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SpN: Non Timebo Mala 12/?
Title: Non Timebo Mala 12
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 4015
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.
He stared into his knees, and nodded, afraid to look into her face. Afraid that her easy acceptance might just be a lie, or the beginning of a mean trick. Still, he felt better, in a horrible kind of way. At least he could tell Tobe that he'd learned all the lessons to be taught about that subject and have it be true….
1851
Dean settled the wick in the glass bulb of the lamp, lit it. It smoked a bit, but provided decent light, good enough to read by. He had a book Tobe had brought him, from the last time he went past Bristol and out to the bigger town down the line. He made the trip every few months--stopped in to see a lady friend of his, order iron and such supplies that he couldn't get from their little town of Bristol, which no matter what the town council wanted to think, was pretty much just a muddy wide spot on the road.
Dean had given himself over to the world of the Three Musketeers and a peppermint stick, when a commotion downstairs in the front room drew him back—he heard Tobe's voice raised—not angry, not yet. Dean set the book aside and eased quietly to the stairs. He could see in the doorway, a tall shape wrapped in a long yellow duster, long arms around a cloth wrapped shape, and a squashed top hat sitting on long, unkempt hair. Their obviously unwelcome visitor was a man all made up of angles and length.
"No. He's not doing anything but what I set out for him to do."
"He only has to make this one thing for us, that's all we require. He won't be harmed, not at all. No change will be noticeable in him, we give you our promise. All we ask is for your assistance—create this thing for us, and we leave you in peace, both of you."
"But what in heck is it *for*—oh, I know, I know—you can't say. You lot test a man sorely, I can tell you that. You all are a pain that centers greatly in my backside, best believe."
"Respect, Tobias. Do not forget who you deal with." Dean crouched by the stairs and shivered. Tall Man's voice was calm, quiet, but lightning crawled through it and thunder whispered underneath ….
Tobe lifted his head and snapped, "Don’t you forget who *you're* talking to. The longer you stand in my doorway, the more I know. So you don’t go asking for respect without showing some."
The tall man inclined his head. "The fact remains; this is what he's been trained for."
Tobe looked at him, eyes narrow, thoughtful twist to his mouth. "That might have been the plan you…bunch…had. Me, I just found a poor little baby lost in the woods."
"Pa?" Dean strode down the loft stairs, came to a rest next to his pa. He stood his full height, shoulders back and trying to look fearsome—he was taller than most, broad across the chest and knew how to use height and blacksmith's muscle to good effect.
"Dean. Seems like we've been hired to do some work, son."
Tall Man reached inside his duster to pull something out, and Dean stiffened. He glanced Dean's way, tossed Tobe a fat round bag that clinked when he caught it—Dean's eyes went round at the size of it, and what it meant.
"We have payment for your work. Dollars of gold—that's what you require, I believe?"
Tobe shook his head. "Sir, you’re a caution. And I say that respectfully."
Dean snorted, knowing full well when Tobe was being sarcastic, and looked defiantly at the tall man when his head turned towards him, expecting the man to scold but the odd, stilted smile he got instead made him step back. "How do you do, Dean Kane. I'm Mr. Sunday. Your father is going to create something special, with your help. May I?" He asked Tobe and Tobe nodded, took the long package from him and set it down on their kitchen table and opened it. Inside were bars of some white metal. "You and your father are going to make a weapon, one that only the First Blacksmith could make."
First Blacksmith?Dean heard that as the title it seemed Mr. Sunday intended it to be, if his too intense look meant anything. Dean lifted an eye brow and tipped his chin at Tobe--is this man crazy?"Come to us first, hunh? You mean to flatter us?" He grinned at Sunday, who tilted his head slightly to the side and blinked. It reminded Dean uncomfortably of a lizard. This man was not…right….
Tobe lowered his brows and frowned. "Hush, boy," he muttered. He turned to Mr. Sunday. "When do we start this thing?"
"Sunrise tomorrow." The man rewrapped the bars but left them on the table, and bowed his head slightly before leaving.
"Who the hell was that?" Dean asked when the man had gone.
"Mr. Sunday," was all Tobe would say, and not a word else about the man.
***
The next morning, Mr. Sunday returned. They went to the forge. Dean slowed back to watch what he'd do when they came to the forge. Mr. Sunday walked straight past the threshold, not hesitating to step over the narrow trough carved into the stone, designed to hold a thin line of salt. Dean let go the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Sunday carefully scanned the building, and then from inside his duster--a garment Dean figured must be lined full of pockets--he took a large cloth bag. He set it down on a work bench and worked the draw string open.
Inside where various herbs, brushes made of bundled stalks of lavender and straw. There were folded lengths of material, also. "The floor must be swept with salt. We'll need a bucket—two if you have them. We must wash the doorways with the brushes, the windows as well. With the cloths, you must wash yourselves. If you have two buckets, reserve one for yourselves to wash with. Your arms and faces will be sufficient."
Dean flashed a look towards Tobe, who just pursed his lips and nodded as if the man were speaking everyday business. "We've got buckets enough," he said.
"Good. These need to go in the fire." Sunday separated out a handful of herbs from the mass that was in the bag. Next, he held up a braided bundle of fennel and sage, woven through and tied with a red string. "This goes over the door." Sunday was silent for a long moment, his eyes locked on Dean. He looked away, murmured, "We will need other ingredients when the work commences. We will discuss that later."
Tobe's frown deepened, but he didn't speak until Sunday left, telling them he'd return when the preparations were completed.
Dean nailed the thread wrapped bundle into the lintel. "This is something different. This we haven't done before," he said.
Tobe nodded, stroked the smooth bars of metal laid out on the bench. "This is magic, pure and simple. Not little prayers, not a plea for protection. This is magic, the kind we don't do. Most folks don’t even know about this kind of thing…some folks live in it all the time and that makes them not exactly human. Can’t touch it without it changing you. I know it, I don’t like it much. I sure as hell don't like you touching it."
Dean raised an eyebrow, pointed at the horse shoe over the fire, the cross of iron nails and the medicine bag around his neck. "But we always…"
"Boy," Tobe waved Dean's words away. "That's protection. That's just common sense. Mr. Sunday is...he's not like you and me. I'd like you not to talk to him and don't…" Tobe sighed. "Try not to look him in the eye. Hear this, Dean. I…" Tobe shook his head. "Shit. Never mind son, I'm just ramblin' on."
They washed—brushed—the walls, the floors of the shop. They swept over the tables, they washed the windows and chased out colonies of spiders from every corner, evicted mice that had lived for their generations under the benches and behind the fireplace. The bellows were swept with the damp brushes, the tools they'd be using, and the anvil.
It took the day and most of the evening before they were done, but after, there was a feeling in the air, a freshness, like a good smell blowing in through the open doors. Dean thought it felt like being safe. He could almost feel warm slim arms around him if he closed his eyes and concentrated.
They walked out together, to sit on the bench outside the forge in the dim light of approaching night. The brick landing and the yard were dashed with blue and purple shadows, the windows glowed orange. They leaned against the forge's wall and watched the sun deepen in color to a bloody red. Dean pulled his scarf tight, shoved his hands deep in the pockets. Idly thought how nice a cigarette, maybe a beer would be right now, about old Mr. Waller and his unique take on the world…his thoughts drifted to the drover, the way his hair curled out from under his squashed blue cap and licked at his cheeks, how old his eyes had seemed in such a young face…
"So-oo…how'd it go the other day, you didn’t say?" Tobe's voice fairly dripped nonchalance and Dean was suddenly reminded that Tobe had subjected him to what had to be the most awful and enlightening night of his life.
"You know Pa, Gabe's getting on…did you know Martinson's got a colt or two he's about ready to sell, we should take a look…"
Tobe coughed. Could have been a laugh. Maybe. Dean was sure he wouldn’t dare laugh, not hardly. "That sounds like sense, poor old Gabe could use the help," he said. "So, about—"
"Pa."
Tobe covered his mouth and coughed a few more times. Dean ignored him all together. The house was a more hospitable place, he decided and the company better. He left Tobe snickering by himself on the forge's step.
The real work began early the next morning. The sun was barely a smudge of orange in the sky, and Dean settled his coat tighter around himself, blinked and blinked, trying to force sleep out of his eyes. Tobe slapped him on the shoulder, shook him lightly. Their footsteps crunched, crunched across the frost rimed dry grass, their breath poured smoky grey out of their mouths in the chilly air.
The heat of the forge was almost shocking after the chilly air outside. Dean was grateful the coals were red and ready; there was a pot of coffee already brewing on the fire and on the bench, some biscuits wrapped in a napkin. He poured Tobe and himself a cup, and ate one of the biscuits as he watched Mr. Sunday wipe down the bars he'd brought with a damp cloth.
"Water heats in the buckets for you, the infusion is ready."
Dean bent his head over one of the bucket, the steam rising from it smelled good. Sunday instructed them to remove their shirts, and they washed arms and chest and faces thoroughly, each fresh pass with a cloth had Mr. Sunday muttering something…prayers, Dean decided. The air over the coals shimmered, and the smell of the herbs became more intense. Dean rubbed warm water over his face and neck. The herbs smelled very, very good….
When they finished with washing, Sunday poured the rest of the herbs into Dean's hands, told him to throw the mix into the fire. Pieces of cinnamon, and peppercorns, shredded sage, fennel seeds, and small chunks of salt sat in his palms. Nestled in the middle of the herbs were a long black feather and a tiny, hollow tube of bone. Red powder spilled from one end. Dean frowned at the bone and the red powder; he dashed the handful into the flame and quickly wiped his hands on his pants leg.
Mr. Sunday made a small noise of satisfaction and nodded at Tobe and then the normal business of the shop took over. Tobe heated the metal bars, layered them together, the hammer would weld them into a solid piece, the bang-bang-tap of it as familiar to Dean as his own heartbeat, comforting as Pa's. They alternated welding, until the several bars had become one, and it was time to begin the work of shaping it. At that point, Sunday spoke up. He'd been so quiet, they'd forgotten his presence.
"Now, this part is Dean's work, and needs to be done alone. You understand—look inside and you know it needs to be so," he said, when Tobe angrily wanted to protest. Before he left the shop, he wheeled, and caught Dean's face between his hands—startling him. Tobe was generally casual in his affections—a slap on the back, a cuff or a rub to the back of his head.
Tobe looked right into Dean's eyes and said, "Blood or not, you’re my kin and nothing can ever change that. I love you boy." He walked away and Dean felt—fear. He glanced at Mr. Sunday and was afraid. He swallowed, licked his lips and said, "Now what?"
Sunday shook his head. "Now nothing." He walked around the shop; Dean followed him with his eyes, wondering. Sunday came to stand behind him. "Now close your eyes and trust me."
Dean bit his lip. The last thing he did was trust Sunday, and the last thing he was going to do was close his eyes….
Sunday reached around him and drew his fingers across Dean's forehead and just like that, he was drowning in a ring of flames. He heard the crackling of flames, felt it lick over his skin, drawing moisture away from him, making him weak, hot…hands slid over him, and a voice murmured in his ear, blood and saliva and tears and semen, makes for a powerful binding, young one. Dean shook his head and groaned. He knew it was wrong--that kind of magic was bad, Pa told him so….
The hands reached from behind him, pushed aside his soaking shirt and unbuttoned his pants, carefully, as though the buttons were a puzzle recently conquered. The material was folded carefully to the sides and for a second, he was cooler there, where his skin was exposed to air and then, the awful heat flooded in, made his skin burn like he was belly up to the forge. His prick jerked, freed from the tight grip of his clothing, and it burned as well, a bone deep, itching, welling sort of burn, rising higher and higher, and the touch of alien fingers on him made his hips jerk without control—nothing of his felt like it was under his control. The feeling was…it was equally horrible and wonderful. He wanted to give in to it, sink under it, but instinct made him fight it. The tension rose the faster the hand moved, and Sunday's voice was in his ear, whispering soft as the touch of a snake's tongue, "Go on, Dean. Release control to me. Trust me. All will be well. You're safe with us..."
White—the world went white as metal at it's hottest point, white as oblivion--Dean heard himself make an awful whining sound, it ripped out of his throat, scraped against the roof of his mouth and exploded into the burning air, on the heels of that awful noise came an orgasm that churned out of him like molten lead. He felt he was changed forever, made into something new.
Dean blinked, and he was standing in front of the anvil, hammer in his hand. A feeling that he'd been dreaming swept over him and was gone…all he knew was that he needed to be working the metal, and hammered and turned the bar, hammered and turned, until a vague point began to form. With the tongs, he laid the bar over the coals until it was white—the sight made his stomach turn over—he shivered and went to pull it away, but Sunday grabbed his wrist, and with what looked like a sliver of bone, cut into his arm. Dean shouted with the pain. He tried to pull away from Sunday's grip, but it was like trying to break iron shackles. Blood ran into the fire, hissed and stank, evaporating instantly on the white-hot metal. Sunday was speaking, fast, in a language that sounded a bit like Latin. If he listened hard enough, he'd understand it but it just kept dancing away from him, frustrating him….he took a step closer to Sunday and it went white all around him, falling forever into white and the air boiled hotter, hotter, until he felt nothing and heard nothing—blind and deaf and there was only the metal. It called out to him, desired him….
When he was fully aware of his surroundings again, Tobe was working the metal bar, and cursing, cursing in a way Dean had never heard from him before. He wondered that Tobe had left him on the floor to work; it sent a sharp pain through his chest. Then he heard Tobe, *felt* the anger and sorrow in his voice. "You promise me," he shouted. "Promise me, you—"
"Pa. What is it? What's happening to me…?"
Mr. Sunday reached down and pulled Dean to his feet. He touched his forehead with two fingers, the soft touch spread through him like water through sand. Darkness surrounded him—and he realized he'd closed his eyes. He opened them. He was—fine. Perfect. Felt like he'd had a good, long, night's sleep and was ready to start the day. Magic.
"Dean—can you please take over from your father?"
The bar Tobe worked was now plainly the weapon that Mr. Sunday had required, a sword.
Dean worked the blade, shaping, honing, his sweat running free as rain onto the anvil, the metal. The world shrunk down to his hand slamming the hammer down, and down, tapping here and crashing down there, and always a beat to keep the Devil at bay.
Shadows grew, climbed the walls, stretched long and black and clawed the ceiling. The heat grew. He'd thought it was hot before but now the heat coated him, filled him, swam in him until it became as unremarkable as the air he breathed. The shock of metal hitting metal flowed up his arm and into his chest, matched the beat of his heart, became the beat of his heart…he breathed in the future and breathed out the past and worked and worked….
Tobe yanked him away from the anvil—Dean gasped when Tobe broke his grip on the hammer. The man holding his hand wasn't his pa. A tall black-skinned man with eyes like stars and a voice like thunder told him," Stop. Drink. My turn now."
Dean blinked and Tobe held his hand, eyes full of worry, red with exhaustion and smoke. "Go on, rest a bit, son."
Mr. Sunday led him to water. He poured Dean a ladle full of the coldest, crispest, most delicious water he'd ever had. He drank and drank, until Sunday stopped Dean with a hand on his shoulder. "This is the most important work you'll ever do. This thing—it's not through you or of you, but because of you, a vessel is made. One day, your blood will hold miracles."
Dean nodded, not having the faintest idea what Sunday was jawing about and caring even less. He just wanted more of the water, wanted to be finished and get to his bed and get the fuck rid of Sunday.
In the end, Tobe completed the work on the blade, Mr. Sunday having assured Dean that his part in the making of it was done.
When it was finished, it lay on the bench, an unremarkable thing. Didn’t look much like the pictures of swords in books about knights he'd read. The blade was dull. The hilt was plain, wrapped in a strip of leather that Dean didn't recall being part of the making.
Mr. Sunday held it in his hands, staring at it as if it were solid gold. "You've done everything we've asked. It's perfect." He bowed his head, and was gone.
"Well, shit," Dean said, scowling at the doors. "That's it?"
"Just be glad that it is, boy, and mind your language. Fuck. Let's get this cleaned up."
Dean didn't take a look outside the shop, neither did Tobe, neither one of them saw the Angel of Sunday reduce the sword they worked on to ash and light, neither saw him go back to where he'd begun.
Waller's voice provided a comforting backdrop of normality, murmuring away, complaining about the town, the people, the weather, his joints—normal. What Dean desperately needed right now. His total exhaustion, the couple of shots he'd inhaled in the saloon—the bar, not the top floor—had Dean feeling drowsy, pushing past the feeling of wrong that had filled him since the day before, and into a strange kind of contentment. He could feel his cheeks heat, whiskey did that to him sometimes. He could tell by the tingling feeling, that the tip of his nose was red from the cold. He freckled and burned in the summer heat and various parts of him shone red as a lamp in the winter chill. It really wasn't fair….
Dean leaned up against the barber shop's porch rail and exhaled a few wispy smoke rings before flipping the butt of one of Waller's hand-mades over the side and into the mud. "Thanks, Mr. Waller. Sure you don’t want to head over to the saloon with me? They got coffee, too and--"
The drover he'd seen a couple of days ago was on the street, sitting a big brown horse. He was talking to another man, crowding in close to him, and Dean felt a quick flash of…jealousy. Stupid, but he couldn't help but scowl at the man the boy was talking to. The man was older, by quite a bit, but handsome. Rough around the edges, dark—dark hair, dark beard, eyes…he sat a black horse. The other drover rounding up the trio made Dean fume too—the boy laughed with that one, treated him more familiarly than the dark man. Dean's drover threw his head back and laughed at something the fair-haired one said, and for a few precious seconds Dean avidly eyed the arch of white throat, so white against the tan of his face….
An ugly dog ran in and out of the brown horse's legs, barking until the boy cursed at the dog, reached down his arm. The dog leaped up and fixed his teeth in the drover's coat sleeve and he pulled it up onto the saddle in front of him.
They milled a bit in the street and Dean realized, with a pang, that the boy and his group were leaving town. He dropped his eyes. It was so damn foolish to feel so hurt that this completely unknown boy was leaving but it felt as if he was leaving *him*. Dean snorted. He hadn't even thought about the guy until he saw him this moment in the street.
At his soft snort, the drover turned in the saddle, caught Dean's eyes, and smirked before looking away again. They moved up the street, the trio, and as they moved past, the older rider's head snapped towards Dean. He looked at him the whole time they moved past, staring wide eyed at Dean for a long minute, before shaking his head ruefully and ignoring him after that one long stare. The boy looked at the man, back at Dean and openly stared now. Dean flushed, wanting to smile but fighting it and then…he saw the boy go pale and his horse slewed sideways. The fair-haired man said something to the boy--he nodded, and they rode off.
Dean was almost certain the boy looked back before they rode out of sight. He bit his lip, wished so hard he almost said it aloud, that the drover would ride back, wished that he knew what his name was….
part 13
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 4015
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.
He stared into his knees, and nodded, afraid to look into her face. Afraid that her easy acceptance might just be a lie, or the beginning of a mean trick. Still, he felt better, in a horrible kind of way. At least he could tell Tobe that he'd learned all the lessons to be taught about that subject and have it be true….
1851
Dean settled the wick in the glass bulb of the lamp, lit it. It smoked a bit, but provided decent light, good enough to read by. He had a book Tobe had brought him, from the last time he went past Bristol and out to the bigger town down the line. He made the trip every few months--stopped in to see a lady friend of his, order iron and such supplies that he couldn't get from their little town of Bristol, which no matter what the town council wanted to think, was pretty much just a muddy wide spot on the road.
Dean had given himself over to the world of the Three Musketeers and a peppermint stick, when a commotion downstairs in the front room drew him back—he heard Tobe's voice raised—not angry, not yet. Dean set the book aside and eased quietly to the stairs. He could see in the doorway, a tall shape wrapped in a long yellow duster, long arms around a cloth wrapped shape, and a squashed top hat sitting on long, unkempt hair. Their obviously unwelcome visitor was a man all made up of angles and length.
"No. He's not doing anything but what I set out for him to do."
"He only has to make this one thing for us, that's all we require. He won't be harmed, not at all. No change will be noticeable in him, we give you our promise. All we ask is for your assistance—create this thing for us, and we leave you in peace, both of you."
"But what in heck is it *for*—oh, I know, I know—you can't say. You lot test a man sorely, I can tell you that. You all are a pain that centers greatly in my backside, best believe."
"Respect, Tobias. Do not forget who you deal with." Dean crouched by the stairs and shivered. Tall Man's voice was calm, quiet, but lightning crawled through it and thunder whispered underneath ….
Tobe lifted his head and snapped, "Don’t you forget who *you're* talking to. The longer you stand in my doorway, the more I know. So you don’t go asking for respect without showing some."
The tall man inclined his head. "The fact remains; this is what he's been trained for."
Tobe looked at him, eyes narrow, thoughtful twist to his mouth. "That might have been the plan you…bunch…had. Me, I just found a poor little baby lost in the woods."
"Pa?" Dean strode down the loft stairs, came to a rest next to his pa. He stood his full height, shoulders back and trying to look fearsome—he was taller than most, broad across the chest and knew how to use height and blacksmith's muscle to good effect.
"Dean. Seems like we've been hired to do some work, son."
Tall Man reached inside his duster to pull something out, and Dean stiffened. He glanced Dean's way, tossed Tobe a fat round bag that clinked when he caught it—Dean's eyes went round at the size of it, and what it meant.
"We have payment for your work. Dollars of gold—that's what you require, I believe?"
Tobe shook his head. "Sir, you’re a caution. And I say that respectfully."
Dean snorted, knowing full well when Tobe was being sarcastic, and looked defiantly at the tall man when his head turned towards him, expecting the man to scold but the odd, stilted smile he got instead made him step back. "How do you do, Dean Kane. I'm Mr. Sunday. Your father is going to create something special, with your help. May I?" He asked Tobe and Tobe nodded, took the long package from him and set it down on their kitchen table and opened it. Inside were bars of some white metal. "You and your father are going to make a weapon, one that only the First Blacksmith could make."
First Blacksmith?Dean heard that as the title it seemed Mr. Sunday intended it to be, if his too intense look meant anything. Dean lifted an eye brow and tipped his chin at Tobe--is this man crazy?"Come to us first, hunh? You mean to flatter us?" He grinned at Sunday, who tilted his head slightly to the side and blinked. It reminded Dean uncomfortably of a lizard. This man was not…right….
Tobe lowered his brows and frowned. "Hush, boy," he muttered. He turned to Mr. Sunday. "When do we start this thing?"
"Sunrise tomorrow." The man rewrapped the bars but left them on the table, and bowed his head slightly before leaving.
"Who the hell was that?" Dean asked when the man had gone.
"Mr. Sunday," was all Tobe would say, and not a word else about the man.
The next morning, Mr. Sunday returned. They went to the forge. Dean slowed back to watch what he'd do when they came to the forge. Mr. Sunday walked straight past the threshold, not hesitating to step over the narrow trough carved into the stone, designed to hold a thin line of salt. Dean let go the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Sunday carefully scanned the building, and then from inside his duster--a garment Dean figured must be lined full of pockets--he took a large cloth bag. He set it down on a work bench and worked the draw string open.
Inside where various herbs, brushes made of bundled stalks of lavender and straw. There were folded lengths of material, also. "The floor must be swept with salt. We'll need a bucket—two if you have them. We must wash the doorways with the brushes, the windows as well. With the cloths, you must wash yourselves. If you have two buckets, reserve one for yourselves to wash with. Your arms and faces will be sufficient."
Dean flashed a look towards Tobe, who just pursed his lips and nodded as if the man were speaking everyday business. "We've got buckets enough," he said.
"Good. These need to go in the fire." Sunday separated out a handful of herbs from the mass that was in the bag. Next, he held up a braided bundle of fennel and sage, woven through and tied with a red string. "This goes over the door." Sunday was silent for a long moment, his eyes locked on Dean. He looked away, murmured, "We will need other ingredients when the work commences. We will discuss that later."
Tobe's frown deepened, but he didn't speak until Sunday left, telling them he'd return when the preparations were completed.
Dean nailed the thread wrapped bundle into the lintel. "This is something different. This we haven't done before," he said.
Tobe nodded, stroked the smooth bars of metal laid out on the bench. "This is magic, pure and simple. Not little prayers, not a plea for protection. This is magic, the kind we don't do. Most folks don’t even know about this kind of thing…some folks live in it all the time and that makes them not exactly human. Can’t touch it without it changing you. I know it, I don’t like it much. I sure as hell don't like you touching it."
Dean raised an eyebrow, pointed at the horse shoe over the fire, the cross of iron nails and the medicine bag around his neck. "But we always…"
"Boy," Tobe waved Dean's words away. "That's protection. That's just common sense. Mr. Sunday is...he's not like you and me. I'd like you not to talk to him and don't…" Tobe sighed. "Try not to look him in the eye. Hear this, Dean. I…" Tobe shook his head. "Shit. Never mind son, I'm just ramblin' on."
They washed—brushed—the walls, the floors of the shop. They swept over the tables, they washed the windows and chased out colonies of spiders from every corner, evicted mice that had lived for their generations under the benches and behind the fireplace. The bellows were swept with the damp brushes, the tools they'd be using, and the anvil.
It took the day and most of the evening before they were done, but after, there was a feeling in the air, a freshness, like a good smell blowing in through the open doors. Dean thought it felt like being safe. He could almost feel warm slim arms around him if he closed his eyes and concentrated.
They walked out together, to sit on the bench outside the forge in the dim light of approaching night. The brick landing and the yard were dashed with blue and purple shadows, the windows glowed orange. They leaned against the forge's wall and watched the sun deepen in color to a bloody red. Dean pulled his scarf tight, shoved his hands deep in the pockets. Idly thought how nice a cigarette, maybe a beer would be right now, about old Mr. Waller and his unique take on the world…his thoughts drifted to the drover, the way his hair curled out from under his squashed blue cap and licked at his cheeks, how old his eyes had seemed in such a young face…
"So-oo…how'd it go the other day, you didn’t say?" Tobe's voice fairly dripped nonchalance and Dean was suddenly reminded that Tobe had subjected him to what had to be the most awful and enlightening night of his life.
"You know Pa, Gabe's getting on…did you know Martinson's got a colt or two he's about ready to sell, we should take a look…"
Tobe coughed. Could have been a laugh. Maybe. Dean was sure he wouldn’t dare laugh, not hardly. "That sounds like sense, poor old Gabe could use the help," he said. "So, about—"
"Pa."
Tobe covered his mouth and coughed a few more times. Dean ignored him all together. The house was a more hospitable place, he decided and the company better. He left Tobe snickering by himself on the forge's step.
The real work began early the next morning. The sun was barely a smudge of orange in the sky, and Dean settled his coat tighter around himself, blinked and blinked, trying to force sleep out of his eyes. Tobe slapped him on the shoulder, shook him lightly. Their footsteps crunched, crunched across the frost rimed dry grass, their breath poured smoky grey out of their mouths in the chilly air.
The heat of the forge was almost shocking after the chilly air outside. Dean was grateful the coals were red and ready; there was a pot of coffee already brewing on the fire and on the bench, some biscuits wrapped in a napkin. He poured Tobe and himself a cup, and ate one of the biscuits as he watched Mr. Sunday wipe down the bars he'd brought with a damp cloth.
"Water heats in the buckets for you, the infusion is ready."
Dean bent his head over one of the bucket, the steam rising from it smelled good. Sunday instructed them to remove their shirts, and they washed arms and chest and faces thoroughly, each fresh pass with a cloth had Mr. Sunday muttering something…prayers, Dean decided. The air over the coals shimmered, and the smell of the herbs became more intense. Dean rubbed warm water over his face and neck. The herbs smelled very, very good….
When they finished with washing, Sunday poured the rest of the herbs into Dean's hands, told him to throw the mix into the fire. Pieces of cinnamon, and peppercorns, shredded sage, fennel seeds, and small chunks of salt sat in his palms. Nestled in the middle of the herbs were a long black feather and a tiny, hollow tube of bone. Red powder spilled from one end. Dean frowned at the bone and the red powder; he dashed the handful into the flame and quickly wiped his hands on his pants leg.
Mr. Sunday made a small noise of satisfaction and nodded at Tobe and then the normal business of the shop took over. Tobe heated the metal bars, layered them together, the hammer would weld them into a solid piece, the bang-bang-tap of it as familiar to Dean as his own heartbeat, comforting as Pa's. They alternated welding, until the several bars had become one, and it was time to begin the work of shaping it. At that point, Sunday spoke up. He'd been so quiet, they'd forgotten his presence.
"Now, this part is Dean's work, and needs to be done alone. You understand—look inside and you know it needs to be so," he said, when Tobe angrily wanted to protest. Before he left the shop, he wheeled, and caught Dean's face between his hands—startling him. Tobe was generally casual in his affections—a slap on the back, a cuff or a rub to the back of his head.
Tobe looked right into Dean's eyes and said, "Blood or not, you’re my kin and nothing can ever change that. I love you boy." He walked away and Dean felt—fear. He glanced at Mr. Sunday and was afraid. He swallowed, licked his lips and said, "Now what?"
Sunday shook his head. "Now nothing." He walked around the shop; Dean followed him with his eyes, wondering. Sunday came to stand behind him. "Now close your eyes and trust me."
Dean bit his lip. The last thing he did was trust Sunday, and the last thing he was going to do was close his eyes….
Sunday reached around him and drew his fingers across Dean's forehead and just like that, he was drowning in a ring of flames. He heard the crackling of flames, felt it lick over his skin, drawing moisture away from him, making him weak, hot…hands slid over him, and a voice murmured in his ear, blood and saliva and tears and semen, makes for a powerful binding, young one. Dean shook his head and groaned. He knew it was wrong--that kind of magic was bad, Pa told him so….
The hands reached from behind him, pushed aside his soaking shirt and unbuttoned his pants, carefully, as though the buttons were a puzzle recently conquered. The material was folded carefully to the sides and for a second, he was cooler there, where his skin was exposed to air and then, the awful heat flooded in, made his skin burn like he was belly up to the forge. His prick jerked, freed from the tight grip of his clothing, and it burned as well, a bone deep, itching, welling sort of burn, rising higher and higher, and the touch of alien fingers on him made his hips jerk without control—nothing of his felt like it was under his control. The feeling was…it was equally horrible and wonderful. He wanted to give in to it, sink under it, but instinct made him fight it. The tension rose the faster the hand moved, and Sunday's voice was in his ear, whispering soft as the touch of a snake's tongue, "Go on, Dean. Release control to me. Trust me. All will be well. You're safe with us..."
White—the world went white as metal at it's hottest point, white as oblivion--Dean heard himself make an awful whining sound, it ripped out of his throat, scraped against the roof of his mouth and exploded into the burning air, on the heels of that awful noise came an orgasm that churned out of him like molten lead. He felt he was changed forever, made into something new.
Dean blinked, and he was standing in front of the anvil, hammer in his hand. A feeling that he'd been dreaming swept over him and was gone…all he knew was that he needed to be working the metal, and hammered and turned the bar, hammered and turned, until a vague point began to form. With the tongs, he laid the bar over the coals until it was white—the sight made his stomach turn over—he shivered and went to pull it away, but Sunday grabbed his wrist, and with what looked like a sliver of bone, cut into his arm. Dean shouted with the pain. He tried to pull away from Sunday's grip, but it was like trying to break iron shackles. Blood ran into the fire, hissed and stank, evaporating instantly on the white-hot metal. Sunday was speaking, fast, in a language that sounded a bit like Latin. If he listened hard enough, he'd understand it but it just kept dancing away from him, frustrating him….he took a step closer to Sunday and it went white all around him, falling forever into white and the air boiled hotter, hotter, until he felt nothing and heard nothing—blind and deaf and there was only the metal. It called out to him, desired him….
When he was fully aware of his surroundings again, Tobe was working the metal bar, and cursing, cursing in a way Dean had never heard from him before. He wondered that Tobe had left him on the floor to work; it sent a sharp pain through his chest. Then he heard Tobe, *felt* the anger and sorrow in his voice. "You promise me," he shouted. "Promise me, you—"
"Pa. What is it? What's happening to me…?"
Mr. Sunday reached down and pulled Dean to his feet. He touched his forehead with two fingers, the soft touch spread through him like water through sand. Darkness surrounded him—and he realized he'd closed his eyes. He opened them. He was—fine. Perfect. Felt like he'd had a good, long, night's sleep and was ready to start the day. Magic.
"Dean—can you please take over from your father?"
The bar Tobe worked was now plainly the weapon that Mr. Sunday had required, a sword.
Dean worked the blade, shaping, honing, his sweat running free as rain onto the anvil, the metal. The world shrunk down to his hand slamming the hammer down, and down, tapping here and crashing down there, and always a beat to keep the Devil at bay.
Shadows grew, climbed the walls, stretched long and black and clawed the ceiling. The heat grew. He'd thought it was hot before but now the heat coated him, filled him, swam in him until it became as unremarkable as the air he breathed. The shock of metal hitting metal flowed up his arm and into his chest, matched the beat of his heart, became the beat of his heart…he breathed in the future and breathed out the past and worked and worked….
Tobe yanked him away from the anvil—Dean gasped when Tobe broke his grip on the hammer. The man holding his hand wasn't his pa. A tall black-skinned man with eyes like stars and a voice like thunder told him," Stop. Drink. My turn now."
Dean blinked and Tobe held his hand, eyes full of worry, red with exhaustion and smoke. "Go on, rest a bit, son."
Mr. Sunday led him to water. He poured Dean a ladle full of the coldest, crispest, most delicious water he'd ever had. He drank and drank, until Sunday stopped Dean with a hand on his shoulder. "This is the most important work you'll ever do. This thing—it's not through you or of you, but because of you, a vessel is made. One day, your blood will hold miracles."
Dean nodded, not having the faintest idea what Sunday was jawing about and caring even less. He just wanted more of the water, wanted to be finished and get to his bed and get the fuck rid of Sunday.
In the end, Tobe completed the work on the blade, Mr. Sunday having assured Dean that his part in the making of it was done.
When it was finished, it lay on the bench, an unremarkable thing. Didn’t look much like the pictures of swords in books about knights he'd read. The blade was dull. The hilt was plain, wrapped in a strip of leather that Dean didn't recall being part of the making.
Mr. Sunday held it in his hands, staring at it as if it were solid gold. "You've done everything we've asked. It's perfect." He bowed his head, and was gone.
"Well, shit," Dean said, scowling at the doors. "That's it?"
"Just be glad that it is, boy, and mind your language. Fuck. Let's get this cleaned up."
Dean didn't take a look outside the shop, neither did Tobe, neither one of them saw the Angel of Sunday reduce the sword they worked on to ash and light, neither saw him go back to where he'd begun.
Waller's voice provided a comforting backdrop of normality, murmuring away, complaining about the town, the people, the weather, his joints—normal. What Dean desperately needed right now. His total exhaustion, the couple of shots he'd inhaled in the saloon—the bar, not the top floor—had Dean feeling drowsy, pushing past the feeling of wrong that had filled him since the day before, and into a strange kind of contentment. He could feel his cheeks heat, whiskey did that to him sometimes. He could tell by the tingling feeling, that the tip of his nose was red from the cold. He freckled and burned in the summer heat and various parts of him shone red as a lamp in the winter chill. It really wasn't fair….
Dean leaned up against the barber shop's porch rail and exhaled a few wispy smoke rings before flipping the butt of one of Waller's hand-mades over the side and into the mud. "Thanks, Mr. Waller. Sure you don’t want to head over to the saloon with me? They got coffee, too and--"
The drover he'd seen a couple of days ago was on the street, sitting a big brown horse. He was talking to another man, crowding in close to him, and Dean felt a quick flash of…jealousy. Stupid, but he couldn't help but scowl at the man the boy was talking to. The man was older, by quite a bit, but handsome. Rough around the edges, dark—dark hair, dark beard, eyes…he sat a black horse. The other drover rounding up the trio made Dean fume too—the boy laughed with that one, treated him more familiarly than the dark man. Dean's drover threw his head back and laughed at something the fair-haired one said, and for a few precious seconds Dean avidly eyed the arch of white throat, so white against the tan of his face….
An ugly dog ran in and out of the brown horse's legs, barking until the boy cursed at the dog, reached down his arm. The dog leaped up and fixed his teeth in the drover's coat sleeve and he pulled it up onto the saddle in front of him.
They milled a bit in the street and Dean realized, with a pang, that the boy and his group were leaving town. He dropped his eyes. It was so damn foolish to feel so hurt that this completely unknown boy was leaving but it felt as if he was leaving *him*. Dean snorted. He hadn't even thought about the guy until he saw him this moment in the street.
At his soft snort, the drover turned in the saddle, caught Dean's eyes, and smirked before looking away again. They moved up the street, the trio, and as they moved past, the older rider's head snapped towards Dean. He looked at him the whole time they moved past, staring wide eyed at Dean for a long minute, before shaking his head ruefully and ignoring him after that one long stare. The boy looked at the man, back at Dean and openly stared now. Dean flushed, wanting to smile but fighting it and then…he saw the boy go pale and his horse slewed sideways. The fair-haired man said something to the boy--he nodded, and they rode off.
Dean was almost certain the boy looked back before they rode out of sight. He bit his lip, wished so hard he almost said it aloud, that the drover would ride back, wished that he knew what his name was….
part 13
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I hope it keeps your interest, and thank you very much for reading!
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