SpN: Non Timebo Mala, 7/?
11/21/09 11:33 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 PG-13, various by chapter
Word Count: 1937
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.
"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….
Dean
Time passed, and Dean learned more and more from Tobe about the craft of blacksmithing, learned to love it. He became expert at making nails—not surprising, since for quite a long time, nails were all that he was allowed to make. Eventually, Tobe trusted him not to bust out a kneecap or burn himself up and he was allowed to move up to hooks and pans and cooking spoons and shovels and eventually he learned the art of shoeing horses...he found that he had the hand, the talent to make beautiful things out of iron, and made candle stands, andirons, fireplace hooks, all types of decorative work, and did it so well that Tobe had nothing but praise for his work.
He also began learning the craft of The Blacksmith. He learned that the water they used to quench the pieces was almost as good as holy water to drive off spirits and hold back some beasts of the night. He learned about signs, sigils, learned prayers of protection…and Tobe was more than satisfied with his skill in that.
***
Shortly before his sixteenth birthday, a stranger came to the door of the forge. It was dark outside, and bitter cold, but the man wouldn’t step over the threshold into the warmth of the shop. He almost seemed to glow in the light cast by the fireplace. His face held the still, tranquil look of a shaman. "The man called Tobias Kane," he called out, his words deliberate and slow. "I wish to speak to you."
Tobe and Dean exchanged glances—both thinking it was an odd way to call a person. Tobe shrugged and went to the doors. "Coming right up, mister. And what brings you out this chilly--"
Tobe came to a dead stop, mouth open a bit, eyes round and shocked. He paled to a faded tan, the dash of chocolate freckles over the bridge of his nose stood out like they'd been fresh spattered on him. "What can I do to help you?" His voice was dry; the words came out like leaves in the wind and his eyes fell.
Dean didn't know what to make of Tobe's behavior—the man had never really backed down to anyone as long as Dean could remember—he'd seen the man go quietly cold with rage, he'd seen him cautious, reserved, and careful of his neck, but never seen him afraid. Right now, Dean thought, and the thought made his stomach clench painfully, Tobe looked like he was about to plain pass out.
The stranger smiled, raised one hand and in a slow, careful voice he said, "Just came to look at the boy, that's all. He looks good. Smart."
Tobe nodded. "He is that, and brave. He has the craft in his hands. He makes me proud as if he was my very own son."
"Well, you raised him and taught him. That makes him yours." The man looked at Dean like he was trying to see right through him. "I can see he's strong, body and mind. He'll need to be. You're going home soon and won't be able to look over him."
Tobe stumbled back a bit and sat heavily on one of the stools perched near the anvil. He wiped a shaking hand over his face, rested it over his mouth for a moment. "Well," he said, folding his hands into fists, and setting them on his knees, "I can't say that's real pleasing news—" He stopped with a small laugh, and the stranger laughed with him.
"What is there to fear, Tubal Caine? You come and go like fires. You'll be back again when you're needed. We thank you for your sacrifice—and don’t worry, you'll see the boy to a becoming a man." The stranger dipped his head in a short bow before turning and walking back into the night.
Dean shuddered all over. He knew something odd had happened but what it was…the man was not one of the possessed that was plain. He walked right over the sigil worked into the bricks of the porch; Dean had the feeling it was respect, not fear, that kept the stranger from crossing the threshold. Dean put a hand on Tobe's shoulder, shaking him a little. "You okay, Pa? Did you know him—who was it? Where did he go to?"
"Just someone from town, boy, someone on their way to other places. Now come on over here, I'm going to show you how to make a silver knife. Mostly just good for weres, and some types of shifters. Now, not all the shifters have to be bad, some are…."
1848
Samuel
There were a row of sticks set in the ground, each one topped with a bottle or a tin can. Sam stood a ways back from the row, his mouth set in a grim line, fiercely concentrating on the targets. He could feel his dad behind him, he could feel his wrist twinge in the faint beginning of an ache—but he knew it wouldn't waver like his first times, shooting. The sun struck a glint here and there on the bottles—a faint breeze made the lighter, smaller bottles rock on the twigs, make the gleam flare. He could feel the breath in his chest, feel the sun on his shoulders…he blinked, focused, and it was as if the world had slowed a bit, like the targets were flat and still and painted on a paper sky and he could take a lump of charcoal and cross them out, one by one—he tightened his finger.
The crack of the bullet leaving the gun was overlaid by the pop and tinkle of broken glass.
"There ya go boy, damn good." Caleb, the man whose house they were staying at for the moment, whistled. "Your boy's going to be a shot, that one."
Sam didn't turn his head, didn't listen for praise. He'd hear from his dad if he did it wrong. He kept on, reloading the gun and taking his shot—trying to load faster and faster, trying to keep his aim true, missing a few but hitting more than missing, before pain—and Caleb--made him stop. The man shook his head, his hand a hot, solid weight on Sam's shoulder. "Boy, you have to stop before you hurt yourself. Good job though." He grinned at Sam and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that fascinated Sam for some reason. He liked the way the skin folded and creased—it made him look friendlier. He ruffled Sam's mess of hair and grinned. "Going to go start dinner. Why'nt you wash up, help out?"
Sam waited until Caleb was a good distance before turning to his dad, waiting to hear where he'd lacked.
John nodded. "Not bad. A little more practice and you'll be fair more than decent. Here." He pulled a long, oil-cloth wrapped bundle out from behind his back. "You might need this."
Sam raised his eyebrow, and held his hands out. "What is it?"
John stopped, swallowed once or twice. He looked…ashamed? Sam had no idea what to call the odd look that flitted over his dad's face. "It's…it…well, open it, boy.
Sam shrugged and unwrapped the object—a rifle rested in his hands. Damn, he thought—a right nice piece of work, the rifle. Nicer than anything he'd ever held in his hands..."Why'm I getting this, Dad?"
"It's your birthday. Happy thirteenth birthday, boy."
"Hunh. Well, thanks, I guess. It's a nice one. Real nice." Sam looked up at his dad, and the man made a face like he'd swallowed a burr. "Really, Dad. I like it a lot. And…um…thanks for remembering my birthday. That was real nice of you." Sam felt like he was babbling but he wasn't sure exactly what his dad wanted. Birthdays were just like any other days, weren't they? He heaved a sigh of relief when his dad walked away, and sat down to examine the rifle, stroking the walnut stock. Carved into either side of the stock were the words "Dei Gratia". The letters were a little rough, made him think that maybe whoever had made the stock hadn't carved the words. He rubbed his thumb over them again. Grace of God. Time and usage would smooth out the rough spots, darken the wood so the letters would stand out more…he sighted down the barrel. Nice. Real nice. He guessed getting the rifle meant John thought he *was* getting to be a better shot all the time…too bad guns and bullets didn’t have any effect on the demons they crossed paths with from time to time…but a chupra', a tailypo—they went down like bags of wet salt with a good shot. He smiled to himself. Okay, these birthdays might not be such a bad thing after all.
He heard Caleb call his name and shivered. Time to go get dinner. Maybe later, he could get Caleb to come shoot with him some, maybe he'd be able to make him smile some more….
Life was what it was, Sam thought. They gathered from time to time with the men who'd come to call themselves Hunters—men who knew what things lurked, to pick apart the seams of everyday life. They were a hard crowd for the most part—rarely having come to the profession without having experienced some personal tragedy. Those that could brought their families into it. There were some men like John—bringing sons with them, trailing wives and daughters. Sam began to meet some boys close to his age, also training to help their families, but he felt no special connection to any of them and for the most part that lack of interest was returned. There wasn't anything about the job that called up any fraternal spirit; mostly it came down to 'what can you do for me'. John had one or two men he called friend—Sam had no one.
What Sam had were vague dreams, calling him, promising him great things…dreams he didn’t talk to anyone about. Ever. Dreams that told him his destiny awaited him. Some good thing was waiting out there, for him to find. Sam mostly ignored the dreams. If there was anything out there, experience had taught him it wasn't nothing good.
There was one dream though, one that disturbed him the most. It was one that came…not often, thankfully. But when it did come, it was profound. It hurt, all the next day—it frightened him more than any nightmare of dropping into a pit of fire or getting bitten by a were or losing John….
It started the same every time, with him putting together a fire for the night, ready to settle down. Waiting for coffee to cook, or bread to finish, just like normal…and then there'd be a body coming out of the dark to the fire, someone he couldn't see, could only feel. A big presence, heavy, dark sometimes, and *all* the time, it makes him uneasy. The only part of the dream that ever changed are the eyes staring at him through the flames…sometimes, they were the mottled yellow of broken egg yolks and their gaze ripped through him like knives, other times, they were the green of willow leaves, and hurt almost as much. He thought, maybe the dreams were something he should tell Missouri about, but he never did. They didn't feel like something he should be sharing, and anyway, sharing was something Sam wasn't much care for.
part 8
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post PG-13, various by chapter
Word Count: 1937
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.
"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….
Time passed, and Dean learned more and more from Tobe about the craft of blacksmithing, learned to love it. He became expert at making nails—not surprising, since for quite a long time, nails were all that he was allowed to make. Eventually, Tobe trusted him not to bust out a kneecap or burn himself up and he was allowed to move up to hooks and pans and cooking spoons and shovels and eventually he learned the art of shoeing horses...he found that he had the hand, the talent to make beautiful things out of iron, and made candle stands, andirons, fireplace hooks, all types of decorative work, and did it so well that Tobe had nothing but praise for his work.
He also began learning the craft of The Blacksmith. He learned that the water they used to quench the pieces was almost as good as holy water to drive off spirits and hold back some beasts of the night. He learned about signs, sigils, learned prayers of protection…and Tobe was more than satisfied with his skill in that.
Shortly before his sixteenth birthday, a stranger came to the door of the forge. It was dark outside, and bitter cold, but the man wouldn’t step over the threshold into the warmth of the shop. He almost seemed to glow in the light cast by the fireplace. His face held the still, tranquil look of a shaman. "The man called Tobias Kane," he called out, his words deliberate and slow. "I wish to speak to you."
Tobe and Dean exchanged glances—both thinking it was an odd way to call a person. Tobe shrugged and went to the doors. "Coming right up, mister. And what brings you out this chilly--"
Tobe came to a dead stop, mouth open a bit, eyes round and shocked. He paled to a faded tan, the dash of chocolate freckles over the bridge of his nose stood out like they'd been fresh spattered on him. "What can I do to help you?" His voice was dry; the words came out like leaves in the wind and his eyes fell.
Dean didn't know what to make of Tobe's behavior—the man had never really backed down to anyone as long as Dean could remember—he'd seen the man go quietly cold with rage, he'd seen him cautious, reserved, and careful of his neck, but never seen him afraid. Right now, Dean thought, and the thought made his stomach clench painfully, Tobe looked like he was about to plain pass out.
The stranger smiled, raised one hand and in a slow, careful voice he said, "Just came to look at the boy, that's all. He looks good. Smart."
Tobe nodded. "He is that, and brave. He has the craft in his hands. He makes me proud as if he was my very own son."
"Well, you raised him and taught him. That makes him yours." The man looked at Dean like he was trying to see right through him. "I can see he's strong, body and mind. He'll need to be. You're going home soon and won't be able to look over him."
Tobe stumbled back a bit and sat heavily on one of the stools perched near the anvil. He wiped a shaking hand over his face, rested it over his mouth for a moment. "Well," he said, folding his hands into fists, and setting them on his knees, "I can't say that's real pleasing news—" He stopped with a small laugh, and the stranger laughed with him.
"What is there to fear, Tubal Caine? You come and go like fires. You'll be back again when you're needed. We thank you for your sacrifice—and don’t worry, you'll see the boy to a becoming a man." The stranger dipped his head in a short bow before turning and walking back into the night.
Dean shuddered all over. He knew something odd had happened but what it was…the man was not one of the possessed that was plain. He walked right over the sigil worked into the bricks of the porch; Dean had the feeling it was respect, not fear, that kept the stranger from crossing the threshold. Dean put a hand on Tobe's shoulder, shaking him a little. "You okay, Pa? Did you know him—who was it? Where did he go to?"
"Just someone from town, boy, someone on their way to other places. Now come on over here, I'm going to show you how to make a silver knife. Mostly just good for weres, and some types of shifters. Now, not all the shifters have to be bad, some are…."
1848
There were a row of sticks set in the ground, each one topped with a bottle or a tin can. Sam stood a ways back from the row, his mouth set in a grim line, fiercely concentrating on the targets. He could feel his dad behind him, he could feel his wrist twinge in the faint beginning of an ache—but he knew it wouldn't waver like his first times, shooting. The sun struck a glint here and there on the bottles—a faint breeze made the lighter, smaller bottles rock on the twigs, make the gleam flare. He could feel the breath in his chest, feel the sun on his shoulders…he blinked, focused, and it was as if the world had slowed a bit, like the targets were flat and still and painted on a paper sky and he could take a lump of charcoal and cross them out, one by one—he tightened his finger.
The crack of the bullet leaving the gun was overlaid by the pop and tinkle of broken glass.
"There ya go boy, damn good." Caleb, the man whose house they were staying at for the moment, whistled. "Your boy's going to be a shot, that one."
Sam didn't turn his head, didn't listen for praise. He'd hear from his dad if he did it wrong. He kept on, reloading the gun and taking his shot—trying to load faster and faster, trying to keep his aim true, missing a few but hitting more than missing, before pain—and Caleb--made him stop. The man shook his head, his hand a hot, solid weight on Sam's shoulder. "Boy, you have to stop before you hurt yourself. Good job though." He grinned at Sam and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that fascinated Sam for some reason. He liked the way the skin folded and creased—it made him look friendlier. He ruffled Sam's mess of hair and grinned. "Going to go start dinner. Why'nt you wash up, help out?"
Sam waited until Caleb was a good distance before turning to his dad, waiting to hear where he'd lacked.
John nodded. "Not bad. A little more practice and you'll be fair more than decent. Here." He pulled a long, oil-cloth wrapped bundle out from behind his back. "You might need this."
Sam raised his eyebrow, and held his hands out. "What is it?"
John stopped, swallowed once or twice. He looked…ashamed? Sam had no idea what to call the odd look that flitted over his dad's face. "It's…it…well, open it, boy.
Sam shrugged and unwrapped the object—a rifle rested in his hands. Damn, he thought—a right nice piece of work, the rifle. Nicer than anything he'd ever held in his hands..."Why'm I getting this, Dad?"
"It's your birthday. Happy thirteenth birthday, boy."
"Hunh. Well, thanks, I guess. It's a nice one. Real nice." Sam looked up at his dad, and the man made a face like he'd swallowed a burr. "Really, Dad. I like it a lot. And…um…thanks for remembering my birthday. That was real nice of you." Sam felt like he was babbling but he wasn't sure exactly what his dad wanted. Birthdays were just like any other days, weren't they? He heaved a sigh of relief when his dad walked away, and sat down to examine the rifle, stroking the walnut stock. Carved into either side of the stock were the words "Dei Gratia". The letters were a little rough, made him think that maybe whoever had made the stock hadn't carved the words. He rubbed his thumb over them again. Grace of God. Time and usage would smooth out the rough spots, darken the wood so the letters would stand out more…he sighted down the barrel. Nice. Real nice. He guessed getting the rifle meant John thought he *was* getting to be a better shot all the time…too bad guns and bullets didn’t have any effect on the demons they crossed paths with from time to time…but a chupra', a tailypo—they went down like bags of wet salt with a good shot. He smiled to himself. Okay, these birthdays might not be such a bad thing after all.
He heard Caleb call his name and shivered. Time to go get dinner. Maybe later, he could get Caleb to come shoot with him some, maybe he'd be able to make him smile some more….
Life was what it was, Sam thought. They gathered from time to time with the men who'd come to call themselves Hunters—men who knew what things lurked, to pick apart the seams of everyday life. They were a hard crowd for the most part—rarely having come to the profession without having experienced some personal tragedy. Those that could brought their families into it. There were some men like John—bringing sons with them, trailing wives and daughters. Sam began to meet some boys close to his age, also training to help their families, but he felt no special connection to any of them and for the most part that lack of interest was returned. There wasn't anything about the job that called up any fraternal spirit; mostly it came down to 'what can you do for me'. John had one or two men he called friend—Sam had no one.
What Sam had were vague dreams, calling him, promising him great things…dreams he didn’t talk to anyone about. Ever. Dreams that told him his destiny awaited him. Some good thing was waiting out there, for him to find. Sam mostly ignored the dreams. If there was anything out there, experience had taught him it wasn't nothing good.
There was one dream though, one that disturbed him the most. It was one that came…not often, thankfully. But when it did come, it was profound. It hurt, all the next day—it frightened him more than any nightmare of dropping into a pit of fire or getting bitten by a were or losing John….
It started the same every time, with him putting together a fire for the night, ready to settle down. Waiting for coffee to cook, or bread to finish, just like normal…and then there'd be a body coming out of the dark to the fire, someone he couldn't see, could only feel. A big presence, heavy, dark sometimes, and *all* the time, it makes him uneasy. The only part of the dream that ever changed are the eyes staring at him through the flames…sometimes, they were the mottled yellow of broken egg yolks and their gaze ripped through him like knives, other times, they were the green of willow leaves, and hurt almost as much. He thought, maybe the dreams were something he should tell Missouri about, but he never did. They didn't feel like something he should be sharing, and anyway, sharing was something Sam wasn't much care for.
part 8
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(no subject)
11/21/09 05:10 pm (UTC)I love this line like burning. Are you sure this isn't a reincarnation fic? 'Cause Tobe's gruff and loving way with Dean reeks of Bobby to me...
Love the update, though it hurts me to see how distant John and Sam are. Can't wait for more!
(no subject)
11/22/09 04:12 am (UTC)Thank you so very much!!
Are you sure this isn't a reincarnation fic? 'Cause Tobe's gruff and loving way with Dean reeks of Bobby to me...
LOL!! Omg, maybe I'm channeling Bobby--oooooo, or maybe that's a story for another day...*G*
(no subject)
11/21/09 11:57 pm (UTC)...
You're gonna make him leave, aren't you?
Oh, Sammy and John...John and Sammy. *sigh*
(no subject)
11/22/09 04:13 am (UTC)*moo-hah-ha-ha-ha--koff.
(no subject)
11/22/09 12:14 am (UTC)*sniffles*
Tubal Cain. That was very effectively creepy and sad. I love Dean being a blacksmith, that just....rocks.
I remember a poem from the 'Little House' books about Tubal Cain....
http://www.phoenixmasonry.org/tubal_cain_poem.htm
Loving this story, bay-bee. :)
(no subject)
11/22/09 04:16 am (UTC)I'm so thrilled to death you like this, you have no idea! *BEAMS*
(no subject)
11/22/09 07:01 am (UTC)"What is there to fear, Tubal Caine? You come and go like fires. You'll be back again when you're needed. We thank you for your sacrifice—and don’t worry, you'll see the boy to a becoming a man."
Awesome!
Even if poor Sam is being raised more like a soldier than a beloved son.... *worries*
(no subject)
11/22/09 04:52 pm (UTC)*G*
I can't tell you how good it feels that everyone liked the Blacksmith bit! It makes me feel like dancing! I have to confess, it's been a good long while since I've had a story flow like this--I'm just going to keep whacking it out and posting until I hit the wall.
(no subject)
11/22/09 07:12 pm (UTC)So interesting, seeing the parallels and departures in Sam and Dean's raising - I'm curious to see how the characterization is going to go - how Dean will turn out having had a present father rather than an absent one. And how Sam will be without Dean.
Keep working, honey - this is a masterpiece.
(no subject)
11/22/09 10:45 pm (UTC)*wiggles all over* Thank you! Thank you! Not that I'm feeling any pressure...*GGGG*
(no subject)
11/22/09 09:19 pm (UTC)So here Sam's looking like he's gonna be the more closed-off of the two, with Dean in a kinda Show's pseudo-Sammy role. I like it. I find reversals, if done well, terribly addictive (ie repeat readings!).
Also, tell me (if you can, of course!) if I'm completely wrong with this, but. . . my first though after reading that forge scene was, "Dude, is Tobe an, er, angel of some sort?" If not, help me out, hon. *blushes* If so, whoa! That is f***in' kick-ass!!
Hee! I love Story!!!
(no subject)
11/22/09 10:42 pm (UTC)Tobe is kinda sorta(for the purposes of this fic, anyway)a kind of angel. This from wiki: Tubal Cain (not to be confused with Cain, brother of Abel) is mentioned in the book of Genesis of the Old Testament (the first book of the Torah) as the original smith.
so here in this fic, he's sort of an angel, but he doesn't know he's an angel. He can recognize an angel, or a demon, when he sees one--supposedly a smith can recognize the devil, no matter what his disguise is. :)
(no subject)
11/22/09 11:49 pm (UTC)Oh, it's definitely a compliment, hon! :)
And, hey, research! Man, you are a creative storyteller. This is some heavy stuff you're working with here, and I for one am in *love* with NTM.
Seriously. This stuff rocks. XD
(no subject)
11/22/09 11:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/23/09 03:51 pm (UTC)