SpN: Non Timebo Mala 6/?
11/20/09 02:58 am![[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: 1811
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, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.
Dean skipped off to do as Tobe asked, the emotional storm of a moment before evaporated like morning dew, his hand wrapped around his necklace and beaming like the beginning of the world. Tobe combed fingers through his ruffled beard, trying to smooth it out. He let out a long shaky breath and shook his head. "Dean." That boy was going to be the death of him, him and his crazy notions.
Samuel
John walked around to the back of the road house, strolled across the dry expanse of yard until he stood at one side of a fire pit the visiting men had built up. There were cuts of beef roasting there, fat dripping into the fire and making it hiss—he shuddered, and pulled his coat a little tighter. Looked around himself and shook his head. This gathering had almost a festive air to it, there were some families too, a few women standing around together, talking about whatever it was women talked about when men were ignoring them. He greeted the few men he knew by name, and was invited to help himself to one of the pots brewing on flat stones near the fire.
He sipped bitter coffee and watched the sky as it purpled, one eye on it, and the other on his boy. Samuel ran in and out of the stands of dry grass, long hair flopping around his shoulders, busted out boots throwing dust up, and the old shirt of John's flapping on him. The sleeves had come unfolded and flopped over his hands—the old kerchief tied around his waist to hold the shirt in place was miraculously doing its job, instead of trailing after him, like usual. Up and down the yard he went, whooping and chasing and being chased by a pack of long-faced, tawny puppies, some Indian dogs looked like. The horses penned there shied at his voice, the yipping pups. They stamped their feet, and metal jingled—protective amulets woven into their manes, their tails. That was a smart bit of work, John thought. Sensible. His horse had a few, some sigils painted on. Never could hurt to be protected. He stroked at the symbol tattooed in the web of his thumb, a small pentagram. The thing was probably more for his peace of mind, but it helped him sleep, knowing that hand was wrapped around Sam's chest at night. And when Sam was old enough to understand, he'd get his own.
And speaking of Sam, he thought, and scanned the edges of the fire, seeking him out. A few other boys were standing around the outside edge of the fire, all older than Sam and too grown to chase around after dogs like babies. They all of them pointedly ignored 'the baby', who was throwing himself to the ground behind them, deep in a pile of dogs. John shook his head. Sam never had a problem entertaining himself and he wasn't one to butt in where he wasn't wanted.
John split his watching Sam with listening to the 'hunters' trade bullshit stories and tips of the trade. This was what he did, turning up at the places these men gathered, to share stories, trade goods--it was important. More steps towards getting the just retribution he deserved, his lost family deserved. These…hunters, or however they called themselves, he didn't quite feel like one of them but they almost all shared a common story—some ghost, or beast, any number of supernatural predators, had made havoc of their lives. They'd been gutted in some way by things that went bump in the night. Things that ripped the heart out of you in the night….
He gulped down the bitter coffee and looked around for his boy, spotted him lying in the middle of that litter of wild-looking pups. He was wrapped up and twisted in with the furry bodies, looking pretty much to home. John swallowed, watched his son's eyes, narrow and assessing as a wolf's, looking over the fire circle. They swept back and forth before meeting John's, seeming to have as much interest in the group as the pups had.
Samuel was…maybe a little wild himself. Smart—the boy was smarter than a four year old had a right to be and yet. And yet…John sighed, and called out his boy's name. "Sam."
Sammy jumped up and ran to John's side, face alight and eager, pleased to be recognized.
"Let's go turn in, boy. Leaving early in the morning. I got some things to get in town, some stuff you need too, before we head out." John had heard of a man out in the Black Hills who was supposed to be more knowledgeable of this stuff than anyone else around. Heard he was a loner but John figured he'd be able to work his way into the man's trust, he was that charming. Sam gave him an odd look when John laughed, but raced him to their bedrolls when John pointed and said, "Sleep."
Sam climbed into his and with a muttered, "G'night," dropped right off to sleep. John lay back and watched the stars come out; one after the other until the sky was suddenly dusted with them, like some giant had thrown diamonds in the sky….
John sighed and looked at his son's back. He remembered Dean at this age, and at night how he'd told the boy stories that he'd been told himself as a child, fairy stories that'd made his little boy smile. For no reason he could think of, he'd never told one to Sam. At night, it was just 'go to sleep—see you in the morning.' And Sam would throw himself down and sleep, just like that. No hug, no kisses between them. But that was good for the boy. He couldn't be soft. Soft would get them killed. He needed to be sharp, that was all. Sharp and clever and ready to look out for himself….John drifted off to sleep, and dreamt terrible dreams that disappeared without leaving a trace in the morning, just like he did every night.
The next morning, after a quick breakfast and finishing up any deals to be made, John figured it was more than time to be off again. He had a few items to pack up in his saddlebag: an amulet supposed to protect against possession—though he had his doubts--a crow's skull, good for spells, bullet molds, and more protection--nails wrapped in red thread. The man he'd got them off of told him they'd been made by a colored man—a blacksmith who knew the old ways and the new that had grown steadily in this new world. The iron in the nails would protect against unsettled spirits and once they'd been blessed, hold demons at bay. With any luck. John sighed. The more protection Sam had the better. He had a book that he meant to bring to the Black Hills fellah, supposed to contain explanations and lessons. He hoped so; they were in a language he couldn't decipher. He just crossed his fingers and hoped it'd be something the man would covet….
***
Sam stood quietly by as his dad packed, waited for John to settle him on the horse in front of him. The ride into town was punctuated with lessons—John pointed out helpful herbs, good for the soul as well as the stomach, and plants to be avoided, how to look out for rattler's dens and what the rattles were good for—the cast-off skins too. Every step they ever took was filled with lessons and warnings, tests and all. They rarely spoke an idle word. Sam had learned young not to ask why. He knew that together, he and his dad would make the evil thing that had taken his mother and his brother pay, but…he wasn't sure exactly what that meant. He knew mothers were kind of like Missouri, that brothers were like…like other parts of you, and sometimes in the night, he wished hard to have the other part of him near again. When he played with the puppies, he watched them, and saw how some of them stuck together against the others. Sam figured a brother—his brother--would have been something like that, stick with him and keep the older kids from beating on him. He inhaled sharply, cast a quick look at his dad, knowing it was silly to worry he could see inside his head…he just didn’t want John to know that happened sometimes. Sam exhaled again, slow and careful and stared down the path, thinking his favorite thoughts, the ones that made him happiest, imagining his brave big brother that no one could beat, no one could out-talk or ignore.
If he'd still had his big brother, he'd know what Sam was thinking, and he'd care, and he'd look out for his little brother, because big brothers did that. Sam knew for sure that's what Dean would've done, if he'd ever have got the chance to….
John went into the general store and left Sam outside with the horses. Sam leaned against the hitching post and waited for his dad to return. Movement caught his eye, and he turned to watch two women walk carefully down the boardwalk towards him, doing their best to protect their boots from the mud and dust. They smiled at him, and the cute picture he made, something that Sam was quite unaware of. He only knew that women were like butterflies, bright and pretty and the function of which, he hadn't figured out yet.
One stopped and greeted him, just as his dad walked out of the store.
"Well, hello—aren't you precious? What's your name?" she asked, and her friend made odd little cooing noises—annoying noises.
Sam looked her up and down, eyes flashing over the parasol in her hands, the knit gloves that covered them, the line of dust that trimmed the hem of her dress and coated the toes of her boots. He answered her after a good few seconds thought. He knew his dad was there but he didn't even glance over at him. He said, emphatically, clearly, "Damn It Sam."
Both of the women gasped at his language, stepped around him like he was a cowpat on the path. John groaned like he'd been shot, and the ladies cast him the most baleful glances as they hurried away—Sam figured medusas must make faces like that—
"DAMN IT SAM."
Sam rolled his eyes. He was in trouble now, and it hardly seemed fair. As often as his dad said it, it must be his name. He pulled away from the post and straightened 'til he stood like a soldier and waited for the inevitable. Wondered if there was a way to convince his dad he really thought his name was Damn It Sam…maybe get out of the whipping John was probably planning right now.
"Jumping Je--Sammy, just—come on."
Sam rode all the way back to camp leaning against his dad's chest, warm from the top of his head down to his butt, feeling his dad's heart beat against his back. Feeling content. But mostly feeling glad he didn't get the whipping he deserved….
part 7
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1811
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, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.
Dean skipped off to do as Tobe asked, the emotional storm of a moment before evaporated like morning dew, his hand wrapped around his necklace and beaming like the beginning of the world. Tobe combed fingers through his ruffled beard, trying to smooth it out. He let out a long shaky breath and shook his head. "Dean." That boy was going to be the death of him, him and his crazy notions.
John walked around to the back of the road house, strolled across the dry expanse of yard until he stood at one side of a fire pit the visiting men had built up. There were cuts of beef roasting there, fat dripping into the fire and making it hiss—he shuddered, and pulled his coat a little tighter. Looked around himself and shook his head. This gathering had almost a festive air to it, there were some families too, a few women standing around together, talking about whatever it was women talked about when men were ignoring them. He greeted the few men he knew by name, and was invited to help himself to one of the pots brewing on flat stones near the fire.
He sipped bitter coffee and watched the sky as it purpled, one eye on it, and the other on his boy. Samuel ran in and out of the stands of dry grass, long hair flopping around his shoulders, busted out boots throwing dust up, and the old shirt of John's flapping on him. The sleeves had come unfolded and flopped over his hands—the old kerchief tied around his waist to hold the shirt in place was miraculously doing its job, instead of trailing after him, like usual. Up and down the yard he went, whooping and chasing and being chased by a pack of long-faced, tawny puppies, some Indian dogs looked like. The horses penned there shied at his voice, the yipping pups. They stamped their feet, and metal jingled—protective amulets woven into their manes, their tails. That was a smart bit of work, John thought. Sensible. His horse had a few, some sigils painted on. Never could hurt to be protected. He stroked at the symbol tattooed in the web of his thumb, a small pentagram. The thing was probably more for his peace of mind, but it helped him sleep, knowing that hand was wrapped around Sam's chest at night. And when Sam was old enough to understand, he'd get his own.
And speaking of Sam, he thought, and scanned the edges of the fire, seeking him out. A few other boys were standing around the outside edge of the fire, all older than Sam and too grown to chase around after dogs like babies. They all of them pointedly ignored 'the baby', who was throwing himself to the ground behind them, deep in a pile of dogs. John shook his head. Sam never had a problem entertaining himself and he wasn't one to butt in where he wasn't wanted.
John split his watching Sam with listening to the 'hunters' trade bullshit stories and tips of the trade. This was what he did, turning up at the places these men gathered, to share stories, trade goods--it was important. More steps towards getting the just retribution he deserved, his lost family deserved. These…hunters, or however they called themselves, he didn't quite feel like one of them but they almost all shared a common story—some ghost, or beast, any number of supernatural predators, had made havoc of their lives. They'd been gutted in some way by things that went bump in the night. Things that ripped the heart out of you in the night….
He gulped down the bitter coffee and looked around for his boy, spotted him lying in the middle of that litter of wild-looking pups. He was wrapped up and twisted in with the furry bodies, looking pretty much to home. John swallowed, watched his son's eyes, narrow and assessing as a wolf's, looking over the fire circle. They swept back and forth before meeting John's, seeming to have as much interest in the group as the pups had.
Samuel was…maybe a little wild himself. Smart—the boy was smarter than a four year old had a right to be and yet. And yet…John sighed, and called out his boy's name. "Sam."
Sammy jumped up and ran to John's side, face alight and eager, pleased to be recognized.
"Let's go turn in, boy. Leaving early in the morning. I got some things to get in town, some stuff you need too, before we head out." John had heard of a man out in the Black Hills who was supposed to be more knowledgeable of this stuff than anyone else around. Heard he was a loner but John figured he'd be able to work his way into the man's trust, he was that charming. Sam gave him an odd look when John laughed, but raced him to their bedrolls when John pointed and said, "Sleep."
Sam climbed into his and with a muttered, "G'night," dropped right off to sleep. John lay back and watched the stars come out; one after the other until the sky was suddenly dusted with them, like some giant had thrown diamonds in the sky….
John sighed and looked at his son's back. He remembered Dean at this age, and at night how he'd told the boy stories that he'd been told himself as a child, fairy stories that'd made his little boy smile. For no reason he could think of, he'd never told one to Sam. At night, it was just 'go to sleep—see you in the morning.' And Sam would throw himself down and sleep, just like that. No hug, no kisses between them. But that was good for the boy. He couldn't be soft. Soft would get them killed. He needed to be sharp, that was all. Sharp and clever and ready to look out for himself….John drifted off to sleep, and dreamt terrible dreams that disappeared without leaving a trace in the morning, just like he did every night.
The next morning, after a quick breakfast and finishing up any deals to be made, John figured it was more than time to be off again. He had a few items to pack up in his saddlebag: an amulet supposed to protect against possession—though he had his doubts--a crow's skull, good for spells, bullet molds, and more protection--nails wrapped in red thread. The man he'd got them off of told him they'd been made by a colored man—a blacksmith who knew the old ways and the new that had grown steadily in this new world. The iron in the nails would protect against unsettled spirits and once they'd been blessed, hold demons at bay. With any luck. John sighed. The more protection Sam had the better. He had a book that he meant to bring to the Black Hills fellah, supposed to contain explanations and lessons. He hoped so; they were in a language he couldn't decipher. He just crossed his fingers and hoped it'd be something the man would covet….
Sam stood quietly by as his dad packed, waited for John to settle him on the horse in front of him. The ride into town was punctuated with lessons—John pointed out helpful herbs, good for the soul as well as the stomach, and plants to be avoided, how to look out for rattler's dens and what the rattles were good for—the cast-off skins too. Every step they ever took was filled with lessons and warnings, tests and all. They rarely spoke an idle word. Sam had learned young not to ask why. He knew that together, he and his dad would make the evil thing that had taken his mother and his brother pay, but…he wasn't sure exactly what that meant. He knew mothers were kind of like Missouri, that brothers were like…like other parts of you, and sometimes in the night, he wished hard to have the other part of him near again. When he played with the puppies, he watched them, and saw how some of them stuck together against the others. Sam figured a brother—his brother--would have been something like that, stick with him and keep the older kids from beating on him. He inhaled sharply, cast a quick look at his dad, knowing it was silly to worry he could see inside his head…he just didn’t want John to know that happened sometimes. Sam exhaled again, slow and careful and stared down the path, thinking his favorite thoughts, the ones that made him happiest, imagining his brave big brother that no one could beat, no one could out-talk or ignore.
If he'd still had his big brother, he'd know what Sam was thinking, and he'd care, and he'd look out for his little brother, because big brothers did that. Sam knew for sure that's what Dean would've done, if he'd ever have got the chance to….
John went into the general store and left Sam outside with the horses. Sam leaned against the hitching post and waited for his dad to return. Movement caught his eye, and he turned to watch two women walk carefully down the boardwalk towards him, doing their best to protect their boots from the mud and dust. They smiled at him, and the cute picture he made, something that Sam was quite unaware of. He only knew that women were like butterflies, bright and pretty and the function of which, he hadn't figured out yet.
One stopped and greeted him, just as his dad walked out of the store.
"Well, hello—aren't you precious? What's your name?" she asked, and her friend made odd little cooing noises—annoying noises.
Sam looked her up and down, eyes flashing over the parasol in her hands, the knit gloves that covered them, the line of dust that trimmed the hem of her dress and coated the toes of her boots. He answered her after a good few seconds thought. He knew his dad was there but he didn't even glance over at him. He said, emphatically, clearly, "Damn It Sam."
Both of the women gasped at his language, stepped around him like he was a cowpat on the path. John groaned like he'd been shot, and the ladies cast him the most baleful glances as they hurried away—Sam figured medusas must make faces like that—
"DAMN IT SAM."
Sam rolled his eyes. He was in trouble now, and it hardly seemed fair. As often as his dad said it, it must be his name. He pulled away from the post and straightened 'til he stood like a soldier and waited for the inevitable. Wondered if there was a way to convince his dad he really thought his name was Damn It Sam…maybe get out of the whipping John was probably planning right now.
"Jumping Je--Sammy, just—come on."
Sam rode all the way back to camp leaning against his dad's chest, warm from the top of his head down to his butt, feeling his dad's heart beat against his back. Feeling content. But mostly feeling glad he didn't get the whipping he deserved….
part 7
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