Title: Thermopylae
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: PG
Summary: “So there’s this guy named Xerxes, and he’s pretty much the ruler of the world.”
Notes: This story came up in my Philosophy class the other day and what can I say? I am a nerd was inspired. Any errors in the retelling are my own fault. I guess this could be called a Night Shifter coda but really takes place at some unspecified point in the future.






“So there’s this guy named Xerxes, and he’s pretty much the ruler of the world.”

It takes a moment for Sam to lift his head, but he does, squinting over to where Dean’s sitting on the floor, his legs crossed underneath him. “Go on,” he rasps.

“Thanks, princess. Glad I have your permission. Anyway, Xerxes rules his kingdom with an iron fist. And he’s not the fun kind of dictator either, he’s the kill you and wear your skin for underwear kind of guy, you know? And what pisses him off more then anything are these people living on a bunch of craggy islands, the Greeks, who are just minding their own business, doing their own thing.”

He shifts a little as he cleans, sighting down the line of a barrel before swiping the rag over it. The room smells like gun oil and clean sweat, overlaying the smell of every motel room ever, harsh cleaning products and anonymous sheets.

“So Xerxes puts together this army, the biggest one the world’s ever seen, and goes after the Greeks. All the other cities wanna just lay down their arms and bow to Xerxes except for this one guy named Leonidas, who rules over Sparta. He goes to meet Xerxes’ army with three hundred of his own personal guard and a couple thousand guys that the other cities sent over.”

He sets the gun aside, the last in a long pile. He’s been sitting there for hours in silence, letting Sam sleep it off. He gets up as soon as he’s put the kit away, his hands itching for something to do. He goes through their clothes, not bothering to seperate clean and not-clean. They go into piles of what will weigh them down. What they can carry, if they need to.

Sam sits up. “You want any help with that?” His voice is soft. They haven’t said much to each other for the last few days. Dean shakes his head without looking over.

“So Xerxes, still sitting back on his throne while Leonidas is ready to kick ass on the front lines, sends a messenger to Leonidas. He tells Leonidas that he digs his bravery and if he’ll lay down his arms, then he’ll make Leonidas his second-in-command. He’ll rule over the entire world and the only person that will be above him will be Xerxes himself. Leonidas tells him to go fuck himself, of course.”

“Of course,” Sam echoes. He gets up to help anyway, emptying out their duffels and repacking what’s passed Dean’s muster. Guns in each of them, snack bars that they bought at the gas station down the road, water bottle clipped to the outside. Just in case. His eyes linger on what hasn’t made the grade, years of protective spellwork and crumbling books. Once upon a time, they needed these things. He supposes the maid will find them, roll her eyes and throw everything in the trash. No time to sell it. Nobody to sell it to anyway.

“So the messenger hears what Leonidas has to say, and turns to go. But before he does, he turns around to say something else, to warn Leonidas or to psyche him out or something. He turns around and says, ‘You realize that we are so numerous, that when we shoot our arrows into the heavens, we block out the sun.’ ”

Dean’s hands are buried in fabric but Sam can see the whiteness of his knucles, the faintest trembling in his forearms. He looks away, stares at his own hands.

Dean clears his throat. It’s still a moment before he can speak. “ ‘Good,’ Leonidas says. ‘Then we will fight in the shade.’”

They’re quiet for a long time. Long enough for Sam to finish packing and to move to order what they’re leaving behind, neat little piles that’ll be easy to throw away. His hands brush against Dean’s from time to time, knuckles and fingertips. Dean doesn’t look at him.

Rifles are too heavy to carry. They can’t leave any guns in the room but they’ll stay in the car, in the backseat. Leave them behind if they leave the car behind. When they leave the car behind. Should’ve dumped it months ago, anyway.

“You ready to go?” Dean says at last.

Sam glances around them one final time, beds and tables and in the bathroom. The only traces that they were ever here lay on the table in front of him, stacked neatly into piles. “How does the story end, Dean?” he asks.

And Dean’s laugh is a dry, dusty bark. “You know how it ends.”

The door swings shut behind them, silence filling up the space they’ve left behind. And outside, the rumble of an older car, still good. The thump of a bassline. And then nothing at all.