SpN: Non Timebo Mala, 2/?
11/9/09 08:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Non Timebo Mala
Author:roxy
Pairings/Characters:Dean/Sam Dean/omc, Sam/omc
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1198
Spoilers:might be considered spoilery for All Hell Breaks Loose
Summary: Sam Winchester is looking for the ultimate weapon, one that will destroy the demon who destroyed his family. Dean Kane was raised to be a maker of weapons. He was just the man Sam needed.
Notes/Warnings: This is my AU version of the Colt's making. Increeeedibly AU. It's completely a child of my wild imaginings. Warnings for sex, brief het and M/M, incest. Sections will have individual warnings.
Tobe glanced over the dead woman, gave brief thought to burying her, but shook his head. Someone else would have to take that job. He was loathe to be stuck in unfamiliar lands, snowed in, and anxious to get the boy away from a dangerous area. They'd singled him—his family—out for a reason. He picked the boy up, sat him in front of him. Reached into his duster pocket and pulled out a charm made of red thread and nails, and hung it around his small neck. Tobe pulled the duster shut around them both, and took him away from the grave of his family. "My name is Tobias Kane; you can call me Tobe, okay?"
Samuel
Light leaked in on the edges awareness…brighter and brighter, until he had to blink, and breathe, even though it hurt, it hurt and hurt and…Mary. Where were Dean, Mary, Sammy…Sam had been in his arms. He remembered that--"Sammy…Sammy?"
John barely recognized his own voice; the thin croak seemed to come from some far off place. He lifted himself slowly, bit by bit, from his crouch over young Sam, who lay silent on the dirt floor John's knees were driven into. His head rang; his body shuddered through waves of vertigo, sharp jolts of pain across his shoulders, his back. The moon shone though gaps in the ceiling above him and horrified, he realized he was in the cellar. The floor must have collapsed and dropped them through…where was Mary? Where was Dean?
The way out—the only way out, storm doors leading into the cellar--was blocked by parts of the collapsed upper floor. Desperation and fear made him beat and tear at the charred, still hot timbers until some semblance of sanity awoke in him. He ripped his shirt into strips and wrapped his hands to protect them, attacked the beams again. It took him a while to break through the remnants of the floor and roof before he could scoop a screaming Sammy up, and push his way out of the storm doors.
He took in deep draughts of cold fresh air. The sharp air made him wobble, light headed and exhausted. By the light of the moon he saw the total extent of the destruction; black beams and burnt walls, dusted by the silent flakes of snow whirling around him. The dead quiet all about him warped the silver flooding the black landscape into a corpse's glow…
He circled the bones of the cabin, called his wife's name, called his son's name, pressing his youngest's delicate head against his shoulder, and there, near the bottom porch step, he found her.
She'd been torn at and gnawed on, pulled from the house into the yard. She must have been too heavy a weight to drag far, but Dean…Dean….
Tracks wandered, away from and around, the foundations the house. Tracks ran back and forth over each other, tore up the yard—horse, human, and coyote. Blood dripped and ran in a trail, nearly covering tracks of a coyote in a straight line back to the underbrush beyond the yard. The devils had massacred his family and the animals had taken what was left.
Dean
Tobias Kane had been a week or two back at the forge before the snow got serious and packed them in tight. He couldn't make it to his shop a few yards away let alone into town to hand that little white baby over to the sheriff and wash his hands of it all. He tried to avoid any dealing with those people that didn't involve business. He might be the Blacksmith, but he didn't get to be a man full grown by being a complete fool. He didn't invite trouble to him, and most times, trouble overlooked him. Until now.
He sat close to the hearth, work table pulled up to the wide fireplace taking up most of one side of a wall, mantle and chimney made of stone he'd collected himself from around the river's bank. A lamp sat on the table as well, adding light to work by. One by one, he worked oil into the tools he spread out on the table, scraped rust off them and smoothed rough edges, watched by a solemn pair of green eyes….
Speaking of trouble….
Dean was wrapped in the trade blanket Tobe usually kept on the bed in the spare room. Dean had appropriated it, took to walking around with it mostly cocooning him, dragging the tail of it across the floors. Tobe shook his head. His floors were swept all the time now, at least. Dean silently took in the array of tools with his big green eyes. He looked puzzled.
"You wonder what I'm doing hunh?" Tobe asked the little bit of boy peeking out of the blanket, and as usual, Dean's face held little expression. Tobe swallowed a sigh. "Well." He looked down at his tools. "No business coming in, but we still have work to do. Always got work. I'm cleaning the tools, making sure they work proper when the time comes they're needed…see this here oil? Wiping it on 'em keeps the rust off." Dean stared at the tool Tobe held in his hand, and his fingertips slowly inched over the edge of the table.
"Do you want to help?" Tobe asked him.
Dean's fingers whipped away, and his face went impossibly blanker—eyes fixed on some distant point. Tobe sighed aloud, but went on. "Now this here is a hold down, keeps iron on the anvil where I want it to be, and not where it wants to go," he said and wiped at the hooked instrument, made sure there were no spots of rust, went on to the next tool and all the while, described what he was doing in a low soothing drone. Dean didn't meet his eyes, but Tobe could tell he was drinking in every word he spoke. He knew no matter what the boy had suffered in body, there was nothing wrong with his mind, nothing at all. He spoke until his voice went a little rough and the loudest sound was the crackle of wood in the fireplace, the hum of water simmering in the kettle. And a little breathy noise he was getting used to—the sound of Dean's small, soft, snores.
He picked up the blanket wrapped bundle, barely a weight in his arms, but warm and comfortable against his shoulder. A long damped feeling flickered in his chest. Remembered holding his sister's babies, long, long ago, and how it'd felt--like safe, and good, being close to family. Even if it couldn't ever be true. Holding Dean felt like something that, and that made him mad. He shouldn't feel like that about a little one who didn't belong—couldn't belong—to him. He sighed, and laid Dean down on the spare room bed. Tobe pulled another blanket over the one the boy wore and went back to his work.
Soon as the snow settled, that boy would have to go.
part 3
Author:roxy
Pairings/Characters:Dean/Sam Dean/omc, Sam/omc
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1198
Spoilers:might be considered spoilery for All Hell Breaks Loose
Summary: Sam Winchester is looking for the ultimate weapon, one that will destroy the demon who destroyed his family. Dean Kane was raised to be a maker of weapons. He was just the man Sam needed.
Notes/Warnings: This is my AU version of the Colt's making. Increeeedibly AU. It's completely a child of my wild imaginings. Warnings for sex, brief het and M/M, incest. Sections will have individual warnings.
Tobe glanced over the dead woman, gave brief thought to burying her, but shook his head. Someone else would have to take that job. He was loathe to be stuck in unfamiliar lands, snowed in, and anxious to get the boy away from a dangerous area. They'd singled him—his family—out for a reason. He picked the boy up, sat him in front of him. Reached into his duster pocket and pulled out a charm made of red thread and nails, and hung it around his small neck. Tobe pulled the duster shut around them both, and took him away from the grave of his family. "My name is Tobias Kane; you can call me Tobe, okay?"
Light leaked in on the edges awareness…brighter and brighter, until he had to blink, and breathe, even though it hurt, it hurt and hurt and…Mary. Where were Dean, Mary, Sammy…Sam had been in his arms. He remembered that--"Sammy…Sammy?"
John barely recognized his own voice; the thin croak seemed to come from some far off place. He lifted himself slowly, bit by bit, from his crouch over young Sam, who lay silent on the dirt floor John's knees were driven into. His head rang; his body shuddered through waves of vertigo, sharp jolts of pain across his shoulders, his back. The moon shone though gaps in the ceiling above him and horrified, he realized he was in the cellar. The floor must have collapsed and dropped them through…where was Mary? Where was Dean?
The way out—the only way out, storm doors leading into the cellar--was blocked by parts of the collapsed upper floor. Desperation and fear made him beat and tear at the charred, still hot timbers until some semblance of sanity awoke in him. He ripped his shirt into strips and wrapped his hands to protect them, attacked the beams again. It took him a while to break through the remnants of the floor and roof before he could scoop a screaming Sammy up, and push his way out of the storm doors.
He took in deep draughts of cold fresh air. The sharp air made him wobble, light headed and exhausted. By the light of the moon he saw the total extent of the destruction; black beams and burnt walls, dusted by the silent flakes of snow whirling around him. The dead quiet all about him warped the silver flooding the black landscape into a corpse's glow…
He circled the bones of the cabin, called his wife's name, called his son's name, pressing his youngest's delicate head against his shoulder, and there, near the bottom porch step, he found her.
She'd been torn at and gnawed on, pulled from the house into the yard. She must have been too heavy a weight to drag far, but Dean…Dean….
Tracks wandered, away from and around, the foundations the house. Tracks ran back and forth over each other, tore up the yard—horse, human, and coyote. Blood dripped and ran in a trail, nearly covering tracks of a coyote in a straight line back to the underbrush beyond the yard. The devils had massacred his family and the animals had taken what was left.
Tobias Kane had been a week or two back at the forge before the snow got serious and packed them in tight. He couldn't make it to his shop a few yards away let alone into town to hand that little white baby over to the sheriff and wash his hands of it all. He tried to avoid any dealing with those people that didn't involve business. He might be the Blacksmith, but he didn't get to be a man full grown by being a complete fool. He didn't invite trouble to him, and most times, trouble overlooked him. Until now.
He sat close to the hearth, work table pulled up to the wide fireplace taking up most of one side of a wall, mantle and chimney made of stone he'd collected himself from around the river's bank. A lamp sat on the table as well, adding light to work by. One by one, he worked oil into the tools he spread out on the table, scraped rust off them and smoothed rough edges, watched by a solemn pair of green eyes….
Speaking of trouble….
Dean was wrapped in the trade blanket Tobe usually kept on the bed in the spare room. Dean had appropriated it, took to walking around with it mostly cocooning him, dragging the tail of it across the floors. Tobe shook his head. His floors were swept all the time now, at least. Dean silently took in the array of tools with his big green eyes. He looked puzzled.
"You wonder what I'm doing hunh?" Tobe asked the little bit of boy peeking out of the blanket, and as usual, Dean's face held little expression. Tobe swallowed a sigh. "Well." He looked down at his tools. "No business coming in, but we still have work to do. Always got work. I'm cleaning the tools, making sure they work proper when the time comes they're needed…see this here oil? Wiping it on 'em keeps the rust off." Dean stared at the tool Tobe held in his hand, and his fingertips slowly inched over the edge of the table.
"Do you want to help?" Tobe asked him.
Dean's fingers whipped away, and his face went impossibly blanker—eyes fixed on some distant point. Tobe sighed aloud, but went on. "Now this here is a hold down, keeps iron on the anvil where I want it to be, and not where it wants to go," he said and wiped at the hooked instrument, made sure there were no spots of rust, went on to the next tool and all the while, described what he was doing in a low soothing drone. Dean didn't meet his eyes, but Tobe could tell he was drinking in every word he spoke. He knew no matter what the boy had suffered in body, there was nothing wrong with his mind, nothing at all. He spoke until his voice went a little rough and the loudest sound was the crackle of wood in the fireplace, the hum of water simmering in the kettle. And a little breathy noise he was getting used to—the sound of Dean's small, soft, snores.
He picked up the blanket wrapped bundle, barely a weight in his arms, but warm and comfortable against his shoulder. A long damped feeling flickered in his chest. Remembered holding his sister's babies, long, long ago, and how it'd felt--like safe, and good, being close to family. Even if it couldn't ever be true. Holding Dean felt like something that, and that made him mad. He shouldn't feel like that about a little one who didn't belong—couldn't belong—to him. He sighed, and laid Dean down on the spare room bed. Tobe pulled another blanket over the one the boy wore and went back to his work.
Soon as the snow settled, that boy would have to go.
part 3
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
11/11/09 06:40 pm (UTC)*G* More coming up right...about...now!