SpN: Non Timebo Mala, 3/?
11/11/09 03:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1730
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.
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, even if it wasn't true--like safe, and good, being close to family. Holding Dean felt like 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.
Samuel
The town was barely bigger than a camp, boardwalks kept the spring mud from sucking a body down to its knees. There was a bar...he squinted…or whorehouse?...a barber's, and a small store. John's head was spinning, and Sam was screaming, wide awake again. He'd walked all night, not stopping, until he'd made his way to this place—a dismal little spot on the map that he'd had little to do with in the normal course of things. He'd had no use for the bar or whorehouse--whatever it was, the store sold no feed or seed and he'd always gone to Mackinaw on the other side of the hills but. It was too far to walk to in one night, what with no longer having a wagon, or horse to pull it….
He bounced Sam up and down, tears in both their eyes. He needed to feed the boy, and change him and he had nothing. Sam's bottom was wrapped in what was left of John's shirt—he needed clean napkins, he needed milk, and John was about ready to fall down on the ground. He was drawing curious stares from the rough bunch of men who passed back and forth past the little alley John had taken refuge in. It was a whorehouse all right, the building he'd taken refuge behind. He was thinking, thinking hard. There were…women…here. Working women, but women who had a better idea of how to raise a baby than he did. Maybe….
John wiped his eyes, fought to stifle a useless sob. His wife had done all that kind of work. She'd done a wonderful job with Dean, stout little fella with a huge heart and a bigger smile. She'd made that boy happy and smart, that was certain. He patted the blanket swamping Samuel, who was wrapped up so tight he couldn't wiggle a finger and all tuckered out from yelling, now sleeping hard as could be. His round cheeks were bright pink, and sweat curled the brown wisps tickling his forehead. No doubt that Mary'd made Dean a happy child in his too-short life. But how was he to help Sam? What did he know about that, making a child to be happy and whole? John knew breaking soil, planting seed, he knew fishing, and he knew hunting, but not a damn thing about raising a baby by himself. Milk and diapers and feeding and changing and. God.
He was lost. They were lost. His mind came back over and over, to the thing that had worn a man like a suit, and the blood, blood everywhere. He looked down on the little bundle in his hands and vowed…he'd find out that thing and kill it, he swore before God and Mary and Dean. He'd find that thing and anything like it and make it bleed and die like his family had. He shuddered and Sam chose that moment to wake up and scream some more.
"Man, get that baby over here. Can't you hear that child's hungry?"
He looked behind him in the alley and caught the stern glare of a stout black woman, standing on a sliver of porch hanging off the back door of the whorehouse. She called out to him again, impatient and brusque. John took no offense. He was ready and desperate for anyone's help.
She was dark-skinned, her eyes dark too, and even in the dim light he could see how sharp they were. Her arms were crossed over a shawl covering the shoulders of a starched white shirt, the shirt and ends of the shawl tucked into a plain, black wool skirt. A black kerchief covered her hair…signified she was a servant of some kind, and not one of the house's girls. She was…formidable. And proved it so by skewering him with a look his old sergeant would have been envious of. John's lips twitched in what tried to become a smile. Even Sam held off on his screaming to stare at her.
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
At first, the stench, that of a lot of humans stuffed into one place, perfume, beer and cabbage, assaulted him. She pulled him down a narrow dark hallway, across a passway, and bundled him through a door, into a well lit, warm kitchen. The scent changed here—the air was filled with the smell of baking bread, greens simmering, navy beans cooking in a kettle on a big black stove. It smelled good, and clean—no hint of casual hygiene, or indifferent cleaning in this room. He glanced around, his hands pressing a squalling Sammy tighter to him. His eyes watered from the good smells and—just the damn joy of sitting still and being warm.
"Man," she snapped her fingers, "Give me that child now, from the smell of little thing it's been a while since it's been changed or fed."
John responded to the voice of command and handed his son over. "Sam. His name is Sam.
And I'm his daddy, John Winchester." He held out his hand to her, ready to shake hands like she was a white woman, and she snorted, turned her full attention to his Sam.
"Well, hello, little Sam," she crooned. "Aren't you a handsome little thing." She looked up at John, and her big brown eyes, so melting and full of love when she'd been looking down at his son, turned hard as flint looking at him. "I dreamt about you, your family. You need help, and I can give it to you. I know what it is you want to hunt." She looked at his son again and sighed. "I don’t want to but I will. I have to, no matter the price."
John shifted on the seat, and opened his mouth to speak, but the woman interrupted. "John…I know what you're going to say and no. We can't keep this baby here. This is…not the place for a little child. You think being raised without a momma would be bad? Raise that baby in a whore house and imagine what he'd be--what could happen to a tender young thing. Worse than what he'd be with you, I know."
John reared back, wanting to smack the pitying look off the woman's face, but sense took over and he knew she wasn't trying to hurt him, she was trying to make him think about Sam, not about himself.
"You hate what I'm saying to you, but it's nothing but the truth. Keep your son, John, and love him. Keep him safe. You the only one who can protect him, teach him what he needs to know."
He took his baby son back out of the woman's arms, Sam's little fingers caught up in her shawl and nearly taking it with him. She smiled, white teeth whiter against her dark skin, her plump cheeks plumper still. "He's beautiful, but…" She shook her head. "I'm a cook in a parlor house and I barely have a minute I can call my own. I can tell you this. Your boy's got a big piece of work in front of him." She looked sad. "You have a huge task ahead. You'll…you'll do your level best."
She stood, and fixed him a plate and took Sam off to a corner table, to change him. He was happier in a bit—bottom wrapped in a clean flour-sack towel, sucking away on a bottle meant for orphaned kids. "You eat now," she told John sternly. "Tomorrow, we start lessons. And by lessons, I mean diaper making and baby feeding. That's the most important thing right now, hear?"
John nodded, almost afraid to speak. He'd never met a woman as fearsome as this one….
"Missouri. You can call me that," she said, and smiled.
Dean
Snow melt drip-dripped off the edge of the porch roof, puddled around the porch steps. The front yard was a lake of slowly warming mud, dotted here and there with a few brave lupines. And foot-steps. Lots and lots of little water filled footsteps. Tobe stood with his fists balled up and jammed into his hipbones, he was that mad. And the little criminal who'd raided the pantry was standing in front of him, unrepentant as hell, and compounding the crime he was muddy and wet from the knees down. He'd followed the trail of muddy moccasins to the beastly little criminal grinning up at him—shining smile and bright green eyes locked unblinking on his—*totally* unrepentant.
"Look here, boy. Don’t pretend you don’t know who was into the molasses. Ain't nobody here but you and me and I know it wasn't me. Plus I gotta damn trail of muddy footprints all over—could be a blind man tracking you, he'd catch you."
You sure about that? Dean's eyebrow asked. He sucked his bottom lip in and held it. His eyes danced with the need to laugh. One knee bent a little. I can run pretty fast.
"Ain't funny, Dean boy. Right about now, I'm favoring tanning your hide. A good solid whipping, I mean to say." Cocoa tinted cheeks flushed a dull fierce red, Tobe was that mad. His whiskey-colored eyes flashed like fire, and Dean's eyes lost all their mischievous sparkle.
A tremble shaking his chin, lowered brows and a glance away and back said, don’t be mad. Are you mad, really?
Tobe huffed and crossed his arms—huffed again to cover the sharp tug at his heart. "You're one powerful annoying little so-'n-so. You keep out of that molasses, hear? Keep out of the cellar all together, you gonna break your neck going down those stairs. You'd do it just to make me mad, I swan."
We done now, not mad any more Dah Tobe…?" Dean's voice, rough with lack of use cracked in the air. Dean gave out words like precious nuggets, like it hurt to talk, and sometimes went so long, Tobe almost forgot he could….
"Boy, take them mocs off and don’t call me Daddy. All we need is to have someone hear that…" It made him sad to scold the boy for calling him so. He was an all around pain in his hind-quarters but in the weeks he'd had him, Tobe had come to think of the little boy as his—just as much as Dean had come to think of Tobe as belonging to him.
part 4
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1730
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.
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, even if it wasn't true--like safe, and good, being close to family. Holding Dean felt like 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.
The town was barely bigger than a camp, boardwalks kept the spring mud from sucking a body down to its knees. There was a bar...he squinted…or whorehouse?...a barber's, and a small store. John's head was spinning, and Sam was screaming, wide awake again. He'd walked all night, not stopping, until he'd made his way to this place—a dismal little spot on the map that he'd had little to do with in the normal course of things. He'd had no use for the bar or whorehouse--whatever it was, the store sold no feed or seed and he'd always gone to Mackinaw on the other side of the hills but. It was too far to walk to in one night, what with no longer having a wagon, or horse to pull it….
He bounced Sam up and down, tears in both their eyes. He needed to feed the boy, and change him and he had nothing. Sam's bottom was wrapped in what was left of John's shirt—he needed clean napkins, he needed milk, and John was about ready to fall down on the ground. He was drawing curious stares from the rough bunch of men who passed back and forth past the little alley John had taken refuge in. It was a whorehouse all right, the building he'd taken refuge behind. He was thinking, thinking hard. There were…women…here. Working women, but women who had a better idea of how to raise a baby than he did. Maybe….
John wiped his eyes, fought to stifle a useless sob. His wife had done all that kind of work. She'd done a wonderful job with Dean, stout little fella with a huge heart and a bigger smile. She'd made that boy happy and smart, that was certain. He patted the blanket swamping Samuel, who was wrapped up so tight he couldn't wiggle a finger and all tuckered out from yelling, now sleeping hard as could be. His round cheeks were bright pink, and sweat curled the brown wisps tickling his forehead. No doubt that Mary'd made Dean a happy child in his too-short life. But how was he to help Sam? What did he know about that, making a child to be happy and whole? John knew breaking soil, planting seed, he knew fishing, and he knew hunting, but not a damn thing about raising a baby by himself. Milk and diapers and feeding and changing and. God.
He was lost. They were lost. His mind came back over and over, to the thing that had worn a man like a suit, and the blood, blood everywhere. He looked down on the little bundle in his hands and vowed…he'd find out that thing and kill it, he swore before God and Mary and Dean. He'd find that thing and anything like it and make it bleed and die like his family had. He shuddered and Sam chose that moment to wake up and scream some more.
"Man, get that baby over here. Can't you hear that child's hungry?"
He looked behind him in the alley and caught the stern glare of a stout black woman, standing on a sliver of porch hanging off the back door of the whorehouse. She called out to him again, impatient and brusque. John took no offense. He was ready and desperate for anyone's help.
She was dark-skinned, her eyes dark too, and even in the dim light he could see how sharp they were. Her arms were crossed over a shawl covering the shoulders of a starched white shirt, the shirt and ends of the shawl tucked into a plain, black wool skirt. A black kerchief covered her hair…signified she was a servant of some kind, and not one of the house's girls. She was…formidable. And proved it so by skewering him with a look his old sergeant would have been envious of. John's lips twitched in what tried to become a smile. Even Sam held off on his screaming to stare at her.
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
At first, the stench, that of a lot of humans stuffed into one place, perfume, beer and cabbage, assaulted him. She pulled him down a narrow dark hallway, across a passway, and bundled him through a door, into a well lit, warm kitchen. The scent changed here—the air was filled with the smell of baking bread, greens simmering, navy beans cooking in a kettle on a big black stove. It smelled good, and clean—no hint of casual hygiene, or indifferent cleaning in this room. He glanced around, his hands pressing a squalling Sammy tighter to him. His eyes watered from the good smells and—just the damn joy of sitting still and being warm.
"Man," she snapped her fingers, "Give me that child now, from the smell of little thing it's been a while since it's been changed or fed."
John responded to the voice of command and handed his son over. "Sam. His name is Sam.
And I'm his daddy, John Winchester." He held out his hand to her, ready to shake hands like she was a white woman, and she snorted, turned her full attention to his Sam.
"Well, hello, little Sam," she crooned. "Aren't you a handsome little thing." She looked up at John, and her big brown eyes, so melting and full of love when she'd been looking down at his son, turned hard as flint looking at him. "I dreamt about you, your family. You need help, and I can give it to you. I know what it is you want to hunt." She looked at his son again and sighed. "I don’t want to but I will. I have to, no matter the price."
John shifted on the seat, and opened his mouth to speak, but the woman interrupted. "John…I know what you're going to say and no. We can't keep this baby here. This is…not the place for a little child. You think being raised without a momma would be bad? Raise that baby in a whore house and imagine what he'd be--what could happen to a tender young thing. Worse than what he'd be with you, I know."
John reared back, wanting to smack the pitying look off the woman's face, but sense took over and he knew she wasn't trying to hurt him, she was trying to make him think about Sam, not about himself.
"You hate what I'm saying to you, but it's nothing but the truth. Keep your son, John, and love him. Keep him safe. You the only one who can protect him, teach him what he needs to know."
He took his baby son back out of the woman's arms, Sam's little fingers caught up in her shawl and nearly taking it with him. She smiled, white teeth whiter against her dark skin, her plump cheeks plumper still. "He's beautiful, but…" She shook her head. "I'm a cook in a parlor house and I barely have a minute I can call my own. I can tell you this. Your boy's got a big piece of work in front of him." She looked sad. "You have a huge task ahead. You'll…you'll do your level best."
She stood, and fixed him a plate and took Sam off to a corner table, to change him. He was happier in a bit—bottom wrapped in a clean flour-sack towel, sucking away on a bottle meant for orphaned kids. "You eat now," she told John sternly. "Tomorrow, we start lessons. And by lessons, I mean diaper making and baby feeding. That's the most important thing right now, hear?"
John nodded, almost afraid to speak. He'd never met a woman as fearsome as this one….
"Missouri. You can call me that," she said, and smiled.
Snow melt drip-dripped off the edge of the porch roof, puddled around the porch steps. The front yard was a lake of slowly warming mud, dotted here and there with a few brave lupines. And foot-steps. Lots and lots of little water filled footsteps. Tobe stood with his fists balled up and jammed into his hipbones, he was that mad. And the little criminal who'd raided the pantry was standing in front of him, unrepentant as hell, and compounding the crime he was muddy and wet from the knees down. He'd followed the trail of muddy moccasins to the beastly little criminal grinning up at him—shining smile and bright green eyes locked unblinking on his—*totally* unrepentant.
"Look here, boy. Don’t pretend you don’t know who was into the molasses. Ain't nobody here but you and me and I know it wasn't me. Plus I gotta damn trail of muddy footprints all over—could be a blind man tracking you, he'd catch you."
You sure about that? Dean's eyebrow asked. He sucked his bottom lip in and held it. His eyes danced with the need to laugh. One knee bent a little. I can run pretty fast.
"Ain't funny, Dean boy. Right about now, I'm favoring tanning your hide. A good solid whipping, I mean to say." Cocoa tinted cheeks flushed a dull fierce red, Tobe was that mad. His whiskey-colored eyes flashed like fire, and Dean's eyes lost all their mischievous sparkle.
A tremble shaking his chin, lowered brows and a glance away and back said, don’t be mad. Are you mad, really?
Tobe huffed and crossed his arms—huffed again to cover the sharp tug at his heart. "You're one powerful annoying little so-'n-so. You keep out of that molasses, hear? Keep out of the cellar all together, you gonna break your neck going down those stairs. You'd do it just to make me mad, I swan."
We done now, not mad any more Dah Tobe…?" Dean's voice, rough with lack of use cracked in the air. Dean gave out words like precious nuggets, like it hurt to talk, and sometimes went so long, Tobe almost forgot he could….
"Boy, take them mocs off and don’t call me Daddy. All we need is to have someone hear that…" It made him sad to scold the boy for calling him so. He was an all around pain in his hind-quarters but in the weeks he'd had him, Tobe had come to think of the little boy as his—just as much as Dean had come to think of Tobe as belonging to him.
part 4
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(no subject)
11/11/09 09:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/11/09 11:59 pm (UTC)It's a crime how they wasted Missouri--I love fic that features her in a positive light. It's odd how often she's written as a bitch. :(
(no subject)
11/11/09 10:06 pm (UTC)Hooray for Missouri going to slap and berate John back together, and Dean calling Tobe his dad. . .
Christ, that's some heavy shit. Jeez-Louise, woman, write me some more o' this like lickety-split! :)
(no subject)
11/12/09 12:02 am (UTC)I waffled on Dean calling Tobe dad--it's been a season, and not too far-fetched he might, but I was afraid of being too shmoopy--but then again, shmoop is my middle name....*G*
(no subject)
11/11/09 11:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/11/09 11:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/11/09 11:43 pm (UTC)*hugs them all tight*
Oh, Miss Rose, you break my heart. And mend it. Missouri! Yay! And Dean calling Tobe 'dad' and...just...
*sniffles hard*
Oh, i luff.
(no subject)
11/11/09 11:57 pm (UTC)Thank you, my dear! If I make you happy, I'm happy! It's a nice change of pace, hunh? :)
(no subject)
11/12/09 12:00 am (UTC):)
*braces for the heartbreak*
(no subject)
11/12/09 12:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
11/12/09 12:02 am (UTC)Can't wait for more!
(no subject)
11/12/09 12:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
11/12/09 12:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
11/12/09 02:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
11/12/09 05:20 am (UTC)can't believe you've got me reading SPN
But I'm still not going to watch it.
(no subject)
11/12/09 05:29 am (UTC)*hugs*
(no subject)
11/13/09 06:54 am (UTC)"Tomorrow, we start lessons. And by lessons, I mean diaper making and baby feeding. That's the most important thing right now, hear?"
YES! I love her so much!
Dean's still supercute. And his non-verbal communictaion is adorable. And I really, really like Tobe.
On to the next part!
(no subject)
11/13/09 07:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/13/09 09:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/18/09 04:43 am (UTC)Jesus Christ woman, this is gold, ya hear? GOLD.
(no subject)
12/7/09 04:37 am (UTC)