![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
SpN: Non Timebo Mala 8/?
Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post R, various by chapter
Word Count: 1637
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.
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 didn't much care for.
They finally made the trip to the Black Hills, and met up with the man John'd been wanting to meet for a while—a man named Robert Singer. A peculiar guy, not exactly a friendly sort, but after John and he had been with him a while, he seemed to thaw to them—at least after a while, Sam was pretty sure he wasn't going to load them with buckshot and bury them in the hills.
Sam didn't know about John, but he sure as hell liked it there with Singer.
They were high up in the mountains, the air was chill and thin but it felt good—made Sam feel clean inside. He liked that Singer's place smelled like pine—pine trees grew everywhere in the hills. The house was a big one: two whole floors, windows everywhere and a porch that poked out of the middle of the house. Seemed like there were rooms all over, enough for everyone to have their own. It was painted white, with green shutters that glowed bright in the sun. It was pretty, and Sam liked the way a horse shoe, hung like an iron smile, over the unpainted front door. Every time he jumped up on the porch, he first tapped his fingers over the pentagrams carved into the posts on either side of the stairs before heading into the house. He knew under his feet, on the underside of the porch boards, Singer had carved something he called a Solomon's Seal. He wasn't right certain what that was, but every time his feet trod those boards he felt it—a warm rush of 'safe' through his bones.
Another reason Sam was damn pleased to be holing up with Singer was the pleasure of having that room, all his own, for the first time in…ever. Singer had separated him from his dad—"A growing boy needs a little space to think," he'd said, and winked. Sam blushed furious red remembering. He hadn't liked that. He didn’t like anyone noticing him. He made a practice of keeping his head down. He knew what he was--all long ugly face, long scrawny colt legs and arms crackling with aches, hair all over no matter how they chopped at it—no, he didn't like being singled out for any kind of thing.
But Singer ignored that about him. They'd both worked through their prickly distances, and came to work together well. Singer began teaching him things when he realized he had a willing student…writing, reading…*real* reading, not just what he needed to know to make an exorcism, or chant a spell. Singer had him reading stories, histories….
Sam swallowed it whole, and Robert Singer took it on himself to teach the boy what he should have known all along. Sam could see John resented it, but was too guilt struck to interfere, something Sam had counted on. John, for his part, learned what he'd come for from Singer. Enough to keep him on through the winter, and the most part of spring. It was almost enough for Sam, almost like living a life for the living instead of the dead.
***
Sam was crouched over the book in his hands, the light from the candle making the page jerk and waver. He finally gave up on reading for the rest of the night. His eyes felt like they'd been boiled in brine. He smothered the flame and lay back in the soft darkness. Here they could close their eyes and give up to sleep entirely—the wards Singer had around his place were plentiful—almost overkill. But that was Robert—everything he did, he did to the utmost.
Sam rolled his shoulders against the mattress, still luxuriating in the feel, even after weeks of climbing alone into a real bed. Every night, he sighed in relief, in pleasure. Warm blankets, no one living in them but him, a softness under him, and clean sheets to roll up in, and every day, there was hot food without a bit of taint in it—some days there was even sweet tea, something he'd taken to strongly, or honey in the comb—sweet and sticky and wonderful.
His eyes slipped shut, warmth rode him from his toes to his cheeks and started to thicken, settle in his gut. The feeling inside was a little like excitement, a little like the urge to…to something, spread out wide and feel everything. The sheet moved over him and the urge and warmth settled on his prick. He moved his hand over it and moaned just a bit, quiet as a cat on prowl. His cheeks heated, and his mouth opened. The feeling grew the more he touched--he wrapped his hand around his prick and closed his eyes, let the feeling take him. After a minute, it got even better if he imagined it wasn’t *his* hand or *his* thumb rubbing lightly over the head, pressing into the slit. He grunted with the sudden increase in feeling, shivered and bit down hard, trying to muffle any sound. He pulled the skin up and over the head and rubbed again and groaned. It felt good, felt better when he held it a little tighter, moved a little faster. His prick pulsed as he pumped it stronger, with more purpose. Tilted his head back against the pillow, closed his eyes and imagined some of the girls that worked the houses Dad visited from time to time. He imagined their long, slim necks, their rounded breasts, imagined little smooth hands touching him like he was touching himself, their mouths touching his…his breath speeded, sweat broke out on his lip and he licked and licked like a puppy, liking the salt and the smooth wet feel of his tongue. He arched and twisted against the sheets, he imagined pushing into that mysterious dark vee, that naked space between a girl's legs that he'd never really seen. His hand faltered, and then speeded up—the girls grew faint no matter how he tried to call them back and then, it was Caleb whispering 'good boy' against his neck and the tightness inside him yanked even tighter, his prick grew thicker and harder, jerked in his hand and dripped. Between one breath and the next, the urge to let go slammed into him—slick, wet heat sluiced over his fist and dropped onto his belly—he nearly bit a hole through his lip trying to be quiet, but he figured that bright spark of pain was well worth the delicious feeling flooding him—he washed up on the shores of his bed with a long, contented sigh.
He lay sprawled against the sheets, enjoying peace for a few minutes, before fishing under the mattress for the kerchief he kept there. He really wanted to sleep, but cleaned up before dozing. His sleepy mind tentatively poked around the fact that Caleb's hands had been the one's he'd imagined on him, but he was just too tired to worry at the moment. He'd have plenty of time to worry in the morning….
Dean
Dean celebrated his seventeenth birthday on November twenty-third. Tobe set a small cake on the table, a bottle of whiskey and two very small glasses. Dean unwrapped the package Tobe tossed to him with a grin. Inside was a cross made of iron, and a leather bracelet holding a turquoise bead, and a hunting knife Tobe made. On the blade was engraved Non Timebo Mala—'I will fear no evil'.
Tobe poured a splash of whiskey in each small glass, passed one to Dean. "Bottoms up," and waited for Dean to drink. Dean flushed, pleased, embarrassed—Tobe was acknowledging he was a man. He drank, and tried to hide his instant desire to *spitcoughvomit* all at once. It finally burned its way out of his throat and into his stomach, where it made a flaming hole. "Smo—oth," he gasped.
Tobe did that thing were he grinned with his eyes, the look Dean tried to emulate. He tossed his own shot back, then got serious. "Boy, you ever wonder how we knew your birthday?"
Dean stopped—he'd never really given it a thought. Pa knew his birthday, of course he did. But no…if he stopped to think, there really was no reason Pa would know it, and he only knew the day himself because Pa told him it was his day….
"That's the day I found you. I chose that day on purpose. I chose it so that one day I could tell you this—that when you celebrate this day, you're honoring your mother and father and your brother. You live like a *good* man, Dean, live the life they would have—your brother would have had. Live so that they'd be proud of you. Like I am."
Dean felt his eyes fill—tried to keep the tears in. "I hope that I never disappoint you, Pa. You've been a wonderful father to me. Thank you for everything—and for this," he said, and held up the knife.
Tobe nodded. "It's a good knife, got some spells of protection woven in with its making. It won’t make you invincible, but you stick a bad thing with it, man or beast, and it'll make it hurt. I'm always going to look to keeping you safe, honey-boy." He smiled, laughed a little at Dean's disgusted protest with the childish endearment, and poured another couple shots. "So, you're too grown to be my little boy, now? All right, Mr. Grown-Man." He tilted one of the shots towards Dean. "You game?"
Dean wrinkled his nose and tried to smile—laughed a little when Tobe winked at him. "Sure am, Pa. But--let's drink to family."
Tobe stiffened, and then nodded, slowly, solemnly. "All right then. To family, son, to family."
part 9
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post R, various by chapter
Word Count: 1637
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.
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 didn't much care for.
They finally made the trip to the Black Hills, and met up with the man John'd been wanting to meet for a while—a man named Robert Singer. A peculiar guy, not exactly a friendly sort, but after John and he had been with him a while, he seemed to thaw to them—at least after a while, Sam was pretty sure he wasn't going to load them with buckshot and bury them in the hills.
Sam didn't know about John, but he sure as hell liked it there with Singer.
They were high up in the mountains, the air was chill and thin but it felt good—made Sam feel clean inside. He liked that Singer's place smelled like pine—pine trees grew everywhere in the hills. The house was a big one: two whole floors, windows everywhere and a porch that poked out of the middle of the house. Seemed like there were rooms all over, enough for everyone to have their own. It was painted white, with green shutters that glowed bright in the sun. It was pretty, and Sam liked the way a horse shoe, hung like an iron smile, over the unpainted front door. Every time he jumped up on the porch, he first tapped his fingers over the pentagrams carved into the posts on either side of the stairs before heading into the house. He knew under his feet, on the underside of the porch boards, Singer had carved something he called a Solomon's Seal. He wasn't right certain what that was, but every time his feet trod those boards he felt it—a warm rush of 'safe' through his bones.
Another reason Sam was damn pleased to be holing up with Singer was the pleasure of having that room, all his own, for the first time in…ever. Singer had separated him from his dad—"A growing boy needs a little space to think," he'd said, and winked. Sam blushed furious red remembering. He hadn't liked that. He didn’t like anyone noticing him. He made a practice of keeping his head down. He knew what he was--all long ugly face, long scrawny colt legs and arms crackling with aches, hair all over no matter how they chopped at it—no, he didn't like being singled out for any kind of thing.
But Singer ignored that about him. They'd both worked through their prickly distances, and came to work together well. Singer began teaching him things when he realized he had a willing student…writing, reading…*real* reading, not just what he needed to know to make an exorcism, or chant a spell. Singer had him reading stories, histories….
Sam swallowed it whole, and Robert Singer took it on himself to teach the boy what he should have known all along. Sam could see John resented it, but was too guilt struck to interfere, something Sam had counted on. John, for his part, learned what he'd come for from Singer. Enough to keep him on through the winter, and the most part of spring. It was almost enough for Sam, almost like living a life for the living instead of the dead.
Sam was crouched over the book in his hands, the light from the candle making the page jerk and waver. He finally gave up on reading for the rest of the night. His eyes felt like they'd been boiled in brine. He smothered the flame and lay back in the soft darkness. Here they could close their eyes and give up to sleep entirely—the wards Singer had around his place were plentiful—almost overkill. But that was Robert—everything he did, he did to the utmost.
Sam rolled his shoulders against the mattress, still luxuriating in the feel, even after weeks of climbing alone into a real bed. Every night, he sighed in relief, in pleasure. Warm blankets, no one living in them but him, a softness under him, and clean sheets to roll up in, and every day, there was hot food without a bit of taint in it—some days there was even sweet tea, something he'd taken to strongly, or honey in the comb—sweet and sticky and wonderful.
His eyes slipped shut, warmth rode him from his toes to his cheeks and started to thicken, settle in his gut. The feeling inside was a little like excitement, a little like the urge to…to something, spread out wide and feel everything. The sheet moved over him and the urge and warmth settled on his prick. He moved his hand over it and moaned just a bit, quiet as a cat on prowl. His cheeks heated, and his mouth opened. The feeling grew the more he touched--he wrapped his hand around his prick and closed his eyes, let the feeling take him. After a minute, it got even better if he imagined it wasn’t *his* hand or *his* thumb rubbing lightly over the head, pressing into the slit. He grunted with the sudden increase in feeling, shivered and bit down hard, trying to muffle any sound. He pulled the skin up and over the head and rubbed again and groaned. It felt good, felt better when he held it a little tighter, moved a little faster. His prick pulsed as he pumped it stronger, with more purpose. Tilted his head back against the pillow, closed his eyes and imagined some of the girls that worked the houses Dad visited from time to time. He imagined their long, slim necks, their rounded breasts, imagined little smooth hands touching him like he was touching himself, their mouths touching his…his breath speeded, sweat broke out on his lip and he licked and licked like a puppy, liking the salt and the smooth wet feel of his tongue. He arched and twisted against the sheets, he imagined pushing into that mysterious dark vee, that naked space between a girl's legs that he'd never really seen. His hand faltered, and then speeded up—the girls grew faint no matter how he tried to call them back and then, it was Caleb whispering 'good boy' against his neck and the tightness inside him yanked even tighter, his prick grew thicker and harder, jerked in his hand and dripped. Between one breath and the next, the urge to let go slammed into him—slick, wet heat sluiced over his fist and dropped onto his belly—he nearly bit a hole through his lip trying to be quiet, but he figured that bright spark of pain was well worth the delicious feeling flooding him—he washed up on the shores of his bed with a long, contented sigh.
He lay sprawled against the sheets, enjoying peace for a few minutes, before fishing under the mattress for the kerchief he kept there. He really wanted to sleep, but cleaned up before dozing. His sleepy mind tentatively poked around the fact that Caleb's hands had been the one's he'd imagined on him, but he was just too tired to worry at the moment. He'd have plenty of time to worry in the morning….
Dean celebrated his seventeenth birthday on November twenty-third. Tobe set a small cake on the table, a bottle of whiskey and two very small glasses. Dean unwrapped the package Tobe tossed to him with a grin. Inside was a cross made of iron, and a leather bracelet holding a turquoise bead, and a hunting knife Tobe made. On the blade was engraved Non Timebo Mala—'I will fear no evil'.
Tobe poured a splash of whiskey in each small glass, passed one to Dean. "Bottoms up," and waited for Dean to drink. Dean flushed, pleased, embarrassed—Tobe was acknowledging he was a man. He drank, and tried to hide his instant desire to *spitcoughvomit* all at once. It finally burned its way out of his throat and into his stomach, where it made a flaming hole. "Smo—oth," he gasped.
Tobe did that thing were he grinned with his eyes, the look Dean tried to emulate. He tossed his own shot back, then got serious. "Boy, you ever wonder how we knew your birthday?"
Dean stopped—he'd never really given it a thought. Pa knew his birthday, of course he did. But no…if he stopped to think, there really was no reason Pa would know it, and he only knew the day himself because Pa told him it was his day….
"That's the day I found you. I chose that day on purpose. I chose it so that one day I could tell you this—that when you celebrate this day, you're honoring your mother and father and your brother. You live like a *good* man, Dean, live the life they would have—your brother would have had. Live so that they'd be proud of you. Like I am."
Dean felt his eyes fill—tried to keep the tears in. "I hope that I never disappoint you, Pa. You've been a wonderful father to me. Thank you for everything—and for this," he said, and held up the knife.
Tobe nodded. "It's a good knife, got some spells of protection woven in with its making. It won’t make you invincible, but you stick a bad thing with it, man or beast, and it'll make it hurt. I'm always going to look to keeping you safe, honey-boy." He smiled, laughed a little at Dean's disgusted protest with the childish endearment, and poured another couple shots. "So, you're too grown to be my little boy, now? All right, Mr. Grown-Man." He tilted one of the shots towards Dean. "You game?"
Dean wrinkled his nose and tried to smile—laughed a little when Tobe winked at him. "Sure am, Pa. But--let's drink to family."
Tobe stiffened, and then nodded, slowly, solemnly. "All right then. To family, son, to family."
part 9
no subject
Awesome update!
no subject
It's true, isn't it? Probably because he suffers so...prettily. *koff*
Sam on the other hand obviously gets harder the more he suffers and that makes him interesting to me. I always think of Dean as deep down inside being a really sweet geek. Deep down inside Sam, there's a really scary gym teacher.
What? Gym teachers scared me....
*g*
no subject