de Profundis
Chapter 2
AN: We've got some Latin in this chapter, and we'll have some Latin throughout the rest of this work, because – surprise! – we're in Rome. Latin /Greek grammatical errors made by characters who are clearly fluent speakers are my own. All other grammatical errors are intentional. For clarity's sake I have either implied the English translation or provided it with an asterisk.
Dean struggles underneath the weight of Castiel - not to mention the vertigo of several thousand years of time travel - while Sam pushes himself to his feet. Dazed, Sam looks around for his brother before rushing over to help Dean with the prone form of Castiel.
"Come on, wake up," Dean urges Cas, slowly dropping to his knees so that he can lay Cas on the ground. The angel is limp in his arms, unresponsive as Dean gently slaps his cheeks. Castiel is hot, his face flushed, but his skin is bone dry. Red cheeked, he looks even more angelic now than he ever had as a seraphim.
"Son of a bitch, he's burning up," Dean swears. He can feel Castiel's pulse jockeying like a racehorse beneath his skin. A passer-by observing the scene might think that this was heat stroke, and he'd be correct. But the Mediterranean sun was not what did this. Dean takes off Castiel's clothing, desperately trying to lower his core body temperature, but ends up simply gritting his teeth and hanging on as Castiel's body convulses.
Dean holds Castiel's legs and torso while Sam removes Castiel's trenchcoat, his suitcoat, his tie, tossing the clothing to the side. The fabric is stiff with dried sweat. How long did Castiel carry us? Sam wonders, knowing that such an accumulation of sweat would have taken hours, perhaps days. Sam shakes his head, wondering if his life is worth what Castiel has sacrificed to preserve it.
Meanwhile, Dean unbuttons the top of Castiel's shirt, swearing, wracking his brain for a way to lower Castiel's temperature. They are in an open field without any shade, and Dean has no supplies. Dean knows enough about wilderness survival to recognize that this is a serious situation. If Castiel's body cannot be cooled down, he will die.
Castiel will die, because Castiel is mortal again, and whose fault is that? Once again, Dean believes he is responsible for Castiel's predicament. It is Dean's fault that Castiel had to expend what was left of his grace to bring them to where they are now. Wherever the Hell we are now. "The temple" had been no answer at all. There's no fucking temple in sight and neither brother has a clue where or when they are.
A breeze ruffles Dean's hair, blows Castiel's tie away. Neither Sam nor Dean notices the tie floating away, but the breeze feels good against Dean's sweaty face. Cool.
Suddenly, Dean knows what to do. Sammy's never going to let him live it down, but right now, Dean doesn't care. All Dean wants is to save his friend, who strains against him, body seizing in the heat.
Dean begins to lick Castiel's face.
"Dean, what the Hell?" Sam asks, bewildered, but when Dean glares at him and the wind blows again, Sam gets it. Castiel has lost too much water to sweat, so Dean is trying to sweat for him, to cool Castiel's body through evaporation. Dean licks Castiel's throat, his chest, as he had done to countless women, but for Dean, there is nothing sexual in his attentions. He is desperate to save his friend's life.
Sam holds Castiel down. The angel's struggles are slowing, but neither Sam nor Dean knows if this is a good thing.
"Please, Cas," Dean begs, after ten minutes of this have gone on. His voice cracks, ostensibly from dehydration. "You can't do this to us. We don't know where we are. Hell, we don't know when we are. Don't leave us. Not now. Not after everything."
Dean bends over Castiel's body again, about to continue the treatment, when Sam stops him, "Dean," he utters, in warning.
Dean looks up from Castiel to see a tanned man in a tunic approaching. The man says something that sounds like "have" but Dean cannot make it out. What Dean does perceive is a smell, the kind of human odor which most people in the first world will never know. It is not a stench, but merely the natural smell of the human body, when the body regulates its own cleanliness.
"Ave," the man repeats, voice louder. The accent is unlike any that either Dean or Sam have ever heard.
"Hello?" Dean replies stupidly, and Sam inwardly cringes, glancing down at unconscious Castiel who could help them out of this, if he were only awake.
"Auxilium?" the man asks. Sam rises to his feet, and notices that the man is short, much shorter than Sam. Maybe only five feet tall. But the stranger's arm muscles are thick and corded, like a bodybuilder. This is a man who has done hard manual labor. A wooden sword hangs from his simple leather baldric.
"Velitis auxilium?" the man asks again.
The second time Sam hears the same word, auxilium, he recognizes it. Latin. Help. The man is asking if we need help.
It has been years since Sam studied Latin, and even then, the ecclesiastical Latin Sam had learned for exorcisms had been adapted for the use of clerics during the Middle Ages. In other words, Sam doesn't speak the vernacular, and he knows it.
The feeling is uncomfortably similar to when he'd used the textbook Spanish Sam had learned during his first semester at Stanford to talk to some native speakers on a case with Dean. His constructions were a far cry from the vernacular.
But.
At least Sam could still communicate. And he can talk with the stranger now. Sam looks at Dean, whose body is tense, guarding Castiel.
"Dean. I can talk to him."
"In Church Latin?" Dean shoots back, but Sam ignores him, his attention returned to the stranger.
"Um, Salve. Amicus mei," Sam says, pointing at Castiel and Dean. Shit, should've said Amici mei. "Invalidus est. Calidior est." My friend. He is not well. He is too hot, Sam had said.
Or at least he believes that's what he's said.
"Iuvem," is the response. Sam stares, but the man's face is benign, reaching for a horn that hung off his baldric. The man undoes the clasp and holds the horn for Sam to see. "Auxilium," he reiterates, with the hint of a smile, as if he was in on some private joke. "Pro Calidiorus tuus.*"
"What the Hell is he saying, Sammy?"
"I think he wants to help."
The Roman gives the horn to Sam, who takes off the lid and looks inside, smelling the contents. Water. He half expects it to be holy water, given the family business, and wonders how water is sanctified in the time before Christ. Are we before Christ?
"Aqua," Sam identifies the liquid for Dean's benefit, intentionally using an English-Latin cognate. Their Latin-speaking friend nods. After giving the horn to Dean, Sam watches as Dean parts Castiel's lips and pours a small amount of water into the angel's mouth, running his hands down Castiel's neck, trying to get him to swallow.
"Tibi gratia," Sam says to the stranger, glad that he at least remembered how to say thank you from his high school Latin class. Dad sure as hell hadn't taught him that one.
"Auxilium," the man says a final time, pointing to the horn. Then, he turns away from Sam and Dean, occupied with their attempt to resuscitate their fallen friend.
So it was that neither Sam nor Dean observed the Latin-speaker's eyes flash blue, or the half smile that crossed his lips.
The sky darkened with rainclouds. Moments later, a distant thunder like a rumbling yawn shook the ground beneath them, and the heavens opened into a downpour.
"Fer?" the stranger asks, speaking loudly to be heard over the storm around them. Sam and Dean look up at him, not comprehending. The stranger mimed throwing a body over his shoulder. "Dare!" the stranger tried again, wondering if a different word would get through to him.
Bring. He's asking us to bring Castiel. "Dean, can you pick him up?"
"And go where?" Dean asked, frustrated, looking at the Latin-speaker distrustfully.
"I don't know. We're in the countryside. A farm? I know you don't like it, but what other option do we have?"
Dean was already hefting Castiel onto his shoulders. The rain had plastered their clothes to their bodies. Dean could feel that Castiel's rapid pulse had slowed, his skin was cooler. But the angel still needed more help than what the Winchesters could provide without supplies. The "divine providence" of the rainstorm had been helpful, but it was not enough. Cas needed to wake up and tell them what the Hell was going on.
They began to walk through the fields, to only God knows where.
"Sum Gnaeus. Qui nomini vobis estis?"
He's asking us our names, Sam realized. Think fast!
"Um. Servius," Sam identifies himself, then points to lumbering Dean, carrying Castiel. "Decimus. Caius infirmis est." Caius is sick. Shit, should I have used the vocative for that? What is the right vocative, anyway? Serve? Servi? Sam translates what was said to Dean.
"He says his name is Gnaeus. I just said your name is Decimus. I'm Servius, and that's Caius."
"Decimus? You're giving him fake names?"
We are not having this argument Dean. Not now. "You want to sound like you come from another planet?"
"Cas is dying, we're trapped in the middle of nowhere, and you want to play pretend while this bozo leads us into a trap?"
"In case you didn't notice, Dean, we're not exactly swimming in other options here!"
Gnaeus merely looks at them both, not comprehending the argument. He is fluent in several dozen human languages, but Modern American English is not one of them.
Yet.
Gnaeus is listening, trying to figure out the syntax, analyzing the frequency of the words being used. The bickering continues while Castiel remains slumped over Dean's shoulders like a bag of potatoes. Gnaeus is keeping an eye on him, too, sensing his vital signs.
A structure slowly becomes visible at the edge of the meadow. It looks like a small farmhouse, but then there are others that can be seen in the distance, along with livestock pens, a small vineyard, and an orchard which Sam assumes is for growing olives. There is even a stone aqueduct to channel the rainfall into the fields. Though it is raining, the grounds are still a bustle of activity.
"A farmhouse. Looks like you were right." Dean is glad to see the structures, if only because he wants relief from carrying Castiel's heavy weight. Though he will never admit it, carrying his friend is exhausting what little strength Dean had scrounged up since they escaped the Darkness. He just wants to rest.
As the group draws closer, a large one story building becomes the most prominent feature in the landscape. Its whitewashed walls with brown framed windows are surrounded by cultivated daisies and roses. A Roman villa. Sam remembers that the interior of the structure likely contains a central courtyard. Pleasant.
Except for the fenced-in space to the left of the building which is neither animal pen nor protected field, from which emanates grunts and cries of men.
"Villa Marius," Gnaeus says, pointing to the large house. "Ludi gladiatorum.**"
Suddenly, the wooden sword hanging from Gnaeus' baldric makes sense.
Oh, shit.
*A remedy, for your rather hot (overheated) man.
**A gladiator school.