SpN: Non Timebo Mala 9/?
11/25/09 11:53 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 NC-17, for rape and violence
Word Count: 3547
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.
This section is NC-17 because it describes a fairly graphic rape
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."
Samuel
They'd been out hunting for a long while, following a hunch Sam had had based on some odd talk John had picked up here and there. What he'd heard centered around a string of deaths, bloody enough and frequent enough to cause talk. There'd been no rhyme or reason to the deaths—Indians. White men. Women, children, sometimes animals--whatever the thing was that was killing, it was indiscriminate. Seemed like it picked off whatever was in its path with vicious glee. John and Sam had talked to as many folks as they could about what had happened. The stories they'd collected had all matched, more or less. The unfortunates had all been found in the open, ripped up pretty thoroughly, all laid out on their backs—pieces missing. Local lawmen couldn't find a thing, and the towns between the sites were dangerously on edge. So many deaths and not a bit of explanation for it…Sam could feel eyes on the back of his neck all the time. Bad time to be a stranger in those parts….
They rode from death site to death site, tracked around a neglected cattleman's cemetery that had seen a lot of the carnage. In general, they picked and poked and kicked around and tried to find a reason for it. Sam felt a little sick at the sheer amount of death that had taken place, at his inability to *do* anything. He was down to watching as John searched out the landscape. The long, hot, dull day wore on, the sun climbing higher and higher and tracking it’s way across the sky. By the time it began dropping, Sam started thinking…he considered, pulled what he'd been seeing without noticing together, and when he was sure, he stopped John.
"It's a circle. If we map this out, it'll be a big damn circle," he said.
John agreed. "Yup, can see that now you say it…but can't think of a reason for it—" but they'd plotted it out and it was a circle, wide as a day's travel.
John sat slumped in the saddle, scratched his head as he looked back the way they came. "We'll camp here for the night…shit. This here's a lot of area to search over, seeing as how we don’t know what the fuck we're looking for. Ideas, Samuel?"
Ideas…Sam stared at John. "Damn, we're stupid--the bodies. Did you ask…" John raised an eyebrow. "What was missing on 'em?" Sam asked but he'd already dropped to the ground and was trotting in widening circles along the path they'd rode up.
"For certain they were missing hearts. Maybe missing eyes, tongues, but nothing was sure on that, the bodies were that much a mess—but shifters'll eat the hearts, it's what I thought we were trackin', that or weres, having a game of some sort."
Sam cast him a look—it was damn typical of John to have an idea already in his mind and not share it with Sam—they could have been looking for sign together instead of Sam riding 'round after John with his thumb up his ass. "Neither one of those is a good guess, John. None of them pack up like that, and it's a lot of dead folks for a single beast. I'm thinking some kind of spell. Maybe a coven at work…" And if you'd actually talked to me, we coulda been working towards that all ready….
"Yeah, well…it was a thought. If the eyes were taken…could be a summoning, or a guiding spell." John unconsciously touched his own eyes, wondered aloud if maybe the other missing parts had gone towards gifts. "Fresh hearts are a powerful gift in a summoning. Blood…"
"The worst kind of magic," Sam agreed. "Means some evil sonsa-bitches are tryin' to call something here—"
"Fuck," John growled and Sam thought that just about said it all.
***
It took them a few days, which John said was pretty good work, and timely, to find the eyes. The pattern the buried eyes formed pointed to the center of the rough sort of circle—in the center was the old cemetery, and at the middle point of the cemetery was another, smaller, circle marked out by the hearts. It was harder to find the bits of tongue buried within the circle of hearts but they managed. Dug them all up, and burned every bit. Into each hole that they'd found something, they poured a measure of salt, and blessed oil, and set the mixture on fire.
At what was surely meant to be the center of the thing, they set a bigger fire and burned herbs good for keeping evil at bay, just to be on the safe side, John said, and recited a cleansing prayer while the fire burnt. Sam approved—no such thing as 'too much' when it came to dealing with the Devil. He gazed around the cemetery. The place still felt unsettled to him—the shadows thrown by the tombstones were like long black hands, reaching out for something—twisted up all wrong.
He shuddered, hard enough to make the amulets on his wrist chime.
"Rabbit run 'cross your grave, boy?"
Sam just snorted. "All I know is I'm ready to get out from between these, here."
***
They waited a few days more, before finally, low on water and supplies, they rode on into the next town down the line. It'd all been pretty…well, *boring*, Sam thought, when you came right down to it, but he guessed boring was better than fighting for their lives, or bleeding out in the sand….
They never found out what or who it was that they'd interrupted, or what thing was being built out there in the wilderness.
They came into town to restock their stores, and get some well-deserved rest, then decide whether they'd head to the roadhouse, or maybe back to Robert's for a while….
"Meet me here when it's full dark, Samuel." John stepped off the boarding house stairs, pushing wet hair off his forehead. The boarding house offered meals and for an extra dollar, hot baths. Sam inhaled as John walked by…bay rum. He smirked. John was loaded for bear….
"Right here. Full dark. Gotcha. Go have some fun, John. "Sam answered John's scowl with a wink, before heading off in the opposite direction the man was going. John's business was his own; Sam wasn't interested in it outside of hunting. Besides, it didn’t amount to much. John's idea of rest generally came in a bottle and a bordello.
Sam…was coming to realize that his idea of what was distracting was a sight different than John's. Curves and soft places just didn't seem to interest him like that—a fact he meant to keep to himself. So far, he hadn't had the nerve to go farther than thinking about it; then again, he hadn't been presented the opportunity to do more than think about it. He'd gotten over his baby crush on Caleb, but not the feelings that crush brought. Some day, he'd have the time or the space to find out how deep those feeling ran….
"How do, waddy. What crew you come in here with?"
Sam looked up from his perch on the saloon's porch rail. His eyes widened and he jerked his gaze to his boot toes fast as he could. Still, he could feel his ears heat up and that meant they were bright red and he cursed himself. Acting like a damn kid….
The boy who'd spoken to him looked to be a few years older than him, maybe eighteen, nineteen--covered over with trail dust but his grin was bright. He was tall, taller than Sam, and looked well-built. He hopped up on the rail next to Sam and winked at him as he sat. With his thumb, he tilted back the brim of a strange looking hat that was hiding the stranger's eyes. The odd cap was styled like a kepi, the flat bottom of it flopped forward, nearly touching the brim. Sam liked it a lot—it suited the boy. He looked Sam up and down, and his grin got…hotter, that was the only way Sam could describe it. It made his belly clench, and his breath catch. The stranger pulled his hat off long enough to brush back damp blonde hair, revealed piercing blue eyes that seemed to reach into Sam with hot fingers and--pull. Sam blinked, felt like he'd just plunged deep into a cool blue lake.
Without invitation, the stranger started talking, about where he'd been, the sights he'd seen, and told it well. Sam drank it all in, the telling of the stories, the smoke and whiskey sound of the boy's voice…the heat in his eyes. The blonde appeared to want him and Sam felt like he was sucking down water after a long, long drought. He didn’t know how much he'd craved it until he got it. Attention. Interest…Sam reveled in it, wondered that the boy couldn't see how plain Sam was, how undeserving of his interest and hoped desperately the other wouldn't notice…..
"Getting dark, time ta move along," the blonde said, and Sam almost cried out to him not to go before wresting back control over his foolish heart. He nodded, and forced a smile, even though disappointment made it creak a bit. Served him right for being a fool, should have known better. He went to rise from his perch, but the blonde nudged an elbow into his ribs. Whispered, "Not yet—wait 'til I'm off behind the lumber yard…follow me then."
He got up and walked across the porch, jumped off the end and headed out to the dark between the sheds.
Sam sat for a bit before standing because relief and wonder and excitement made him dizzy…he fought not to grin like someone daft, and when he was sure he could walk and not run, wandered off casually into the dark.
Hands pulled him into the shadows, pressed him against the rough plank wall of a lumber shed. Warm breath skirted over his mouth and then, like in a dream, lips soft and warm as a sun ripe peach pressed against his, moved against his mouth until his lips parted by instinct. The kisses came, slow and careful. "You done this before?" The blonde murmured into the downy roundness of Sam's cheek, nipped at the bow of Sam's lip when he groaned, "no never, no one."
"Don’t you worry; I'll take care of you."
Sam was so scared, and so full of desire. He moaned as he twisted in the other boy's hands, wanting so much.
"You’re so good. So hard. Let me…" he pushed his hand into Sam's pants, and Sam cried out. The boy threw a rough hand across Sam's mouth, the calluses dragging over his sensitive lips sent a wonderful lightning bolt of desire straight to his straining prick—"Hey, shhh! Don’t bring anyone down on us—" He twisted the hand wrapped around Sam and Sam's hips jerked into the hot, tight, grip.
"That's it. Touch me, too." One handed, the boy unbuttoned, and yanked pants down just enough for Sam to grip him. Touching another boy…another's heat against his palm, the hardness underneath the velvety skin…Sam felt it wash over and over him, the pleasure, the need…he panted and groaned and jerked his hips harder and harder and the stranger groaned back, "Yeah, knew you'd like this…."
It was perfect, and then…it wasn't.
The blonde stepped back, wiped his slippery, wet hand on Sam's shirt. A slow, nasty, grin spread over his face when Sam moaned and reached out for him, begging for his touch again.
"Well, well, little Sammy Winchester isn’t so little anymore…in fact, he's hung pretty damn impressively for a colt—" He winked at Sam and his eyes flashed black.
Demon! Sam cursed, scared shitless and trying to run, but the blonde easily knocked him off his feet. Sam hit the dirt hard on his knees, yelped when they cracked against the hard-packed ground.
The demon shoved his foot between Sam's knees and kicked them apart, and Sam sprawled ass up, face in the dirt. The other dropped on him, and ripped Sam's trousers down his thighs, pinned him with all his weight. "Now then Samuel, we're about to teach your daddy a lesson he so sorely needs—but there's no reason why we shouldn’t both enjoy this. Oh wait, yes there is—I don't care if you get off. When I'm done, sugar, you tell papa we didn't like our time-table being set back like that. Things are brewing that he's not a part of—at least, not in this century." The demon bit at Sam's throat, worried at the thin skin until Sam thought he was going to rip his throat out. Licked a thick, wet stripe over his ear and said, "Fuck, you taste sweet—if we didn’t need you, what I could do to you…."
Sam screamed—thought he screamed, but he could feel his teeth pressed against the tender inside of his lip, and feel his tongue pressed against the wet back of his teeth and acid flooded his mouth—he groaned, terrified that he was going to drown inside his own body. Callused fingers that had felt so good were now prodding at his hole, stabbing and pinching until they shoved inside like jagged claws. The pain skewered him from ass to heart—it hurt, it hurt--a dry, sawing, skin-curling pain that never stopped. He tried to crawl deep inside his head but the hot air fanning over his face in a constant stream, stinking of sulfur and the foul, *horrible* words spit into his ear kept him rooted right there in the dirt. The demon described his mother's death, how they'd ripped her open and fucked the wounds, how they'd played with his brother before tearing him into meaty, tasty, shreds, so sweet, so delicious….
Sam screamed and screamed for his dad, to heaven for help but the hand clamped over his mouth kept it locked inside—the searing rasp of pain tearing through his guts stilled, the thing ripping him apart grunted, stilled, and Sam felt the hot flood it spilled inside him, felt it spread through his body infecting him with its poison.
The demon yanked out of him suddenly, pulled his hand away and Sam tipped facedown into the dirt, vomit dripped from his freed mouth, blood from his torn lips—he worked himself to his knees and the demon leaned over him, closer, closer, staring at him with a happy smile, an excited light in the bright blue eyes. "Sam, Sam, stupid boy. Did you really think this meat puppet wanted *you*? Look at you—you ugly piece of *shit*. No one wants you—"
Sam sank down to where it was dark and quiet inside, but the demon wasn't having that. He reached out and grabbed a handful of Sam's hair, yanked his neck back hard. The move made pain bloom fire-fresh through Sam's whole body. Suddenly, a light exploded in the darkness muddling his mind, a set of words came to him, and some flicker of instinct made Sam speak, as loud as he could," Dei Gratia."
Grace of God, and the demon flinched hard, hissed as he jerked back a little and his eyes went solid black. Feeling as if he'd been jarred awake from a nightmare, Sam took back control of his body, fumbled a little silver knife out of his vest pocket, and jammed it deep under the blonde's chin, pinning his lower jaw to the upper. Between his clenched teeth he screamed—a thick black, sulfurous smoke poured out of his nose and eyes and ears, from between his teeth smoke and blood poured. His eyes faded from black to a shocked, pain-stricken, confused blue before they faded again to a flat and cloudy china blue, lifeless….
Sam struggled to his feet and stood there, swaying and stupid with pain. Sense flickered in and out, veering from the reality of standing beat and bleeding in the dark lumberyard to some black, soft, distant place he didn't want to come back from…he got his pants back up, his knife out of the boy's throat. He picked up the odd hat and stared at it, turning it over and over in his hand, but not really seeing it, or feeling it. He had to get back. It was full dark, and John wanted him at the boarding house….
Sam made it past the saloon, made it right up to the steps of the boarding house. He stumbled, dropped the knife and picked it up; found he still had the hat clenched in his fist, a fat, bright drop of blood still sitting, perfect and round, on the brim. "Hunh," he exhaled and swayed on his feet. He really wanted to sit down—*lie* down and sleep a long, long, long time. When he lifted his head again, he was on the boarding house steps and his dad was coming towards him, looking at him strangely. The bemused look shifted to fear and then he was yelling Sam's name.
"Daddy…." Sam felt the ground come up to him and he couldn't wait for it to take him, he was that tired, really just that tired….
***
It was morning when he woke again. John was sitting at his bedside and looking like he'd been tortured in the night. "Sam, Sam…"
Sam shook his head. He wouldn't talk about it. "Demon," he said. "I was stupid—I should have known."
John made a noise pf protest, reached out his hand for Sam's but dropped it on his knee instead. "Not your fault. You can't always know. He…why? Why?"
"A warning," Sam croaked. "Said to get out of the way…stop interfering with…something. I don't know what. We're hurting it, though. It's a good sign, right?"
"What?" John yelled. "No—no, I don’t care about that—you! You're all I care about, Sam. God—I'm supposed to protect you. You're what I live for, boy." His voice broke, his head dropped and his shoulders shook. Sam could barely hear the dry, choked sobs. "What happened to you…worst thing could happen to a body. I'm so sorry Samuel. I'm so sorry...I'll—I'll find some way to fix it…." His voice broke and cracked, and Sam realized that his dad hadn't met his eyes once.
He winced. Well, fuck, looked like John was more concerned over the fact he got raped than the fact a demon had attacked him…considered that worse than death.
Sam exhaled. Take stock, he told himself. He was alive. He was breathing—had his mind and his heart and his eyes, and he was *alive*. That meant he had all the weapons he needed to go after it, and kill it. Find the bastard fucking thing it followed, and kill that too. If he had to chase it down into hell, that was fine with him, a change of scenery would do him well. As for the rest of the world, it could go to hell with him.
Until John left the room, head down and his mouth a white slash, Sam just lay like a plank in bed, concentrating on one breath in and one breath out, again, and again, and again….
A wild thought struck him and he snorted, gagged out a laugh. He'd actually been wanting, thinking of…being loved some day. Being in love and…a tear ran over his cheek and down his neck…stupid. It meant nothing. He was alive—nothing else mattered but that.
John avoided his eyes; barely spoke to Sam until Sam decided that what happened to him had forever changed John's view of him. Sam was pretty sure it wasn't just the fact a demon jumped him—got past his defenses and hurt him, it was that he'd let a man do that to him. Sam shrugged it off. Whatever he felt, it didn't affect the job and that was what counted. What they needed to say to each other didn’t have to involve much more than what was under their noses. Their hearts didn’t come into it. Some nights, when he felt the pain rise up in his throat like a live coal, burn his eyes like brine, well then, he rode out alone to some quiet place until he could be the man he was supposed to be, the man John wanted him to be again.
As much as Sam didn't like the silence between them, he hated even more those moments when the man looked at him like…like his favorite gun jammed, or his horse died. Like he might want to talk about it. Or like he was afraid Sam might want to talk.
Took everything in Sam then, not to stand up and shout at him, run at him like a rabid dog.
Some days, Sam got restless. Maybe a little angry. Some days. Most days, Sam was fine. He took that lesson and made it part of him. That--that was never going to happen to him again. Not to talk to strangers, not to trust a smile, always keep your guard up—not a bad lesson to learn.
part 10
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post NC-17, for rape and violence
Word Count: 3547
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.
This section is NC-17 because it describes a fairly graphic rape
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."
They'd been out hunting for a long while, following a hunch Sam had had based on some odd talk John had picked up here and there. What he'd heard centered around a string of deaths, bloody enough and frequent enough to cause talk. There'd been no rhyme or reason to the deaths—Indians. White men. Women, children, sometimes animals--whatever the thing was that was killing, it was indiscriminate. Seemed like it picked off whatever was in its path with vicious glee. John and Sam had talked to as many folks as they could about what had happened. The stories they'd collected had all matched, more or less. The unfortunates had all been found in the open, ripped up pretty thoroughly, all laid out on their backs—pieces missing. Local lawmen couldn't find a thing, and the towns between the sites were dangerously on edge. So many deaths and not a bit of explanation for it…Sam could feel eyes on the back of his neck all the time. Bad time to be a stranger in those parts….
They rode from death site to death site, tracked around a neglected cattleman's cemetery that had seen a lot of the carnage. In general, they picked and poked and kicked around and tried to find a reason for it. Sam felt a little sick at the sheer amount of death that had taken place, at his inability to *do* anything. He was down to watching as John searched out the landscape. The long, hot, dull day wore on, the sun climbing higher and higher and tracking it’s way across the sky. By the time it began dropping, Sam started thinking…he considered, pulled what he'd been seeing without noticing together, and when he was sure, he stopped John.
"It's a circle. If we map this out, it'll be a big damn circle," he said.
John agreed. "Yup, can see that now you say it…but can't think of a reason for it—" but they'd plotted it out and it was a circle, wide as a day's travel.
John sat slumped in the saddle, scratched his head as he looked back the way they came. "We'll camp here for the night…shit. This here's a lot of area to search over, seeing as how we don’t know what the fuck we're looking for. Ideas, Samuel?"
Ideas…Sam stared at John. "Damn, we're stupid--the bodies. Did you ask…" John raised an eyebrow. "What was missing on 'em?" Sam asked but he'd already dropped to the ground and was trotting in widening circles along the path they'd rode up.
"For certain they were missing hearts. Maybe missing eyes, tongues, but nothing was sure on that, the bodies were that much a mess—but shifters'll eat the hearts, it's what I thought we were trackin', that or weres, having a game of some sort."
Sam cast him a look—it was damn typical of John to have an idea already in his mind and not share it with Sam—they could have been looking for sign together instead of Sam riding 'round after John with his thumb up his ass. "Neither one of those is a good guess, John. None of them pack up like that, and it's a lot of dead folks for a single beast. I'm thinking some kind of spell. Maybe a coven at work…" And if you'd actually talked to me, we coulda been working towards that all ready….
"Yeah, well…it was a thought. If the eyes were taken…could be a summoning, or a guiding spell." John unconsciously touched his own eyes, wondered aloud if maybe the other missing parts had gone towards gifts. "Fresh hearts are a powerful gift in a summoning. Blood…"
"The worst kind of magic," Sam agreed. "Means some evil sonsa-bitches are tryin' to call something here—"
"Fuck," John growled and Sam thought that just about said it all.
It took them a few days, which John said was pretty good work, and timely, to find the eyes. The pattern the buried eyes formed pointed to the center of the rough sort of circle—in the center was the old cemetery, and at the middle point of the cemetery was another, smaller, circle marked out by the hearts. It was harder to find the bits of tongue buried within the circle of hearts but they managed. Dug them all up, and burned every bit. Into each hole that they'd found something, they poured a measure of salt, and blessed oil, and set the mixture on fire.
At what was surely meant to be the center of the thing, they set a bigger fire and burned herbs good for keeping evil at bay, just to be on the safe side, John said, and recited a cleansing prayer while the fire burnt. Sam approved—no such thing as 'too much' when it came to dealing with the Devil. He gazed around the cemetery. The place still felt unsettled to him—the shadows thrown by the tombstones were like long black hands, reaching out for something—twisted up all wrong.
He shuddered, hard enough to make the amulets on his wrist chime.
"Rabbit run 'cross your grave, boy?"
Sam just snorted. "All I know is I'm ready to get out from between these, here."
They waited a few days more, before finally, low on water and supplies, they rode on into the next town down the line. It'd all been pretty…well, *boring*, Sam thought, when you came right down to it, but he guessed boring was better than fighting for their lives, or bleeding out in the sand….
They never found out what or who it was that they'd interrupted, or what thing was being built out there in the wilderness.
They came into town to restock their stores, and get some well-deserved rest, then decide whether they'd head to the roadhouse, or maybe back to Robert's for a while….
"Meet me here when it's full dark, Samuel." John stepped off the boarding house stairs, pushing wet hair off his forehead. The boarding house offered meals and for an extra dollar, hot baths. Sam inhaled as John walked by…bay rum. He smirked. John was loaded for bear….
"Right here. Full dark. Gotcha. Go have some fun, John. "Sam answered John's scowl with a wink, before heading off in the opposite direction the man was going. John's business was his own; Sam wasn't interested in it outside of hunting. Besides, it didn’t amount to much. John's idea of rest generally came in a bottle and a bordello.
Sam…was coming to realize that his idea of what was distracting was a sight different than John's. Curves and soft places just didn't seem to interest him like that—a fact he meant to keep to himself. So far, he hadn't had the nerve to go farther than thinking about it; then again, he hadn't been presented the opportunity to do more than think about it. He'd gotten over his baby crush on Caleb, but not the feelings that crush brought. Some day, he'd have the time or the space to find out how deep those feeling ran….
"How do, waddy. What crew you come in here with?"
Sam looked up from his perch on the saloon's porch rail. His eyes widened and he jerked his gaze to his boot toes fast as he could. Still, he could feel his ears heat up and that meant they were bright red and he cursed himself. Acting like a damn kid….
The boy who'd spoken to him looked to be a few years older than him, maybe eighteen, nineteen--covered over with trail dust but his grin was bright. He was tall, taller than Sam, and looked well-built. He hopped up on the rail next to Sam and winked at him as he sat. With his thumb, he tilted back the brim of a strange looking hat that was hiding the stranger's eyes. The odd cap was styled like a kepi, the flat bottom of it flopped forward, nearly touching the brim. Sam liked it a lot—it suited the boy. He looked Sam up and down, and his grin got…hotter, that was the only way Sam could describe it. It made his belly clench, and his breath catch. The stranger pulled his hat off long enough to brush back damp blonde hair, revealed piercing blue eyes that seemed to reach into Sam with hot fingers and--pull. Sam blinked, felt like he'd just plunged deep into a cool blue lake.
Without invitation, the stranger started talking, about where he'd been, the sights he'd seen, and told it well. Sam drank it all in, the telling of the stories, the smoke and whiskey sound of the boy's voice…the heat in his eyes. The blonde appeared to want him and Sam felt like he was sucking down water after a long, long drought. He didn’t know how much he'd craved it until he got it. Attention. Interest…Sam reveled in it, wondered that the boy couldn't see how plain Sam was, how undeserving of his interest and hoped desperately the other wouldn't notice…..
"Getting dark, time ta move along," the blonde said, and Sam almost cried out to him not to go before wresting back control over his foolish heart. He nodded, and forced a smile, even though disappointment made it creak a bit. Served him right for being a fool, should have known better. He went to rise from his perch, but the blonde nudged an elbow into his ribs. Whispered, "Not yet—wait 'til I'm off behind the lumber yard…follow me then."
He got up and walked across the porch, jumped off the end and headed out to the dark between the sheds.
Sam sat for a bit before standing because relief and wonder and excitement made him dizzy…he fought not to grin like someone daft, and when he was sure he could walk and not run, wandered off casually into the dark.
Hands pulled him into the shadows, pressed him against the rough plank wall of a lumber shed. Warm breath skirted over his mouth and then, like in a dream, lips soft and warm as a sun ripe peach pressed against his, moved against his mouth until his lips parted by instinct. The kisses came, slow and careful. "You done this before?" The blonde murmured into the downy roundness of Sam's cheek, nipped at the bow of Sam's lip when he groaned, "no never, no one."
"Don’t you worry; I'll take care of you."
Sam was so scared, and so full of desire. He moaned as he twisted in the other boy's hands, wanting so much.
"You’re so good. So hard. Let me…" he pushed his hand into Sam's pants, and Sam cried out. The boy threw a rough hand across Sam's mouth, the calluses dragging over his sensitive lips sent a wonderful lightning bolt of desire straight to his straining prick—"Hey, shhh! Don’t bring anyone down on us—" He twisted the hand wrapped around Sam and Sam's hips jerked into the hot, tight, grip.
"That's it. Touch me, too." One handed, the boy unbuttoned, and yanked pants down just enough for Sam to grip him. Touching another boy…another's heat against his palm, the hardness underneath the velvety skin…Sam felt it wash over and over him, the pleasure, the need…he panted and groaned and jerked his hips harder and harder and the stranger groaned back, "Yeah, knew you'd like this…."
It was perfect, and then…it wasn't.
The blonde stepped back, wiped his slippery, wet hand on Sam's shirt. A slow, nasty, grin spread over his face when Sam moaned and reached out for him, begging for his touch again.
"Well, well, little Sammy Winchester isn’t so little anymore…in fact, he's hung pretty damn impressively for a colt—" He winked at Sam and his eyes flashed black.
Demon! Sam cursed, scared shitless and trying to run, but the blonde easily knocked him off his feet. Sam hit the dirt hard on his knees, yelped when they cracked against the hard-packed ground.
The demon shoved his foot between Sam's knees and kicked them apart, and Sam sprawled ass up, face in the dirt. The other dropped on him, and ripped Sam's trousers down his thighs, pinned him with all his weight. "Now then Samuel, we're about to teach your daddy a lesson he so sorely needs—but there's no reason why we shouldn’t both enjoy this. Oh wait, yes there is—I don't care if you get off. When I'm done, sugar, you tell papa we didn't like our time-table being set back like that. Things are brewing that he's not a part of—at least, not in this century." The demon bit at Sam's throat, worried at the thin skin until Sam thought he was going to rip his throat out. Licked a thick, wet stripe over his ear and said, "Fuck, you taste sweet—if we didn’t need you, what I could do to you…."
Sam screamed—thought he screamed, but he could feel his teeth pressed against the tender inside of his lip, and feel his tongue pressed against the wet back of his teeth and acid flooded his mouth—he groaned, terrified that he was going to drown inside his own body. Callused fingers that had felt so good were now prodding at his hole, stabbing and pinching until they shoved inside like jagged claws. The pain skewered him from ass to heart—it hurt, it hurt--a dry, sawing, skin-curling pain that never stopped. He tried to crawl deep inside his head but the hot air fanning over his face in a constant stream, stinking of sulfur and the foul, *horrible* words spit into his ear kept him rooted right there in the dirt. The demon described his mother's death, how they'd ripped her open and fucked the wounds, how they'd played with his brother before tearing him into meaty, tasty, shreds, so sweet, so delicious….
Sam screamed and screamed for his dad, to heaven for help but the hand clamped over his mouth kept it locked inside—the searing rasp of pain tearing through his guts stilled, the thing ripping him apart grunted, stilled, and Sam felt the hot flood it spilled inside him, felt it spread through his body infecting him with its poison.
The demon yanked out of him suddenly, pulled his hand away and Sam tipped facedown into the dirt, vomit dripped from his freed mouth, blood from his torn lips—he worked himself to his knees and the demon leaned over him, closer, closer, staring at him with a happy smile, an excited light in the bright blue eyes. "Sam, Sam, stupid boy. Did you really think this meat puppet wanted *you*? Look at you—you ugly piece of *shit*. No one wants you—"
Sam sank down to where it was dark and quiet inside, but the demon wasn't having that. He reached out and grabbed a handful of Sam's hair, yanked his neck back hard. The move made pain bloom fire-fresh through Sam's whole body. Suddenly, a light exploded in the darkness muddling his mind, a set of words came to him, and some flicker of instinct made Sam speak, as loud as he could," Dei Gratia."
Grace of God, and the demon flinched hard, hissed as he jerked back a little and his eyes went solid black. Feeling as if he'd been jarred awake from a nightmare, Sam took back control of his body, fumbled a little silver knife out of his vest pocket, and jammed it deep under the blonde's chin, pinning his lower jaw to the upper. Between his clenched teeth he screamed—a thick black, sulfurous smoke poured out of his nose and eyes and ears, from between his teeth smoke and blood poured. His eyes faded from black to a shocked, pain-stricken, confused blue before they faded again to a flat and cloudy china blue, lifeless….
Sam struggled to his feet and stood there, swaying and stupid with pain. Sense flickered in and out, veering from the reality of standing beat and bleeding in the dark lumberyard to some black, soft, distant place he didn't want to come back from…he got his pants back up, his knife out of the boy's throat. He picked up the odd hat and stared at it, turning it over and over in his hand, but not really seeing it, or feeling it. He had to get back. It was full dark, and John wanted him at the boarding house….
Sam made it past the saloon, made it right up to the steps of the boarding house. He stumbled, dropped the knife and picked it up; found he still had the hat clenched in his fist, a fat, bright drop of blood still sitting, perfect and round, on the brim. "Hunh," he exhaled and swayed on his feet. He really wanted to sit down—*lie* down and sleep a long, long, long time. When he lifted his head again, he was on the boarding house steps and his dad was coming towards him, looking at him strangely. The bemused look shifted to fear and then he was yelling Sam's name.
"Daddy…." Sam felt the ground come up to him and he couldn't wait for it to take him, he was that tired, really just that tired….
It was morning when he woke again. John was sitting at his bedside and looking like he'd been tortured in the night. "Sam, Sam…"
Sam shook his head. He wouldn't talk about it. "Demon," he said. "I was stupid—I should have known."
John made a noise pf protest, reached out his hand for Sam's but dropped it on his knee instead. "Not your fault. You can't always know. He…why? Why?"
"A warning," Sam croaked. "Said to get out of the way…stop interfering with…something. I don't know what. We're hurting it, though. It's a good sign, right?"
"What?" John yelled. "No—no, I don’t care about that—you! You're all I care about, Sam. God—I'm supposed to protect you. You're what I live for, boy." His voice broke, his head dropped and his shoulders shook. Sam could barely hear the dry, choked sobs. "What happened to you…worst thing could happen to a body. I'm so sorry Samuel. I'm so sorry...I'll—I'll find some way to fix it…." His voice broke and cracked, and Sam realized that his dad hadn't met his eyes once.
He winced. Well, fuck, looked like John was more concerned over the fact he got raped than the fact a demon had attacked him…considered that worse than death.
Sam exhaled. Take stock, he told himself. He was alive. He was breathing—had his mind and his heart and his eyes, and he was *alive*. That meant he had all the weapons he needed to go after it, and kill it. Find the bastard fucking thing it followed, and kill that too. If he had to chase it down into hell, that was fine with him, a change of scenery would do him well. As for the rest of the world, it could go to hell with him.
Until John left the room, head down and his mouth a white slash, Sam just lay like a plank in bed, concentrating on one breath in and one breath out, again, and again, and again….
A wild thought struck him and he snorted, gagged out a laugh. He'd actually been wanting, thinking of…being loved some day. Being in love and…a tear ran over his cheek and down his neck…stupid. It meant nothing. He was alive—nothing else mattered but that.
John avoided his eyes; barely spoke to Sam until Sam decided that what happened to him had forever changed John's view of him. Sam was pretty sure it wasn't just the fact a demon jumped him—got past his defenses and hurt him, it was that he'd let a man do that to him. Sam shrugged it off. Whatever he felt, it didn't affect the job and that was what counted. What they needed to say to each other didn’t have to involve much more than what was under their noses. Their hearts didn’t come into it. Some nights, when he felt the pain rise up in his throat like a live coal, burn his eyes like brine, well then, he rode out alone to some quiet place until he could be the man he was supposed to be, the man John wanted him to be again.
As much as Sam didn't like the silence between them, he hated even more those moments when the man looked at him like…like his favorite gun jammed, or his horse died. Like he might want to talk about it. Or like he was afraid Sam might want to talk.
Took everything in Sam then, not to stand up and shout at him, run at him like a rabid dog.
Some days, Sam got restless. Maybe a little angry. Some days. Most days, Sam was fine. He took that lesson and made it part of him. That--that was never going to happen to him again. Not to talk to strangers, not to trust a smile, always keep your guard up—not a bad lesson to learn.
part 10
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(no subject)
11/25/09 07:31 pm (UTC)Incredible chapter! The first part, while they were tracking the killings, was eerie and nerve-wracking, and then there was that momentary bit of hope, and then...there was horror. Sheer horror, and powerfully written. Wow. *shudders*
(no subject)
11/25/09 11:11 pm (UTC)Thank you, thank you!! You have no idea how terrified I was posting this bit!! I was afraid the first part would sound silly, and that the second part wouldn't have the impact I hoped it would. Omgoodness, I really am just about hopping up and down in my chair! Thank you for your lovely, lovely comment!
(no subject)
11/25/09 09:58 pm (UTC)When I'm done, sugar, you tell papa we didn't like our time-table being set back like that. Things are brewing that he's not a part of—at least, not in this century."
"Fuck, you taste sweet—if we didn’t need you, what I could do to you…."
What is the yellow-eyed demon up to this time...? *shivers*
(no subject)
11/25/09 11:20 pm (UTC)Yeah, Sam might be taking the hits in this fic, but he's not lying down one little bit. He's definitely a fighter.
The demons are fun to write, in a horrible kind of way. Their voices are supposed to be anachronistic--I'm thinking time doesn't have a lot of meaning for them--it flows either way. This demon knows who John is in that time and in the future. The YED's plans are just starting to get rolling here, but we know where they end up, right back in that cemetery, with the Winchester's winning that particular battle! *G*
(no subject)
11/26/09 01:28 am (UTC)Gorgeous, heartbreaking, achy update, and I can't wait to see what happens next.
(no subject)
11/27/09 01:40 am (UTC)I think it's time for some shmoop. :)
(no subject)
11/26/09 03:54 am (UTC)You're wonderful and cruel, you brilliant terrible person you.
MORE.
(no subject)
11/27/09 01:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
11/26/09 05:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/27/09 01:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
11/26/09 09:45 pm (UTC)But you *suck*. Omg. So hard.
*cries*
First, 'John'. John? Doesn't even call his dad his Dad, jayzus, and then *this*, and then John, and then and then and....
Sammy....
You just *suck*
*clings to you and whimpers pathetically*
(no subject)
11/27/09 01:44 am (UTC)I do kinda suck, though. *patpatpat*
(no subject)
11/27/09 01:50 am (UTC)It's so unfair!!
*clings*
(no subject)
11/29/09 04:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
11/30/09 03:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
12/10/09 03:20 pm (UTC)And sooooooon. Dean will be doing something to him soon. :)
(no subject)
12/9/09 09:09 pm (UTC)It's cool to see all the ways you've kept them the same, while subtly changing them to also fit seamlessly into this world. Where Sam's at right now is. . . really hard for me to take. Those walls he's building and reinforcing aren't going to keep him safe. And John's so fucking guilt-ridden and still traumatized all to hell that there's nothing he can do to stop Sammy from. . . finding that dark place within a little sooner in his life than we're familiar with.
Oh, this story hurts so good. Jee-zus!
(no subject)
12/10/09 03:27 pm (UTC)Wow, it's great to see you think I'm keeping them within show canon. After a while, I know that I tend to assign the characters a set of behaviors and tell myself that's who they are. Sometimes it's canon and sometimes fanon. *g* Like Clark, poor baby--who he was in roxyland pretty much wasn't who he was in Show but...it worked out pretty good for us, I think. :)
This story that was supposed to be about the Colt is turning into a TS story...is that the Smallville in us?
(no subject)
6/17/11 03:36 am (UTC)Sad to see John is not a great father in this world either :-(
Love the premise and intensity of this story!!! Unique and fascinating!
(no subject)
6/18/11 10:49 pm (UTC)I can't tell you how thrilled I was to get a comment on this fic! And such a lovely comment at that, thank you!