we bind our souls, when she takes you, she’ll have to take me, but if she takes me, automatically she’s breaking her own deal, so she’s got no right to take you.”
“Huh?”
“Ouroboros. Snake eating its tail, cyclical pattern, don’t know where it ends or where it begins! Mexican stand-off, Dean!”
“She can leave me and let you die. She can call the deal off as if it never happened. You’ll die, Sam.”
“She can’t break her own deal without making a new deal, Dean. And it’s not like you’ll resist being taken. You won’t have violated the pact. She’ll have violated it. Laws work both ways.”
“It’s a devil’s deal, Sam. What if you’re wrong? What if we end up both in hell?”
“Then I guess we’ll be bitching that the air-conditioning isn’t working.”
“Ok, assume it works and she doesn’t take me. What if she claims me when we die old men?”
“Can’t do that. Deal was one year. She can claim you then only.”
“And what if it works and all is well, Sam?”
“I thought that’s what we wanted.”
“What if I die on a hunt, Sam? Why should you die with me?”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“I’m not.”
“I am.”
“Sam.”
“No. You made the deal without asking me.”
“Gee, Sam,” Dean says and anger is there. “I really did want to ask you but you were too busy playing dead!”
“Dean…this is how it’s going to go. Even if I have to tie you down. Do you understand me?” And Sam sounds too much like John, looks too much like John, and Dean is taken aback.
“Yeah. Gotcha, Sammy.”
“It’s going to work, Dean. Deals work both ways. And so will we.”
“You and your fucking pre-law,” Dean says.
“Yeah. Me and my fucking pre-law,” Sam smiles. “Aren’t you glad you’re going to spend the rest of your life tied to me?”
“Don’t need no ritual for that to happen, Sam. Don’t need no ritual for that. Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
“Right,” Bobby says. “Now that the hankies are out and you’re going to spend eternity tied up, how about I bandage you up and you clean up the mess here? And then we can go an’ get some beer and tear that damn calendar of my wall? Hell, I’ll even bandage you up like mummies if you want. Seems only fittin’.”
And at the edge of his mind, Sam knows (because they go both ways now, like laws and deals) that Dean’s smiling.
-The End
SIDENOTE: This fic is shamelessly written as a mere excuse to 1. have Sam look like the Chippendale version of a Pharaoh 2. have Dean free from the deal. 3. have Dean look like the Chippendale version of a Pharaoh 4. have John pop up, because, dude. John. Really. Also? Because my shiny gorgeous flist were really enthusiastic about this plot donkey. Must have been the loincloth!Sam that did it, though I suspect it’s more fucked up than they expected.
The which pyramid is bigger thingy?
longhairedlady’s fault. YES IT IS. She is also responsible for reminding me how in Egypt siblings got married or fathers married daughters. Incest was the norm to keep the blood line pure. So. HER FAULT. HER FAULT. I’m harming your reputation right now,
longhairedlady. See? See? See? Heh. :)
Also? John Winchester not wearing loincloths? Is
phantomas’ fault. She deprived me of one hell of a fantasy…replacing it with another. Thanks, hon.
I did my background research, or rather, I was reading about Egypt before the plot donkey hit. Most things carry a significance, even colours. Green and blue were fertility and the Nile, yellow was the sun god, red was vitality and life force. White and black I used the way a Westerner would think of, because it’s Sam’s subconscious after all.
An ankh was a symbol of life.
Jess shows up sort of as Maat, goddess of Justice etc who did play part in the Weighing of the Heart ritual. Embalmers did wear the Jackal head honouring Anubis when they did the embalming stuff, and yes, they DID the embalming stuff but I didn’t want to be too graphic cuz. Ew.
Esp in the Intermediate periods of ancient Egypt the Pharaoh’s task was to unite the land and he was called King of Upper and Lower Egypt, symbolised by a lotus and a papyrus, or a vulture and a royal cobra.
Egyptians didn’t really use wool, or used it rarely for stuff like coats or in temples (they considered it unholy to use fabric made of animals, so used flax amongst others).
The titles for each unit are the main five components that make up the soul according to the ancient Egyptians (others list eight or more, adding some minor ones). For details on the five component version go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egyptian_soul
Uhm. What else? Lemme see. Oh yeah. Did I mention I always get sorted as Ravenclaw/Slytherin? Now you know why.