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SpN: Non Timebo Mala 16/?
Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: 3246
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, thus, expect anachronisms and flagrant display of personal fanon. Warnings for sex ( occasional het and M/M, incest, rape.)
It was like a door had been opened in his mind, with the purpose being to torture him senseless. After the silly magic trick, there was barely a night he slept the whole way through. Nightly someone moved through his dreams, coming closer and closer. This presence, this person, angered and terrified him and made him long so hard for them…all Dean had to do was reach out and touch them and he'd know them. Turn around, if he could just make them turn around…
He woke up sometimes with wet cheeks or he woke up laughing, feeling as if he'd spent time with a wonderful friend, one who understood every feeling and fear and desire he had. It was overwhelming—draining.
Samuel
Sam kicked his heels over the lower rung of the porch rail and hummed a little. It was cold as hell outside but Missouri wouldn't cut his hair in her kitchen and her little room barely had enough room in it to swing a cat. Or stow a dog, but that was where the little bastard was sleeping while *he* slept under the prep table in the kitchen. It was that or the barn and right now, it was just too damn cold out there.
"Hold still boy, I'm tryin' not to cut your ears off…" Missouri frowned and snipped away and long strands of sun streaked red-brown hair fluttered to the porch. Sam closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the steady snip-snip and the pressure against his scalp. After a while, strong fingers ruffled his hair.
"There. Feel better?"
He nodded, and ran his own fingers through his shorter hair; it was just long enough now to keep the back of his neck warm but not so long it fell into his eyes. Safer that way. He picked up the cap in his lap, turned it once or twice, staring at it, before sweeping back his hair--ready to set it on his head.
"I *hate* that hat," Missouri said, sounding like she'd bit into a piece of cactus. "I wish you wouldn't wear it. It's an ugly thing, with an ugly feel."
Sam laughed and jammed it on, so it sat low on his forehead. "That's what makes it perfect," he said and winked at her.
"Boy—you're wrong. That hat's not you. Not you at all. You're a good, sweet, man or you could be if you'd just let yourself be, honey. And you're such a handsome young man, Sam. I don’t understand how you can't see—"
Look at you—you ugly piece of *shit*. No one wants you—" Sam slapped his leg and the ugly dog reared up under the chair Sam had been sitting in, slamming his head on the underside of the seat. He chuckled when the dog lifted his lip and showed Sam its molars. "Swear, you're about as stupid and ugly as the guy you run after, you little bastar—ow!"
"Boy…" Missouri stared at him, her narrow eyes practically shooting flame. "You best not talk about yourself like that. Or that dog. Smarter than its owner. Damn fool."
Sam rubbed his arm where she'd punched him—more for effect than because she'd caused him any pain. He fought the warmth that wanted to make him smile. But—"Thank you," he said, and left it up to her to figure out what he was thanking her for.
***
Christmas eve came everywhere, all over the world, even in the tiny, bread-scented kitchen of a whore house in Wyoming territory. In honor of the day, Missouri made them a grand dinner, separate from the house's menu, something just for Sam and herself. After, she set out cups of coco and slices of pound cake. Conversation wound down as the candles burnt low and there came a long silence. It wasn't uncomfortably silent…each of them lost in their own thoughts, contemplating what life had brought them that year. It had been an unfairly heavy load of grief and badness on his part, Sam thought. He'd asked God a time or two just what the hell he'd been thinking. He knew that wasn't what Missouri meant when she told him to bend his stiff neck and learn to pray but damn if it wasn't the closest he'd managed to get to it, too many times he just lost his temper and cursed at Him….
The big stove creaked and clicked as its heat died a bit, though the small room was still comfortably warm and the coco, too. He took a sip and rolled the dark sweetness in his mouth, enjoying the taste, even the slightly gritty texture. It was a real treat, certainly. He'd always had a sweet tooth, and Missouri knew it, seemed pleased to indulge it. He set the cup down and her hand curved over his and squeezed a bit. "What's got you thinking so hard, Samuel? Is it about your daddy…?"
Sam shook his head. "Miss Missouri, I've come to truly realize that I have no life unless I get the justice my Dad was seekin' for my family. 'Fore, I was just kind of following him—pleasing him was my only purpose." He sighed. "Sorry, but try as I might, I never could really feel that loss of my mother. She was like a fairy tale princess. Hell, I miss my brother more than her and I didn't know him any either. But now, losing Dad…I can feel it, hatred of that thing, swelling up in me like a flashflood sweeping down a dry creek bed. It's goin' to poison me complete if I don’t kill that thing and make it stop. That blood…that…it already changed me. I feel it. I know it." Sam stared at the candle sitting in the center of the table, the slice of cake ignored on his plate. Missouri shifted on her chair and sighed.
"You were a little sprat last time you were here. Curious and impatient and quick to show a temper with everyone but your daddy. But you were also aching to love, and sweet, and had a smile a mile wide, Something I've not seen once since you been back. Hiding those dimples from me." She smiled softly at him and Sam dropped his eyes. He didn't deserve it….
"Oh, baby. You do. I wish…" she sighed noisily. "What you want to do," she said, changing the subject to Sam's relief," is not going to be an easy thing. No one really knows what those things are. They're not common to see—though you and your dad have seen too many of them. Makes a body believe you were singled out for some bad reason." She jerked her eyes to Sam's face, but Sam already felt the spear of ice rush through him. "Not your fault, Samuel. You hear? Not your fault."
Sam's hand came up to cover his mouth—he forced it down again. "Why was it me and my dad only, left alive that day? Or why me that black-eyed son of a bi—bee came after, why me he poisoned? There's a demon out there who killed my mother and my brother and my dad to hurt *me*. It *is* my fault. There's something bad in me, there was even before the demons put their poison in me."
Missouri made a sound like a heart breaking. "That's not true, Samuel. Nothing you could do—"
The words washed over Sam and he smiled, and inside he felt the black rising, filling his stomach and lungs and heart, twisting black strands all through him. He knew the truth. Heard the small voice telling him you, you you killed them you.
A few nights later, while he stood outside smoking and joking with one of the whores, Missouri came up to him, her eyes dark and troubled. She kept her eyes on the porch floor, her voice so quiet he barely heard her say, "I've been told. A weapon. A champion needs a weapon to kill the dragon."
He thought about it all night long and in the morning, he had a plan. If anyone knew about champions and dragons and the weapons needed to kill them, it was Robert Singer.
***
"There's some salt beef, some biscuits—coffee and sugar, and some meal." Missouri held out a sack to him, bouncing it impatiently until he took it from her. "Now, you tell that Mr. Singer that I expect him to take good care of you. And you write me a letter once in a while, so I don't have to lay up nights worrying myself gray about you, you hear?"
Sam's eyes went wide and sincere, and the dog squeezed himself behind Sam's legs. "Yes ma'am, I promise. I will write."
"Good. And…if you lose that hat somewhere along the way, I'll be especially happy."
Sam snorted. The woman had a positive hat for his hat. That was pure silliness—all it was was a God-damn hat, good for keeping his head warm in winter and the sun off it in summer and what was bad about that?
He spent a little time repainting the protective sigils his dad had always had on the black horse's flank—it was a habit ingrained in him and there was a bit of comfort to be had in doing it. When he was satisfied with what he'd done, he loaded the horse's pack with what Missouri gave him, and got in the saddle, whistling for the dog. Missouri came out to the barn and waited until Sam was seated. She laid a hand on his knee. "Sam…you ask Mr. Singer to help you with those dreams you've been having too. He might not have a shining but he's got a lot of know-how. And remember, you're not as alone as you think you are."
Sam smiled down at her and patted the black horse's neck, leaned over to let the dog catch his sleeve. He pulled him up and settled the dog in front of him. "I know that, Miss Missouri. I got you, and this thing calls itself a dog, and even the horse…and Mr. Singer." He smiled, a wry curve that barely moved his mouth. "I have everything I need right here. Thank you for…for all of it."
He felt her looking all the way down the street but since he doubted that he'd ever be back that way again, he saw no reason to torture himself by looking behind him.
***
Robber Singer was an island of calm in his storm tossed life—always had been. And he knew right away why Sam was alone, and he knew not to fall all over him. He set Sam down and fed him and his animals, pointed him up to his room and told him he had a few letters to write. Sam knew he was about to spread the word of John's death to the loose community of hunters. The brothers in arms.
He peeked down the stairs and saw Robert bent over a book, scratch-scratching away as he added events into what he knew was the mans' journal. For a long minute he was frozen in pain. For the first time since he'd thrown the book into the ashes of the shack, he'd wished he'd saved John's journal….
Dean
"Hey there, boy."
The sound of feet stamping on the threshold followed the greeting, and a blast of cold air made the flames in the fireplace dance. Dean looked up from his place on the hearth and found Tobe gazing at him from the doorway, his expression strangely blank. Dean lifted the pot he'd been tending from its hook on the hearth. "Stew's been keeping warm. I made biscuits to go with," he said and jerked his head towards the stove, and Tobe nodded, his expression still tight, his eyes dark. Dean began to worry just a bit. That look usually meant something had gone belly up.
"Dean, when I dropped those new hinges off at the parlor house, I ran into Miss Dotty. She asked me how you were…."
Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Oh shit. Could he dare hope Dotty kept her big mouth shut? No…not with that look in Tobe's eye. He was a goner for sure; Tobe looked like he was a minute short of flying off the handle in a pretty fearsome way….
"She told me what ya'll did, in between a'laughin' and gigglin' about how funny it all was and you seen your true love. Boy. I swan—"
Dean tried to apologize, but Tobe cut him, chopping air with both hands. "You can't *do* that, no way, no how. You can't, you hear?"
"Pa, it was just some silly kitchen magic, it was nothing—"
Tobe looked like he collapsed inside his skin. His voice went low and sad. "Honey boy, nothing is just silly when it come to you, not anymore. I should have told you…Mr. Sunday, remember him?"
Mr. …Sunday?Dean thought hard, tried hard to remember a Mr. Sunday…"Sort of? He was…tall? He wanted…he got a horse shoed? Somethin' like that…" Dean pressed and twisted his thumb between his eyebrows—he had a little headache starting up.
Tobe scrubbed his hands over his face and dropped down at the table. "You can't play with magic. Whatever you do is going to turn into big magic. You had the hand of an angel on you and it's changed you. Not badly—just. Different now."
Dean smiled and shook his head. No, no--that wasn't—no such thing. That was just crazy. Dean's mouth moved without him putting a thought to doing it. "Uriel, the sword of heaven. He…."
It faded again, the bright knowledge he had for just a moment, where he'd seen Tobe's kind whiskey colored eyes filled with stars and the depth of the night between them…"No Pa, that can't be true, I'm just me. I'm not different, I'd know if I was. I'd *know*!"
Tobe nodded. "I know Dean. Just…promise me, no magic. Nothing but what we do here, just to help people. Just clean, homely work, Dean. Just what comes naturally from the earth's heart. Anything else—could hurt you. Okay?"
Dean nodded. He felt strange. Too stretched out, confused. But wanting to make Tobe smile at him again. "Okay. But this thing was silly. Find my true love…."
Tobe managed a smile. "You saw Dotty, hunh? You tell her?"
"God—no, not Dotty, Pa! I didn't…I didn’t see anyone," he said, eyes on the table. "No one."
"Oh--boy. That don't mean a thing. You just messed that silly spell up with your own magic," Tobe sighed.
Taking a deep breath, Dean figured…he'd tell Pa about the dreams and maybe…maybe he'd understand what they meant. "I saw…I've been having dreams ever since, about…someone waiting for me on the edge of a fire, hiding half in and half out of the shadows. They're always there but they won’t look towards me. They're always faced away. I'm afraid it means something bad."
Tobe tilted his head and stroked his beard. "Well, dreaming of fire could be a good thing—change coming, that's one way to read it. And the person in the dream…could mean news coming from far off—could be the one ya'll tried to call." Tobe shot Dean a look. "But you say she's looking away, hunh? That's odd."
"Odd? What kind of odd? What d'you mean, Pa?"
"I don’t think it's a bad odd. Just…faced away from you, usually that means someone is out to protect you—fierce protection. Maybe this is some fierce girl out to find you?" He grinned. "You better prepare yourself. And one way you can do that is eat some of that stew, keep your strength up…"
Dean snorted, tossed Tobe a biscuit and pushed the butter dish towards him. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Dean felt caught up in a web. Too many things were happening to him, confusing him, and yes, scaring him—the magic, the dreams, this longing for a stranger who was certainly *not* a girl… part of him wished fiercely he could tell the truth, part of him was glad it was hidden. At least the dreams needn't frighten him. If Tobe thought they held no ill, then maybe he should stop worrying so much.
***
After dinner, Dean ladled out an apple slump that had Tobe moaning and patting his belly and complaining that he'd have to let his belt out a few notches. "That was the best Christmas dinner we've ever had, son."
Dean smirked. "Is that because it was a dinner you didn’t have to cook, old man?"
"Hooo, boy. I'm not too stuffed I can't chase you 'round this table. Old man, my foot." He scowled at Dean and patted his bulging coat pocket. "Should take what I got here and give it to some deservin' *respectful*, body."
"No! Did I say old man? I meant wise man, strong man, best man that ever struck an anvil—"
Tobe flapped his hands. "Spare me; you weren't born with a silver tongue in yer mouth, that's certain. But it's Christmas so I'm feeling a mite generous." He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a lumpy, paper-wrapped package.
"Wait, wait right here," Dean called and ran up the stairs to his room. He came back down with a similar package and handed it to Tobe. "Merry Christmas, Pa."
Tobe opened it and sighed, "Man, this is the best gift you could have got me." It was a scarf, bright and soft, thick. He drew it out of the package and wrapped it around his neck, stroking it. "This is a mighty fine thing, Dean. Thank you, son."
Dean nodded. Satisfaction washed like a warm wave through him. The minute he'd laid eyes on that scarf, he'd known it was perfect for his pa. Tobe pushed his package across the table to Dean. "Got something I think you'll like."
He pulled the paper packaging apart and gold flashed in the lamplight. Two oranges sat cradled in the paper, along with a whole tin peppermint sticks. "Thank you!" Oranges were a treat—something to be savored just as much as peppermint. He broke into the skin and split one open—a fine mist of orange scent filled the air. He tore a piece off for Tobe and stuffed a slice into his own mouth and moaned…the bright, tangy flavor burst across his tongue and he closed his eyes to better absorb and enjoy the flavor.
"I can leave you alone with your new friend if you want…"
Dean blushed bright red. "Shut up."
Tobe smirked and passed another package over. "St. Nick thought you was especially good this year."
Dean protested with a laugh—he hadn't been all that good the way he saw it, but Tobe waved him off. "If I want to spoil my son er'once in a while, than the son should clap his trap and say, 'thank you Pa'."
Dean grinned wide. "Thank you Pa." The gift was a pendent, no bigger than Dean's fingertip. A star in a circle, with a ring of stylized flames around it. On the back, written around the circle were two words: never forgotten. Dean liked it, liked that the words could mean…whatever he wanted. "Thanks, Pa," he said again and turned the pendant in his palm. "It's silver…that's good. And…small. Very small," he said and puzzled over it for a moment. It would fit on the thong he wore around his wrist but….
"It's meant to go in your bag—and speaking of your bag—" Tobe handed Dean a new cord, with bits of silver wire woven into it. "You need a new cord; the old one's wearing through—don't want to loose that bag nowhere, right?"
He settled the pendant inside the bag and restrung it. Beamed, and shoved another orange slice into his mouth. "This sure has been a good Christmas, hunh?"
"The best, honey-boy, the best."
part 17
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: 3246
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, thus, expect anachronisms and flagrant display of personal fanon. Warnings for sex ( occasional het and M/M, incest, rape.)
It was like a door had been opened in his mind, with the purpose being to torture him senseless. After the silly magic trick, there was barely a night he slept the whole way through. Nightly someone moved through his dreams, coming closer and closer. This presence, this person, angered and terrified him and made him long so hard for them…all Dean had to do was reach out and touch them and he'd know them. Turn around, if he could just make them turn around…
He woke up sometimes with wet cheeks or he woke up laughing, feeling as if he'd spent time with a wonderful friend, one who understood every feeling and fear and desire he had. It was overwhelming—draining.
Sam kicked his heels over the lower rung of the porch rail and hummed a little. It was cold as hell outside but Missouri wouldn't cut his hair in her kitchen and her little room barely had enough room in it to swing a cat. Or stow a dog, but that was where the little bastard was sleeping while *he* slept under the prep table in the kitchen. It was that or the barn and right now, it was just too damn cold out there.
"Hold still boy, I'm tryin' not to cut your ears off…" Missouri frowned and snipped away and long strands of sun streaked red-brown hair fluttered to the porch. Sam closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the steady snip-snip and the pressure against his scalp. After a while, strong fingers ruffled his hair.
"There. Feel better?"
He nodded, and ran his own fingers through his shorter hair; it was just long enough now to keep the back of his neck warm but not so long it fell into his eyes. Safer that way. He picked up the cap in his lap, turned it once or twice, staring at it, before sweeping back his hair--ready to set it on his head.
"I *hate* that hat," Missouri said, sounding like she'd bit into a piece of cactus. "I wish you wouldn't wear it. It's an ugly thing, with an ugly feel."
Sam laughed and jammed it on, so it sat low on his forehead. "That's what makes it perfect," he said and winked at her.
"Boy—you're wrong. That hat's not you. Not you at all. You're a good, sweet, man or you could be if you'd just let yourself be, honey. And you're such a handsome young man, Sam. I don’t understand how you can't see—"
Look at you—you ugly piece of *shit*. No one wants you—" Sam slapped his leg and the ugly dog reared up under the chair Sam had been sitting in, slamming his head on the underside of the seat. He chuckled when the dog lifted his lip and showed Sam its molars. "Swear, you're about as stupid and ugly as the guy you run after, you little bastar—ow!"
"Boy…" Missouri stared at him, her narrow eyes practically shooting flame. "You best not talk about yourself like that. Or that dog. Smarter than its owner. Damn fool."
Sam rubbed his arm where she'd punched him—more for effect than because she'd caused him any pain. He fought the warmth that wanted to make him smile. But—"Thank you," he said, and left it up to her to figure out what he was thanking her for.
Christmas eve came everywhere, all over the world, even in the tiny, bread-scented kitchen of a whore house in Wyoming territory. In honor of the day, Missouri made them a grand dinner, separate from the house's menu, something just for Sam and herself. After, she set out cups of coco and slices of pound cake. Conversation wound down as the candles burnt low and there came a long silence. It wasn't uncomfortably silent…each of them lost in their own thoughts, contemplating what life had brought them that year. It had been an unfairly heavy load of grief and badness on his part, Sam thought. He'd asked God a time or two just what the hell he'd been thinking. He knew that wasn't what Missouri meant when she told him to bend his stiff neck and learn to pray but damn if it wasn't the closest he'd managed to get to it, too many times he just lost his temper and cursed at Him….
The big stove creaked and clicked as its heat died a bit, though the small room was still comfortably warm and the coco, too. He took a sip and rolled the dark sweetness in his mouth, enjoying the taste, even the slightly gritty texture. It was a real treat, certainly. He'd always had a sweet tooth, and Missouri knew it, seemed pleased to indulge it. He set the cup down and her hand curved over his and squeezed a bit. "What's got you thinking so hard, Samuel? Is it about your daddy…?"
Sam shook his head. "Miss Missouri, I've come to truly realize that I have no life unless I get the justice my Dad was seekin' for my family. 'Fore, I was just kind of following him—pleasing him was my only purpose." He sighed. "Sorry, but try as I might, I never could really feel that loss of my mother. She was like a fairy tale princess. Hell, I miss my brother more than her and I didn't know him any either. But now, losing Dad…I can feel it, hatred of that thing, swelling up in me like a flashflood sweeping down a dry creek bed. It's goin' to poison me complete if I don’t kill that thing and make it stop. That blood…that…it already changed me. I feel it. I know it." Sam stared at the candle sitting in the center of the table, the slice of cake ignored on his plate. Missouri shifted on her chair and sighed.
"You were a little sprat last time you were here. Curious and impatient and quick to show a temper with everyone but your daddy. But you were also aching to love, and sweet, and had a smile a mile wide, Something I've not seen once since you been back. Hiding those dimples from me." She smiled softly at him and Sam dropped his eyes. He didn't deserve it….
"Oh, baby. You do. I wish…" she sighed noisily. "What you want to do," she said, changing the subject to Sam's relief," is not going to be an easy thing. No one really knows what those things are. They're not common to see—though you and your dad have seen too many of them. Makes a body believe you were singled out for some bad reason." She jerked her eyes to Sam's face, but Sam already felt the spear of ice rush through him. "Not your fault, Samuel. You hear? Not your fault."
Sam's hand came up to cover his mouth—he forced it down again. "Why was it me and my dad only, left alive that day? Or why me that black-eyed son of a bi—bee came after, why me he poisoned? There's a demon out there who killed my mother and my brother and my dad to hurt *me*. It *is* my fault. There's something bad in me, there was even before the demons put their poison in me."
Missouri made a sound like a heart breaking. "That's not true, Samuel. Nothing you could do—"
The words washed over Sam and he smiled, and inside he felt the black rising, filling his stomach and lungs and heart, twisting black strands all through him. He knew the truth. Heard the small voice telling him you, you you killed them you.
A few nights later, while he stood outside smoking and joking with one of the whores, Missouri came up to him, her eyes dark and troubled. She kept her eyes on the porch floor, her voice so quiet he barely heard her say, "I've been told. A weapon. A champion needs a weapon to kill the dragon."
He thought about it all night long and in the morning, he had a plan. If anyone knew about champions and dragons and the weapons needed to kill them, it was Robert Singer.
"There's some salt beef, some biscuits—coffee and sugar, and some meal." Missouri held out a sack to him, bouncing it impatiently until he took it from her. "Now, you tell that Mr. Singer that I expect him to take good care of you. And you write me a letter once in a while, so I don't have to lay up nights worrying myself gray about you, you hear?"
Sam's eyes went wide and sincere, and the dog squeezed himself behind Sam's legs. "Yes ma'am, I promise. I will write."
"Good. And…if you lose that hat somewhere along the way, I'll be especially happy."
Sam snorted. The woman had a positive hat for his hat. That was pure silliness—all it was was a God-damn hat, good for keeping his head warm in winter and the sun off it in summer and what was bad about that?
He spent a little time repainting the protective sigils his dad had always had on the black horse's flank—it was a habit ingrained in him and there was a bit of comfort to be had in doing it. When he was satisfied with what he'd done, he loaded the horse's pack with what Missouri gave him, and got in the saddle, whistling for the dog. Missouri came out to the barn and waited until Sam was seated. She laid a hand on his knee. "Sam…you ask Mr. Singer to help you with those dreams you've been having too. He might not have a shining but he's got a lot of know-how. And remember, you're not as alone as you think you are."
Sam smiled down at her and patted the black horse's neck, leaned over to let the dog catch his sleeve. He pulled him up and settled the dog in front of him. "I know that, Miss Missouri. I got you, and this thing calls itself a dog, and even the horse…and Mr. Singer." He smiled, a wry curve that barely moved his mouth. "I have everything I need right here. Thank you for…for all of it."
He felt her looking all the way down the street but since he doubted that he'd ever be back that way again, he saw no reason to torture himself by looking behind him.
Robber Singer was an island of calm in his storm tossed life—always had been. And he knew right away why Sam was alone, and he knew not to fall all over him. He set Sam down and fed him and his animals, pointed him up to his room and told him he had a few letters to write. Sam knew he was about to spread the word of John's death to the loose community of hunters. The brothers in arms.
He peeked down the stairs and saw Robert bent over a book, scratch-scratching away as he added events into what he knew was the mans' journal. For a long minute he was frozen in pain. For the first time since he'd thrown the book into the ashes of the shack, he'd wished he'd saved John's journal….
"Hey there, boy."
The sound of feet stamping on the threshold followed the greeting, and a blast of cold air made the flames in the fireplace dance. Dean looked up from his place on the hearth and found Tobe gazing at him from the doorway, his expression strangely blank. Dean lifted the pot he'd been tending from its hook on the hearth. "Stew's been keeping warm. I made biscuits to go with," he said and jerked his head towards the stove, and Tobe nodded, his expression still tight, his eyes dark. Dean began to worry just a bit. That look usually meant something had gone belly up.
"Dean, when I dropped those new hinges off at the parlor house, I ran into Miss Dotty. She asked me how you were…."
Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Oh shit. Could he dare hope Dotty kept her big mouth shut? No…not with that look in Tobe's eye. He was a goner for sure; Tobe looked like he was a minute short of flying off the handle in a pretty fearsome way….
"She told me what ya'll did, in between a'laughin' and gigglin' about how funny it all was and you seen your true love. Boy. I swan—"
Dean tried to apologize, but Tobe cut him, chopping air with both hands. "You can't *do* that, no way, no how. You can't, you hear?"
"Pa, it was just some silly kitchen magic, it was nothing—"
Tobe looked like he collapsed inside his skin. His voice went low and sad. "Honey boy, nothing is just silly when it come to you, not anymore. I should have told you…Mr. Sunday, remember him?"
Mr. …Sunday?Dean thought hard, tried hard to remember a Mr. Sunday…"Sort of? He was…tall? He wanted…he got a horse shoed? Somethin' like that…" Dean pressed and twisted his thumb between his eyebrows—he had a little headache starting up.
Tobe scrubbed his hands over his face and dropped down at the table. "You can't play with magic. Whatever you do is going to turn into big magic. You had the hand of an angel on you and it's changed you. Not badly—just. Different now."
Dean smiled and shook his head. No, no--that wasn't—no such thing. That was just crazy. Dean's mouth moved without him putting a thought to doing it. "Uriel, the sword of heaven. He…."
It faded again, the bright knowledge he had for just a moment, where he'd seen Tobe's kind whiskey colored eyes filled with stars and the depth of the night between them…"No Pa, that can't be true, I'm just me. I'm not different, I'd know if I was. I'd *know*!"
Tobe nodded. "I know Dean. Just…promise me, no magic. Nothing but what we do here, just to help people. Just clean, homely work, Dean. Just what comes naturally from the earth's heart. Anything else—could hurt you. Okay?"
Dean nodded. He felt strange. Too stretched out, confused. But wanting to make Tobe smile at him again. "Okay. But this thing was silly. Find my true love…."
Tobe managed a smile. "You saw Dotty, hunh? You tell her?"
"God—no, not Dotty, Pa! I didn't…I didn’t see anyone," he said, eyes on the table. "No one."
"Oh--boy. That don't mean a thing. You just messed that silly spell up with your own magic," Tobe sighed.
Taking a deep breath, Dean figured…he'd tell Pa about the dreams and maybe…maybe he'd understand what they meant. "I saw…I've been having dreams ever since, about…someone waiting for me on the edge of a fire, hiding half in and half out of the shadows. They're always there but they won’t look towards me. They're always faced away. I'm afraid it means something bad."
Tobe tilted his head and stroked his beard. "Well, dreaming of fire could be a good thing—change coming, that's one way to read it. And the person in the dream…could mean news coming from far off—could be the one ya'll tried to call." Tobe shot Dean a look. "But you say she's looking away, hunh? That's odd."
"Odd? What kind of odd? What d'you mean, Pa?"
"I don’t think it's a bad odd. Just…faced away from you, usually that means someone is out to protect you—fierce protection. Maybe this is some fierce girl out to find you?" He grinned. "You better prepare yourself. And one way you can do that is eat some of that stew, keep your strength up…"
Dean snorted, tossed Tobe a biscuit and pushed the butter dish towards him. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Dean felt caught up in a web. Too many things were happening to him, confusing him, and yes, scaring him—the magic, the dreams, this longing for a stranger who was certainly *not* a girl… part of him wished fiercely he could tell the truth, part of him was glad it was hidden. At least the dreams needn't frighten him. If Tobe thought they held no ill, then maybe he should stop worrying so much.
After dinner, Dean ladled out an apple slump that had Tobe moaning and patting his belly and complaining that he'd have to let his belt out a few notches. "That was the best Christmas dinner we've ever had, son."
Dean smirked. "Is that because it was a dinner you didn’t have to cook, old man?"
"Hooo, boy. I'm not too stuffed I can't chase you 'round this table. Old man, my foot." He scowled at Dean and patted his bulging coat pocket. "Should take what I got here and give it to some deservin' *respectful*, body."
"No! Did I say old man? I meant wise man, strong man, best man that ever struck an anvil—"
Tobe flapped his hands. "Spare me; you weren't born with a silver tongue in yer mouth, that's certain. But it's Christmas so I'm feeling a mite generous." He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a lumpy, paper-wrapped package.
"Wait, wait right here," Dean called and ran up the stairs to his room. He came back down with a similar package and handed it to Tobe. "Merry Christmas, Pa."
Tobe opened it and sighed, "Man, this is the best gift you could have got me." It was a scarf, bright and soft, thick. He drew it out of the package and wrapped it around his neck, stroking it. "This is a mighty fine thing, Dean. Thank you, son."
Dean nodded. Satisfaction washed like a warm wave through him. The minute he'd laid eyes on that scarf, he'd known it was perfect for his pa. Tobe pushed his package across the table to Dean. "Got something I think you'll like."
He pulled the paper packaging apart and gold flashed in the lamplight. Two oranges sat cradled in the paper, along with a whole tin peppermint sticks. "Thank you!" Oranges were a treat—something to be savored just as much as peppermint. He broke into the skin and split one open—a fine mist of orange scent filled the air. He tore a piece off for Tobe and stuffed a slice into his own mouth and moaned…the bright, tangy flavor burst across his tongue and he closed his eyes to better absorb and enjoy the flavor.
"I can leave you alone with your new friend if you want…"
Dean blushed bright red. "Shut up."
Tobe smirked and passed another package over. "St. Nick thought you was especially good this year."
Dean protested with a laugh—he hadn't been all that good the way he saw it, but Tobe waved him off. "If I want to spoil my son er'once in a while, than the son should clap his trap and say, 'thank you Pa'."
Dean grinned wide. "Thank you Pa." The gift was a pendent, no bigger than Dean's fingertip. A star in a circle, with a ring of stylized flames around it. On the back, written around the circle were two words: never forgotten. Dean liked it, liked that the words could mean…whatever he wanted. "Thanks, Pa," he said again and turned the pendant in his palm. "It's silver…that's good. And…small. Very small," he said and puzzled over it for a moment. It would fit on the thong he wore around his wrist but….
"It's meant to go in your bag—and speaking of your bag—" Tobe handed Dean a new cord, with bits of silver wire woven into it. "You need a new cord; the old one's wearing through—don't want to loose that bag nowhere, right?"
He settled the pendant inside the bag and restrung it. Beamed, and shoved another orange slice into his mouth. "This sure has been a good Christmas, hunh?"
"The best, honey-boy, the best."
part 17
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I MISSED Dean n' Tobe--so ever lovin' cute together. And I love your Missouri...and ppoooorrr Sammy. He's screwed, no matter what decade he's in, poor thing.
Yay! More!
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Poor Sam is right. Boy this is just one long 'kick Sam in the nuts' story, hunh? Tsk. I'll have to make it up to him somehow.
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*bounces*
And Christmas, and gifties, and dreams, and...just....
*flails*
:)
A couple teeny things, bay-bee.
Oh, little boy. That don't mean a thing.
You've got no quotes at the beginning of that sentence. Also....
Dean grinned wide. "Thank you Pa." The gift was a pendent, no bigger than Dean's fingertip. A star in a circle, and on the back was written Dean's eyes blurred. Thank you, Pa. Thank you so much. I'll never take this off, never.
Tobe smiled. Remember that. He said. He handed Dean a new cord. For your spirit bag. You need a new cord—don't want to loose that nowhere, right?
On the back was written what? You don't say. Also, you kinda dropped quote marks entirely there, oops!
*smooch*
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I just went through all the older posts too, and fixed boo-boos and drop-outs just like that! Sooooo embarrassing, and just the kind of thing that makes me click out of a fic. *sigh* I knew I was pushing it last night. Thank goodness I have a few days free to get this going again. *HUGHUG* You're my knight in shining armor! Knightette? Knightrex? Knightessa?
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Knightress!
Maybe not. :)
Dude, i once had a fic with 'insert Hebrew word here' in the posted version. I mean. Never give up on a fic 'cause you made a mistake!!
*twirls you*
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This bit of Sam's narration made me shout at the screen, "Liar! You big faker!" all it was was a God-damn hat, good for keeping his head warm in winter and the sun off it in summer and what was bad about that? Yeah, right, Sam. Pull the other one, why don'tcha? But he's his father's son and he's Dean's brother whether he knows it or not. Stubbornness is synonymous with Winchester. Fortunately, so is love and loyalty and selflessness and mercy and sheer bravery. They're fools, the lot of 'em, but they're damn fine men as well, so I reckon they come out in the black. Sometimes. *wink*
Also, I'm worried, with what you had Tobe tell Dean in this section about the residual angel mojo wreaking havoc on any other magic Dean comes into contact with, that somehow Dean being around a demon-blood-infected-Sammy will turn things sour. *bites nails* I hope you're not going that way, and that if you are there's a happy(ish?) ending in there somewhere. My heart can only take so much Dean/Sam whuppage, roxy. *clings*
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Yeah, I can't be completely cruel to the boy. He needs someone to tell him that he's a good boy, even if he doesn't believe it yet.
They're fools, the lot of 'em, but they're damn fine men as well
so true! That's what makes them interesting, compelling--that no matter what, they do try to be good men--it's important to them.
It should be pretty darn interesting when Sam and Dean finally meet. The next chapter should touch on the issue you raise here! (if all goes well....)
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SlightyPsycho? Slightly? Horseshoes and hand grenades I think, m'dear. . . not psychosis. *snorfle*
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Also, I don't know if I'd be so hasty (Master Meriadoc) to blame the scary, fully-Psycho vigilante. *shrugs* But that's just me.
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Oy, supposed to be writing!
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But, yeah, that boy was well on his way to insanity!land. Bruce may have, er, tended the crazy tree, but he certainly didn't plant the seed. It's canon that Kryptonians are batshit. *nods*
Now go write-write, hon!!!
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