summary: It was all Dean's fault. That was the only way he could explain why that looked like a sarcophagus he didn't remember seeing before.
title: Walk Like an Egyptian
The urn Dean had been holding rolled along the floor, stopping as it tapped the base of something with a soft clunk.
Sam set down the journal, pushing himself from the floor enough to dig through his pockets for a flashlight. "This is all your fault," he pointed out, clicking the switch on so they could find out what the fuck had happened, find the urn again.
Dean didn't ask where they were; Sam could see him getting back to his feet slowly, precisely. "Sammy," he asked calmly, "Is that-"
"A sarcophagus." Despite his hushed tone, Sam's voice echoed through the dark space. "We could be in a replica; it looks new."
Dean rested a hand on the wall, looked back at Sam. "New? They've gotta be a thousand years old." The stones felt real, but-
But going to ancient Egypt was a little far-fetched, even for them. Even so, he shone the light on a pile of goods, apparently including the urn. "Grave robbers would have taken all this by now." Now meaning the present year, assuming they weren't in the past now. Sam remembered the sections from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy about tenses in time travel – they weren't as funny when in reality.
He stood up again to get a closer look. There were woven baskets full of cloth, jewelry, grain that looked half-eaten. Everything someone might need for day to day life some thousands of years ago.
An urn, possibly the one Dean had held – it was too dark to tell – sat at the base of the stack.
They hadn't really known what to do with all the stuff at the witch's home; after watching her own power consume her though, they couldn't just leave it. Sam flipped through John's contacts listed in the journal, looking for someone who might have a better idea than Dean's "let's just burn the house down," which he wasn't entirely sure had been a joke.
Dean kept fiddling with everything – holding up vials and challises, asking what he thought they did and not listening if Sam ventured a guess.
Sam had grabbed him by the elbow, hissing that they had no idea if anything might be booby-trapped.
He supposed now they had an answer to that.
"Dean," Sam began, "What the hell did you touch? Where is it?"
"Umm…" Dean started rooting through the pile of provisions for the afterlife.
"Hey, you think this guy got to appreciate all this crap before he moved on?" Sam smirked. "Maybe he didn't. Who knows, this could be our chance to face down a mummy."
Sam frowned at the detritus of this dead man's existence. "This is nice stuff. Guy must have been nobility or a priest." He carefully picked up a jar laying on its side by the side of the stack. "Is this it?" he asked, as Dean picked up a similar-looking urn from the pile muttering "how did it get here?" Sam shone the flashlight on both of them.
"Um. They seem to be the same."
"Crap. So definitely time travel." A replica would be at least a little different, was the assumption. Dean returned to sifting through the baskets.
Sam ignored this, trying to look more closely at the urns in question. "Dean, ah, these are identical."
"So this means something. Mass production wasn't, er, isn't exactly invented yet." He looked up to make sure Dean understood what he was saying, and just froze. "Um," he coughed, "Dean?"
His brother dropped the medallion guiltily, never mind that there were at least four others already around his neck. Then Dean grinned, holding one off his chest so Sam could see better. "You gotta admit, gold does suit me."
"I don't have to admit anything."
"Not even that to figure out what the hell is going on, we'll need to get out of here, hit the streets, maybe knock over a temple or two?" He tucked the necklaces under his shirt before pulling that off.
Great. He and Dean had somehow ended up in a tomb in the Nile Delta probably a thousand years before Christ and now his brother was getting naked.
He had looked away, but at the sound of jeans sliding down, Sam glanced back, like he had to double-check when he already knew what Dean looked like undressing.
"Christ, Dean, don't you know how to put on a loincloth?" Dean's legs were showing too much, bordering on indecent, and he'd slipped off his boxers.
They deliberately avoided looking at one another while Sam knotted the material around Dean's waist until it looked more like the art they'd seen and less like a low-slung towel threatening to fall off.
As Sam eyed his handiwork critically, Dean stepped back, cleared his throat. "Thanks, Sammy."
Once there was physical distance again, the moment seemed to have passed, and Dean's smile came back. "If I'm nobility, you must be the closest I get to a nubile slave. Strip." Yep, the moment was definitely past.
"Why am I the slave?"
"Because Sammy," Dean smirked, adjusting his heavy amulets, "You just can't pull off being royalty." He snapped his fingers. "Strip, slaveboy."
Sam stared, incredulous. "I'm not running around naked. Can you imagine the sunburn? Besides, it's not authentic."
"Ri-ight." Dean drew out the word, every extra millisecond showing his doubts. "Shirts off."
Sam rolled his eyes, but he didn't plan on sitting in a tomb the next few days with Dean wreaking who knows what havoc on an ancient civilization. His shirts and jeans peeled off easily, leaving Sam in just boxers as he fingered the various clothing available.
"Come on, Sam, what's the fuss?"
"You wouldn't want me dressing above my class, would you master?" Sam sardonically countered. He shrugged into a robe, tying a belt around his waist. "Shouldn't you put on this robe too?" he suggested.
Dean grinned. "I know you're intimidated by my good looks but come on. That would just look tacky."
"Because wearing more bling than every rapper in LA isn't tacky at all."
It was easy to be grateful for ancient customs. Whether Sam was right about the age of the building or not, the clothing was still very well preserved.
Dean wrote his name on Sam's hand with a stick of kohl, hoping it wouldn't smudge. "I think I read that once, right?" Either way, there weren't shackles or anything more to mark Sam as lesser.
The sun was hot and sharp when they finally worked their way out of the tomb, an effort that built up enough of a sweat as it was. Dean slipped on a leather pair of sandals. "Aren't you going to burn your feet going without?"
Sam shrugged. He hadn't thought about that part, but he was pretty sure if he was a slave, he wouldn't actually have such fine footwear. There was a town of some sort, maybe even a city, within sight. Probably a mile, so they began walking.
Sam showed a man the urn. He hid his eyes as though this were something horrible and pointed down the street. The last passerby he'd tried to ask for help had sent them to a market; this language barrier was getting really damn old.
Apparently the display of fear had been a good sign. None of the buildings were out of place. They didn't sense some unquantifiable evil in this one. But Sam noticed some of the symbols on the urn and knew it had to be an actual lead.
"The aardvark's head," Sam muttered, "That mean's it's Seth, the god of foreigners." He really wished he'd paid more attention to his friends studying archeology.
The only thing that sucked worse than being in an era without internet was that written word was equally useless. He couldn't help but run his fingers along the stone, feeling out the hieroglyphs like Braille, like touching them, they'd suddenly make sense.
Inside, he hadn't known quite what to expect.
On the floor was a body. Dean kicked it. "Pig. Somebody was getting a nice sacrifice."
Sam pointed further in, near the doorway of what must have been the holier place. "I don't think he liked it so well." Crumpled on the floor was a man dressed similar to Dean. A lone priest, who looked different from most people on the streets, despite his wig and robe, both of which were now in disarray, blood pooling around his abdomen.
"You may be right," Dean conceded. "He probably wishes he hadn't said his morning prayers." Sam noticed that Dean's loincloth was several inches shorter and wished he'd been able to convince him into wearing a wig at least. His refusal on that front had been immediate and immutable.
A tall being, dark and strong, seemed to be in the doorway to the inner room, a subtle change that was swift. He hadn't crossed out to where they lingered, but the longer he stood there, the more there he was, like every mumbled prayer made him a greater entity.
"Your boy is strong," the god pronounced. "And quite beautiful. If you would give him to me, I would let you both live."
"Bullshit," Dean countered. "You killed your own brother, so why should I trust you?" He nodded towards the door, eyes never leaving Seth as they both backed out of the building.
They went back through the market they'd seen earlier. Sam pointed at one of the booths that was beginning to pack up for the day, but Dean shook his head. They were both quieter than usual, walking closer together, feeling the culture gap.
A little further down the road was a building that seemed louder than most of the other places. Even in Egypt, a bar sounded the same. They sat down and Dean held up a bracelet for the proprietor to see.
A young woman brought drinks and spoke in a softly harsh voice. He shook his head, motioned like he was eating. She looked confused, then nodded and left again, hopefully to bring something to eat, even just some bread.
Dean sniffed his drink, then sniffed it again, deeper. "Beer?" He seemed to be asking the drink itself before tasting it. "Sammy, we have beer!" His grin felt enough to eat Sam alive.
Sam drank too, slower than Dean, mainly watching him. The jewelry, the out-of-placeness that Sam felt heavy across his shoulders, none of it was visible in Dean's confident grin, the way he sat. "Do we have a plan?"
They set about making one, for once relieved no one could understand a word they said.
Dean looked around but the only people in sight were Sam and the statue. He nodded and Sam nodded back, handing over a chisel and mallet they'd liberated from some worker who probably really was a slave.
The tapping echoed far; he was almost convinced it could lead a lost man out of the desert.
"Hurry up," Sam hissed, growing antsy because here they were defacing a statue to one of the highest gods and if anyone came by, they'd probably end up fucking with history bringing the world to an end.
It was still a few minutes of tapping, harder then softer, more precise, before the large, hollow falcon's head dropped into Sam's waiting hands.
They left the tools and began walking back to the inn they'd passed, Sam wrapping a cloth around their stolen head. "He thinks I'm your sex slave," Sam commented, eliciting a soft "huh" from Dean.
"Well?" Sam asked. This was Dean, he had to have more of a reaction than 'huh.'
Dean's eyes slid across him, to the building they were headed to. "You got a problem with that?"
Sam didn't look at him. "You don't?"
Dean cocked his head, a hint of smile to his face, though that might have been a shadow from the moon. "Should I?" It was so completely their thing, a conversation with so few words he wasn't sure either one of them really knew what was being said and not said, like every time he thought Dean was going to say 'I missed you.'
He wasn't sure if it was intoxication of the desert and the night air or just the beer kicking in slow, but Sam felt almost reckless. Maybe it was just being in a place where rules meant nothing. Here it was a sign of right, of nobility, to be paired with a sibling.
Sam didn't mention that to Dean. He watched his brother pass more treasure to a man who seemed very obeisant as he led them to a small room. It looked uncomfortable even by Winchester standards, but they weren't going to care.
The door shut and footsteps padded away soft. "Sam?" Dean asked. It might have been a question, but Sam leaned forward into his space before more than the idea of words could echo through them.
Maybe some things really didn't pass so much as get saved for later. His hand curled into the edge of Dean's loincloth and he could tell the knot wasn't as sturdy as it looked. Eyes on Dean, he gauged something, not even sure what until Sam closed what distance there was left.
Through his robe, Sam could feel the warmth of Dean's chest and just a little below his own mouth was Dean's, breathing heavy across his chin. He didn't have words, was afraid to press their lips together.
Dean did it for him.
Sam tugged the linen from its place around Dean's waist and let it hit the floor. Dean's fingers had untied the belt from his own waist without Sam even noticing until now, yanking the robe up over his head and tossing it to the ground.
Dean had one eyebrow raised in a question of where this might be going, or so he assumed. His answer was dropping to his knees. They hit the floor harder than he'd intended, but with hands bracing Dean's hips, Sam leaned close.
He could breathe in Dean, a smell so physical it was almost a taste, then it was a taste. His mouth moved, hands helping. Partly remembering what he liked, partly guessing what Dean might.
Lips brushing against Dean's cock, hand half-stroking as he felt the tension building. This might be power, this might be something else. He pulled back at the first taste, letting Dean's spunk hit the wall as he spat it onto the floor. Sam didn't want to think about what else had probably gotten on that floor too.
The mattress was hard, but once Dean had taken off the bangles and chains he'd taken, he joined Sam and it was much less noticeable. Dean's sweat-damp belly pressed against his side as one hand began stroking.
God. It was much too soon, but this had been building up for too long. He came and didn't even try to clean up before dozing off.
"Well, let's go."
"Um, Dean, I'm not going without clothes."
Dean pouted. "But aren't you my sex slave now?"
"Come on! You're supposed to please me," he leered, "And watching you wander around naked all day would be very pleasing."
"I don't care if you're supposed to own me, I can still kick your ass." He tugged the robe over his head again and made Dean sit down. "You forgot your make-up."
Dean made a face, but Sam suspected he didn't really mind the intimacy of it, Sam's fingers spreading rouge over his lips and smudging kohl around his eyes. He licked his thumb and ran it under one eye where he'd messed up, then nodded. Dean was ready now.
Sneaking into the temple unnoticed by the locals was easy. Not being noticed by one of their highest ranking deities, on the other hand, was impossible.
Seth raised his hand, but the lightning he called down hit the floor instead of Dean. He looked confused, then angry as he must have come to the realization Dean had the protection of one of the other gods. They both knew it had limits; all three of them knew that and it would only slow down Seth, not stop him.
Sam used the distraction to rush to the front of the holiest place, knocking over the tall gold statue of the deity, dragging it out a side door.
He was dimly aware Dean had pulled out a sharp, dangerous-looking knife and pointed it at Seth, threatening him with loud, empty words. Sam hurried, not wasting the energy to swear about heavy metal statuary and how it would make his job much easier if he could just smash it like clay.
One of Dean's chains had bought the wood and oil piled next to the temple building. There wasn't really a way to fan the flames, so they were just praying it would be hot enough. He leaned the statue over the fire, watched the clothing it wore burn.
He wanted to go back in, have Dean's back, but Sam knew the best way to do that was making sure the god's image got destroyed. The sounds of pain from inside suggested either the plan was working really well, or really really poorly.
Storming back in, he saw Dean, dripping blood that seemed somehow brighter than normal. "Got that son of a bitch down!" he crowed, and Sam realized the blood was that of Seth, not his brother's.
He pinned Dean against the wall of the temple, kissing him harsh, ignoring how the necklaces and amulets dug into their chests. Dean grinned against his mouth. "Hey, Sammy, hey," he muttered, kissing Sam again, but slower. Sam realized they had time; this didn't have to be rushed. They weren't dead or dying and even the gods now feared them.
The fire was going to be noticed soon. Actually, it probably already had been. Time to leave. "Foreigners always get the extra attention," Dean pointed out as they slipped away, back to the grave where their clothing was still hid.
He wondered what archeologists would have made of that as they changed back. Dean met his eyes and picked up the urn that had started all this trouble. "Think it can be that easy?" he asked, throwing it to the floor.
For the second time that week, Sam picked himself from the floor. "Did that-?" This was definitely the house, a dead bird stuffed on the coffee table.
Dean groaned. "Egypt?"
He groaned again. "I think I've got sand up my ass."
Sam grinned. "Need some help with that?"