Title: Find The Cost of Freedom
Rating: NC-17 (eventually)
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: none (AU)
Warnings: none (at the moment)
Word Count: 2500, but a WIP

Ok. So this is an experiment to see if anyone is interesting in my writing. This is my first time properly posting something on the internet, so be kindish. But, at the same time, I want to know if it is utterly atrocious. If it is, ye gods, TELL ME PLEASE.

N.B. Concerning the setting:

This is set c.70 A.D. in Rome, Italy. I took Classics for years, and I know my stuff (as well as doing research for this) but I felt that, in the end, so few people would connect with the story if I used colloquialisms and patterns of speech from the time. Thus, I ended up doing a hodge-podge of modern language and the odd contemporaneous phrase. So, in essence, it's more of a homage to the era, rather than a gospel-truth historical AU. Just so y'all know.

Without further ado, here is the first little not-even-chapter-length-un-beta'd-bit of my Rome!verse.

Find the cost of freedom

Buried in the ground

Mother Earth will swallow you

Lay your body down

The late afternoon air was thick with the smell of sawdust, fresh sweat and dry earth, settling about his shoulders like a mantle, woollen and hot. He wished himself anywhere but here, away from this filthy corner of this rotten city, but the low sun shining through the awning disagreed, glaring into his eyes and bringing him back to reality as he stood from the wooden pew he had been resting on.

Decanus of Winchester was many things, whether he knew it or not—an eldest son; a brother; a saviour; a lover… but not today. Today he was no more than one in the line, at the beck of a man no god of his had appointed to be his better. To fight or die: that was his order. Decanus—Dean, as he was known originally, being from the valley—followed orders, even from those he fought to hate. These were no days of great men, the way he saw it. No empire built on the backs of slaves could be.

The announcer yelled his name, he could hear the roar of the crowd it incited. He cleared his throat and spat in the dust, swearing lowly in his native tongue instead of offering up a prayer as the others did before their contests. Dean no longer believed in his gods. He was abandoned here. He had been forsaken.

He drew aside the heavy canvas screen that divided the zeta from the arena. Sword in hand, he stepped into full sight of the audience which splayed out from the pressed-earth ring in rickety wooden stands.

The effect was instantaneous. Patrons surged to their feet, cat-calling and whistling, and screaming his name. He stretched his mouth to a smile, and gave his sword a few adroit swings. Let it never be said that he didn't put on a show. A better performance meant popularity, which meant more regulars, which meant better pay. The more he repeated the deed, the better off Dean was. He didn't have to like it, but it put food in his belly, and saved him a lashing. So he grinned, and danced the dance.

He was facing a retarii today—a tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired man with a frown heavier than the net and trident he carried. Dean disliked having an opponent who had a longer weapon than he, but he was competent and quick enough to not let it disadvantage him. He wasn't granted the benefit of much armour, so he was required to be quick if he wanted to live—the audience liked seeing the athletes' bodies as they fought, so Dean was made to wear nothing more than a short soldier's skirt, belted tightly at the waist, with a boiled leather shoulder guard to cover his left shoulder. His tattoos were somewhat exotic, and added to his appeal, so different from the Latins, who thought it barbaric to mark their skin in such a way. His light hair, too, was uncommon enough to be a selling point.

'Your pretty face will suffer at my hand!' the retarii called in stilted Latin, brandishing his trident and giving Dean a filthy look.

Dean laughed. 'At least I have a face worth looking at,' he called back, sanguine smile sure and playful.

The retarii bellowed and powered forward, throwing his net before him. Instead of avoiding the net, Dean caught it, and grasped it tightly, catching the man off balance and swinging him around. Which told Dean all he needed to know. This man, while brawny and even taller than him—a rarity, but he did seem to be an Ethiop, and they were usually taller than those from the north—lacked finesse and speed, two things Dean possessed in spades. It was unusual; retarii were usually speedy and light on their feet, dexterous with their nets and damaging with their tridents. What he suspected was that this slave had been a prisoner of war, much like himself, and had been thrust into the role without much training of any kind. Likely, his master just wanted a bloodbath. Dean grimaced, but he knew his job. A blooding is what they would get.

Technically, it wasn't legal in Rome. Gladiatorial shows were monitored by the officials and priests, and were popular enough. But, there was a certain strain in the city that just wanted something a bit… more than the highly staged violence that very rarely ended in death unless it was a special occasion. The wanted ferocity, and gore, and they screamed themselves hoarse for brutal death. To Dean they were little more than circling vultures, and he was loathe to comply. It made him sick. But he had more to think about than just himself. He had his brother. He had to find Samuhel.

So he bit his tongue, for he'd given himself up and let them lead him into captivity, dragged from home and country to this hole of filth and degradation, to the outer slums where an illegal fighting arena had been well established as the place to go if you wanted to see someone get his spine ripped from his flesh. He let himself become a slave, just to find his younger brother.

So when the retarii lunged the second after he regained himself, Dean dodged and quickly turned into the man, plunging his sword into his belly and riding it all the way up till he felt the sternum block his way. He pulled it out swiftly, not wanting the bone to dull his blade, and he made a slash at the throat of the man, arterial blood spraying out full force as the man's viscera spilled to his feet. The retarii fell, and Dean eyed the crowd, wiping the side of his face and shoulder the blood had managed to catch. He lacked the desire to do so, but he continued to play his part admirably, smirking to the crowd and flicking his stained blade to all corners. They chanted, riled, even though the entire fight had taken little over a minute. They knew his reputation, and they called in time: aureus gladius, aureus gladius… "The Golden Sword". Dean hated the name. He never had a chance at winning his wooden sword here, and they knew that he knew. So they called him golden, in mockery of his skill and captivity. They came three times a week to see him fell man after man—sometimes wild beasts too, if a particularly wealthy patron desired it. All classes frequented the ring, and were bound and revelled in the criminality of their chosen sport. They drank and bet on competitors—actually, Dean was still surprised he had anyone bet against him anymore. It wasn't out of arrogance that he had a sure knowledge he would never loose. He just knew that he had something the others didn't. He had something to fight for. And thus failure—that is to say, death—was never even something he considered.

That's what he told himself as Alistair flogged him for ending the fight too soon. His back was striped with three lashes, adding to the net of scars he already bore, white ripples through his golden skin. Alistair made his whip from imported hippo hide from Egypt, dried and cut thinly into sharp strips, then knotted thirteen times along the shaft. He had different crops, which held differing numbers and lengths varying from one, up to five hanging from the handle. Alistair was displeased with Dean, but only used the lash which held one. But three strokes was enough to have his eyes watering in pain. Alistair had only used the greater whips in the beginning, to break his newest acquisition. Now he knew well enough how to toe the right side of the line between punishment and damage. Injured goods didn't make money, but minor injuries posed no threat to a fight.

Dean's back stung as he lowered himself into the brine bath later that night. He wasn't stupid enough to leave an injury unattended. While reckless, Dean was still no fool. He got out when his back began to get sore from being cramped in the small tub. Not for the first time he wished that he was allowed to go to the baths as a normal citizen would. But the brand on his back, just over his left shoulder blade said otherwise. It read H, for haud, the word of choice from the slaver he'd been sold to had used to marked his stock.. It wasn't large—perhaps the size of his thumb, but it was enough. Anyone who saw it would know he was owned.

To a citizen he was a Nothing.

Apart from that, though, he had reasonable freedom. He had proved his mettle in the fights, and was allowed to roam accordingly. Never beyond the quarter in which they occupied, but it was something. His pay—while a pittance of the cut the masters of the slaves made—was enough that he could afford the most basic of meals, and a couple of drinks a night from the local tavern. Which happened to also be a brothel, if Dean was that way inclined.

Tonight, though, he wasn't feeling it. The narrow, cobbled streets were hazy with oil-thick smoke from the burning lamps and despite being well dark, the sweltering humidity from the day had not abated. After being here for, well… more time than he cared to consider, he still never got used to the pervading heat of Italy. Dean plucked at his thin wool tunic, feeling it stick to his chest and prickling his back. Loud, raucous music was spilling from his usual tavern as he passed, and Dean couldn't face it. He walked on, massaging his temples, trying to keep the threatening headache at bay.

He trudged through the streets, trying to avoid the dirtiest of the alleyways. He saw whores, plying their wares with togas and kohled eyes, but it didn't really interest him after today's fight. He was just turning a street corner up by a fuller's when a hand shot from the shadows and grasped his wrist tight as a limpet. He yelled in surprise, but was immediately silenced as another hand covered his mouth and dragged him into the shadow. He bucked, trying to free himself from the grasp of the stranger, when a voice hissed in his ear, 'Stop it, I'm trying to help you, Dean, son of Iohannes.' He stilled at his name. Who in the realms of deepest Hades was this?

'I'll let go if you promise not to make your girlish screeching, scio?' He frowned, but nodded. He realized that the speaker was female as she lowered her hand. He turned to face her and, frankly, she was not what he had expected. She was shorter than him, of course, and her swarthy skin and dark hair which hung bound in a single braid over her shoulder belied her as a native Roman. She was actually rather attractive, Dean thought absently. She was wearing a curious saffron and rosso stola which left her arms free. One was adorned with a plain brass armband. Her attire was not overly expensive-looking, but rather almost… ceremonial. But that was not the most interesting thing about her, however—for as she stepped into the light from a house across the street, Dean saw that she was blind.

She smirked, as if she could read exactly what had gone through his mind.

'Yes, before you ask,' she said. 'I am. But I can see just as well as you, if not better, so don't question it. Alright, Deanio?'

'Hercule, who are you?' he said gruffly.

She smiled, and laid a hand on his shoulder easily. 'My name's Pamela, mi carus.'

'And what do you want?'

She blinked, looking straight at him, which was particularly unnerving, as it was not quite possible to make true eye contact with someone who's eyes were cloudy-white. 'Not here,' she said simply. 'Follow me.' And with that she turned, walking further down the alley, not waiting for anything. Dean, confused (and yeah, curious too) followed her, choking down questions as they navigated the sprawl in silence.

She led him, oddly enough, to a canal, a narrow, man-made offshoot from the Tiber. It lay between two rows of houses, and seeing as they had jumped a fence to get into the area, Dean was pretty sure they were alone. It was pretty damn dark enough. 'Don't worry,' said Pamela, again, seeming to answer his thoughts, 'I can see enough for the both of us.' He almost heard the smirk, because he sure as hell couldn't see it.

'What happened to your eyes?' asked Dean, then immediately regretted it, remembering the rounds of scarlet fever which had made their way through the trade districts a few seasons ago.

Her replying laugh was good-natured though. 'I didn't listen to someone I ought to have,' was all she said. 'He warned me, but I didn't heed it. fortuna talis. '

Dean didn't know what to say to that, so leant against the graffittied plaster wall behind him, listening to the rush of water that he could barely see.

'Why?' said Dean suddenly. 'Why did you need to talk to me, and take me here?'

Pamela tilted her head to the side, and Dean could just make out an affectionate smile across her lips.

'I simply go where I'm needed, and there are things Apollo wills you to hear.' Dean stiffened at the mention of the Roman god, but the woman continued, 'He really doesn't care what you believe, and neither do I. But I was meant to see you for a reason. That is something I do care about.'

Dean looked around. 'But why here? In the middle of—what, where are we? Washer's Alley? Why the canal?'

Pamela shrugged. 'Why would you think I know? I'm a seer not omnipotent. It was just an impression. Anyway, here it is, what I have to tell you.' She cleared her throat and began:

'To hurt is to need

His freedom the seed

Of his slavery;

Two will abide

True love divide

To set the Angel free.'

Dean blinked, then swore inelegantly. 'What in damnation's name is that supposed to mean? Hades. What's an angel? That makes no sense!'

Pamela smiled. 'I don't know what it means any more than you do, Deanio. But think on it, vero?'

Dean huffed. 'And to think, I could be eating apple sweet cake right now,' he muttered.

'Oh, like you weren't curious,' she said. 'Also tell Ash I said salve when you meet him. And Dean?'

'Yeah?'

She sighed. 'A girl does what she must and, as it happens, I'm the thrice-cursed Oracle of Delphi, hence I have very little choice in the matter. So know that I am really, really sorry about this.'

Before Dean could process what she had said, she rammed him against the plastered stone wall of one of the houses, and let him topple into the canal. He fell, unconscious, into the fetid water, and by the time he woke, spluttering, half-drowned and head pounding fiercely, he was almost four hundred feet down-stream, and Pamela was nowhere to be seen.