Dean was growing sick of corridors. The entire ship seemed to be made out of them, and maybe it was.
It felt like they'd been walking for miles, which he knew wasn't true. The armor was just that uncomfortable. Seriously, whoever designed it was a sadist.
To make things worse, their eventual destination was not at all worth the trip. What was the point of having a giant, Egyptian-themed space ship if you were just going to stick a stone chair in a boring-ass room, Dean wondered. If he were an evil overlord, at least he'd have style. He'd seen enough late night TV to know how it should look: a few dancing girls, enough food to feed an army, some random treasure. This- this was just plain disappointing. The room was in stark contrast to the gaudy gold halls. There was something cave-like about the place; there were bare stone walls, a few benches, and that was about it, except for the throne. It was large but plain, carved out of what looked like obsidian, and it faced out to a window that showed the planet below. It was like being in a cave on the moon. Other than the kinky bastard himself, the room was empty except for a few guards and a few burly, bare-chested men wearing capes. Two of them were wrestling before Mithras, who watched them with the bored disinterest of a channel surfer.
He looked up when they entered the room.
"My Lord," said Sergeant Kiss-Ass, "Where would you have us place the offering?"
Mithras' eyes flicked to the chest, but only for a second. He waved a hand sharply. "Wherever." He seemed pleased to see Dr. Jackson. Dean doubted Jackson felt the same.
"Daniel Jackson of SG-1." It wasn't a question. He never took his eyes off Jackson. Creepy didn't even cover it.
"My Lord," Sergeant Kiss-Ass interrupted.
"Be silent." Mithras said, "You captured this man?" The last was directed at Dean.
Sergeant Kiss-Ass looked a little pained at that.
"We did, uh- my lord." Dean answered.
Mithras seemed to muse on this for a second.
"Were there any others?"
"I'm alone," Jackson interjected.
Mithras was not terribly impressed by this line of bravado, but there was something... Jackson gave Dean a significant look.
"You cannot lie to your God," Mithras said- well, sneered.
"But I can definitely lie to you," Jackson said, unperturbed.
Mithras stood up and stalked closer. Jackson's expression never wavered, still seeming aloof. He stared the man – god?- right in the eye. Dean could almost believe he'd stare him down, but then Mithras' eyes flashed gold.
Aw, shit.
"Kneel!" Mithras thundered. Jackson 'accidentally' nudged an elbow into Dean's side as he leaned forward. Dean remembered the scene with Major Pierce and got the message. He swung the staff around and hit Jackson behind the knees, and shoved down heavily on one of his shoulders.
"Kneel before your god," he tried. No, it still sounded stupid.
It seemed to pass muster, though Mithras seemed less that impressed, pausing for a beat to look at Dean before turning his attention back to Jackson. The wrestlers continued as if nothing had happened.
"You will tell me what you are doing here," Mithras said, and his voice took on a creepy disguised-phone-call quality. He raised the hand with the bracelet. Dean doubted he was trying to admire it in the light.
Sam stepped forward before Dean could.
"My lord," he said, "There is something you need to know."
"What is it?" Mithras demanded, beyond pissed.
Dean hoped Sam had a plan. He wasn't looking forward to the dungeon treatment.
"It's- " he lowered his voice. "I believe this man was trying to reach a Tok'ra contact on board. He was speaking into some sort of Tauri device when we captured him."
Jackson closed his eyes, looking pained.
"Where is this device?" Mithras said, but quietly.
"I don't know, my lord, I lost sight of it in the struggle."
Mithras looked thoughtful for a second, before whirling around. He stalked back to his throne chair, sat down and tapped on hand on the arm rest.
"Go. I require...privacy." he announced to the room. Dean started to drag Jackson away, more hoping than expecting to be included in the dismissal.
"Not you," Mithras added, prying his eyes of Jackson long enough to address Dean.
The soldiers and wrestlers all filed out of the room, leaving their oh-so-merry trio alone with Mithras, Sergeant Kiss-Ass and some other random minion. The doors eventually slid shut behind them with a metallic ring. Mithras gestured, and Sergeant Kiss-Ass wrested Jackson from Dean's grip and threw him forward. Jackson managed to catch himself before sliding face first into the throne. He pushed himself off the ground and glared up at Mithras, who stood up from his chair and loomed over him.
Dean shifted his weight, not sure what to expect. He mentally ran down the list of weapons in the bag, trying to think of something that would work against a god, if that's what he was. Of Mithras, all he could remember was that he had been a god favored by soldiers and had killed a cow, or something. He glanced over at Sam, who was trying to shift the weight of the backpack strapped over one shoulder without drawing too much attention to it. He caught Sam's eye and briefly flicked his gaze back to Mithras. Sam tilted his head slightly and glanced at Sergeant Kiss-Ass, then back at Dean. Dean gave an almost imperceptible shrug, rolling one shoulder.
Three...two...one. Dean spun around, using the heavy staff as a pivot. He then shifted his weight and swung the staff up, catching Sergeant Kiss-Ass hard on the back of his legs and sweeping him to the floor. As the man tumbled to the ground, Dean moved forward, picked up the staff, and hit him hard in the face with the wide flared end.
He whirled around to face the other guard, who had overcome his shock and moved for the attack. Dean barely managed to knock the snake-gun out of his hand. It went skittering across the floor. He ignored it. Distantly, he could hear Sam saying something, but he ignored that too. The sum total of his attention was going to fighting off the guard, who was surprisingly resilient and far stronger than he looked. The heavy metal armor was a problem, though the guard was apparently not hampered by its weight or its fit. The staff was unwieldy, but Dean was reluctant to abandon it. He feigned to the left, and when the man moved to intercept him, he hit the guard's unprotected right side, hard. The man staggered, but gave no sign of the broken ribs Dean had expected. Awesome, Dean thought just as the guard grabbed the staff, twisted it away, and landed a hit right to Dean's solar plexus. He fell like a goddamn ton of bricks, and wheezing all the way.
The guard ripped the staff out of Dean's hand as he fell, turning it for a better grip. He advanced, swinging the staff around until its head was pointing at Dean's heart. It cracked open with an orange sizzle. Fuck. Dean closed his eyes for a second, pissed at how stupid it all was, pissed that he hadn't checked the staff earlier.
There was a zappy-noise. Dean braced himself, but nothing happened. He opened his eyes just in time to see the guard topple forward. Dean was rolling before he even had time to think, just barely managing to get out of the way before the man fell to the floor. A hand reached down. It belonged to Jackson, who still held the snake-gun prepped and ready in his other hand. Dean grabbed the proffered hand and stood up, still wheezing. Jackson looked grim. He turned and punched a code into the door panel.
Dean's eyes flicked around the room, looking for Sam and keeping an eye out for any further threats. The sharp report of a gunshot sent him whirling around, hoping to see a dead bad guy. He was disappointed but not surprised to see Mithras still standing there, whole as ever. Well...not quite as whole. There was a neat hole right over his heart, but it didn't seem to have fazed him at all. Shit. Mithras threw up the hand with the bracelet and flexed his fingers, cat-quick. Sam was thrown hard into the wall before he could even get another shot off. The gun went skittering across the ground towards Dean. Sam was slumped on the floor, dazed if not unconscious.
"You will regret this treachery," Mithras spat. He tapped the top of one hand with another, an alarm started up, somewhere deep in the ship.
Jackson made a swift movement sideways, and shot the door panel with his snake-gun. Mithras turned and gestured with his hand again. Jackson was thrown into a wall.
Dean lunged down and grabbed the gun, spinning up and firing. It was pointless: the air around Mithras flared into a golden bubble and the bullet ricocheted. Ok, not good.
"You cannot defeat me," Mithras said, his voice booming oddly. He stalked towards Dean. As he drew nearer, Dean circled around in order to avoid getting backed into a corner.
"You will suffer a hundred thousand deaths before I am done with you." Mithras moved closer. Dean glanced down at the bag of weapons, then lunged for it, dumping the contents on the ground. They scattered, some bouncing and sliding almost all the way across the room.
Mithras loomed over him. Dean braced himself for getting thrown into a wall, but he wasn't that lucky. Instead, his head cracked open and the world became filled with pain and light. He tried to focus, move past it, but everything became faded and lost as the seconds ticked on.
He heard screaming, but it seemed distant. The world shrank until it was just him and the pain, which greeted him like an old friend and sank deep into his bones.
As suddenly it started, it ended. Mithras bellowed. There was a knife in his hand, and Jackson smiled hard from where he was slumped against the wall. Dean scrambled for the gun outside his reach. Mithras turned to presumably squash Jackson like a bug, but he didn't get far.
Sam rose up behind him, his face set into a terrible snarl. Mithras whirled to face him, but managed nothing more. Sam cut halfway through his neck with his first blow, and had severed it by the third. Blood covered his face, but he didn't seem to care. His brother could be a scary bastard. The thought flickered through Dean's mind, but within half a heartbeat something shifted and Sam just looked tired and sore. Dean struggled to his feet. He looked around for Jackson, who had managed to stand and hobbled over to them, stooping to pick up a discarded gun along the way.
He glanced down at the body, then looked up at Sam. "Was there a reason you tried an exorcism?"
Dean traded glances with Sam, who shrugged.
"You understand Latin?" Sam asked, deflecting.
Jackson gave him another one of his funny looks.
"Uh, no reason," Sam added. He stared intently at the body, then reached down to grab the bracelet-weapon when Jackson without warning leaned forward and jerked Sam back. Jackson brought his arm up and fired at something Dean could not see. Whatever it was hit the floor with a fleshy slap. Dean pushed forward. There, lying on the ground and was a dead...snake...thing.
"It jumped out of the head, right at me," Sam said. He couldn't quite keep the horror out of his voice. Dean didn't blame him. That shit was nasty. And fucked up, even by their standards. Seriously. The guy had a snake in his head.
"Nice shot," he managed, almost reflexively. "What did you get your doctorate in, kicking ass?"
Jackson raised an eyebrow. "Not exactly, no."
Dean shook himself and turned back to his brother.
"Okay, what now?" Dean asked. "We defeated the bad guy and...?"
"A bad guy," Jackson said significantly, "Who is yes, now dead." Dean ignored him.
"I dunno, maybe we still have to rescue everyone?"
Sam considered this, then turned to Jackson, as if remembering he was there. "What do you think?"
"I think your plans could use some work. Why the hell did you tell him I was working for the Tok'ra?"
Sam shrugged. "It was a calculated risk. I figured he'd want the intel."
"And that couldn't have backfired at all," Jackson asked, a little testily.
"It didn't, did it?" Sam answered.
Dean rolled his eyes. "You were looking for that woman right? Carter or something? Why don't we go do that." It earned him another look, the kind that mingled condescension with disbelief.
"Well, yes, that would be a good idea," Jackson said drily, "If there weren't about a hundred Jaffa right outside the doors. They're about a minute from just trying to break in."
"Great." Dean rubbed his face. "Any chance of getting that damn alarm off?"
"You mean that alarm? The alarm that's going to trigger the self-destruct?"
Dean shrugged.
"Then...no. Well, it will eventually, but trust me when I say you don't want it to."
"There's gotta be a way," Dean argued.
"Sure. But you're going to have trouble getting the code."
"Why?" Sam asked.
"It's set to go off unless Mithras cancels it. Little fail safe plan." He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
"But what about all his, you know, people?" Dean asked.
"The Gou'ald are not well known for their concern for their worshipers," Jackson remarked, and while his tone remained even, there was something dry and bitter lurking under it. It was familiar. It was the tone of a man whose enmity carried a personal edge.
"Alright, so what do you suggest?" Sam asked. Weariness seemed to drip off him- well, blood dripped off him, but wasn't he looking particularly chipper, anyway.
Jackson handed Sam a handkerchief.
He nodded his head significantly towards the door, from behind which, sure enough, bangs and zapping could be heard. "Unless you're looking to go out like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid – we're stuck with sitting tight and waiting for her to find us."
"Really? No secret passages or, uh, you know, ventilation shafts?" Sam had his earnest-and-helpful face on, the one used for coaxing answers out of witnesses. It was wasted on Jackson.
"You must watch a lot of TV," he remarked archly. Dean figured that meant 'no.'
"So, uhm, you do this often?" Sam tried.
Jackson closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "The dead false god part, the daring rescue part, or the none-of-this-makes-sense part?"
Sam shrugged.
Jackson mulled it over. "Actually... yes." He pursed his lips, "And what about you?"
"What about us?" Sam asked, looking entirely too innocent.
"For starters? Oh, I don't know. How about how you ended up on an off-world mission- with an SG team- despite having no experience?"
"What? Nah." Dean said. "SG-15. Says so on our uniforms. Or did. Right, Sammy?"
"Uh, right," Sam replied. "SG-15, that's us."
"C'mon," Jackson said, and his tone was too reasonable for comfort. "We're gonna be stuck here for awhile. You're not part of the SGC, so what are you? You can't be the NID, they'd have prepped you better." He smiled, and it was so open and friendly that Dean distrusted it on principle alone.
The bangs outside the door got louder. Dean glowered at it, then turned back to Jackson.
"Dude, the door's about to be busted down. We're like two minutes from getting overrun by guys who are going to be pissed when they see we ganked their boss. We've got bigger problems than our life stories."
Sam snorted at that. "Yeah right. I wish." Jackson looked at him curiously.
"You know what I mean," Dean said.
"C'mon, Dean. I think I've finally gotten the joke. Seriously? Our lives suck, man. Getting dropped in some cheesy-ass scifi show we've never heard of is practically a vacation."
Dean looked his brother over with a suspicious eye.
"You managed to get a concussion being thrown in the wall, didn't you?"
Sam gingerly felt the back of his head, then winced.
"Maybe."
"Wonderful. Only you could get a concussion in an action show. That never happens." He turned to Jackson, who was gaping at them openly, mouth half open. "You've never had a concussion, I bet."
"I'm sorry- what? I mean, of course I- what?" Confusion, frustration, bemusement. It was hard to remember that the guy wasn't real.
The banging outside the door got louder.
"Damn, I guess we're getting the Bolivian army ending after all," Dean said, to no one in particular. He looked around. No cover. He reached for his gun-
And the doors blew open.