SpN: Non Timebo Mala 20/?
1/27/10 12:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:hard R, more vanilla sex….
Word Count: 1934
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.)
Dean hesitated for a moment before saying, "So…I'm planning on turning over the vegetable garden tomorrow…."
Archie looked thoughtful. "That would be a good three or four days work," he mused, gazing out towards the corner the garden lay. He cut his eyes toward Dean and grinned. "Are you looking for ways to keep me here, young Master Kane?"
"Shut up," Dean mumbled and blushed bright when Archie laughed. Taking the plate and knife from Dean, he leaned over him, and pressed a kiss into his neck.
Archie stood in the kitchen, in front of the fireplace. The nights were still a little chilly, and the fire felt good. Archie looked like an ancient god, the flame's glow painting him a soft ivory, dusting his hair with threads of copper. Archie held his hands over his head as Dean washed him carefully, sweeping the washcloth in dripping arcs across his shoulders, down his ribs. He turned Archie to face away from him and washed his back, bringing the cloth lower and lower until Dean dropped all pretense of washing, cupped the swell of Archie's ass in his dripping hands. He eased to his knees and bit at that tempting flesh, soothed the nip with his tongue. "Mmmm. You taste so good…."
Archie groaned, threw his head back and closed his eyes. "Damn it Dean. You're going to kill me…"
Dean huffed a little laugh against Archie's damp skin. Licked his way over Archie's ass, his hip, until his lips were pressed up against his prick. He tapped Archie until the man opened his eyes, and when Dean knew he had his attention, opened his mouth and took him in. Dean loved it when Archie groaned; enjoyed the bit of power he had over him like that. Archie was rocking slowly, just enough to slide the fat head of his prick over Dean's lips, just barely in his mouth. Dean pulled back and let it fall out of his mouth. "Deeper."
"Such a clever student, so studious," Archie hissed. He wrapped a huge hand around the back of Dean's head, and began fucking his mouth, hard, fast, keeping Dean on the edge of bright throbbing pleasure, even better with the slight thread of pain through it. He was moaning, rocking against his own hand--he was a mess, a happy, bliss-filled, mess--chin and throat sloppy wet, eyes streaming, he relished the sting of swollen lips, the faintest tang of copper, salt—he loved that, and loved it when Archie pulled back and came all over his throat, his chest….
"I love you," he sighed, leaned back into Archie's hand still cradling his head, as he brought himself off, quick, frantic…orgasm had him shaking from head to toe and flying with his bold declaration. "I mean it," Dean said. "I love you."
Archie said, "Let me clean you up, pretty boy."
In the morning Archie was gone. On the table sat the wooden revolver, and a note.
My dear friend,
It pains me terribly to write this but it is past time for me to move on. I am not one for putting down roots. If it was in my nature to do so and be content I would wish to stay here with you. Trust that I will never forget you.
I leave you with the model of the revolver. I do not need it to remember my friend and I wished for you to have something in return for what you have given me. I hope when you look at it, you see your friend.
Sincerely and with deep fondness,
Archibald J. Joseph.
Dean read the letter until it blurred, then flung it into the fire. Thought about burning the gun, or throwing it into the river, or just smashing it into a million pieces. But in the end, he did none of that. He wrapped it up in its cover and laid it into the bottom drawer of his dresser.
* * *
It turned out Dotty had been right. It was different between men, and there was something wrong with him, beyond this nature that drove him to men. He wasn't stupid, and it didn’t take a mule kick to get his attention. The lesson had been learned.
He'd like to think that what happened between him and Archie had just been a wild lark, that it was being drunk on it that lost him the rein on his tongue and made him say something stupid; he'd like to think that he didn’t regret a minute…that it had been worth everything.
But it wasn't.
It hurt almost worse than Tobe dying, and he wished mightily that he'd never met that bastard Archie, because than he'd still have his ridiculous dreams and fantasies. No--he was *grateful* not to get dreams of the bonfire anymore, or see those eyes in the flames. They'd flown away with Archie. Whatever they'd meant, he was sure as fuck it wasn't that worthless sonofa bitch, Archibald Joseph.
Dean wasn't able to drown in misery for long—or at all. Gabe got sick, and then the business of the forge picked up, and he had an odd run on protective amulets, and there was the garden to take care of if he wanted vegetables that summer….
When he lifted his head up again for a breath, spring was easing its way into summer.
Samuel
1852
Sam woke with a cry, quickly smothered. He'd had an odd dream, one that made no sense. He'd been packing a trunk with doves, or pigeons or such, snatching them out of the air and shoving them into a seemingly bottomless trunk…and he'd woken with tears on his face. That made him instantly angry. Tears were for women. He shifted against the warm weight against his side—and let out an exasperated groan.
"How many times I gotta tell you animals sleep on the floor?" He got a growl in response, and maybe a lick on the arm, the touch was too light and fleeting to be sure. "Little bastard, fillin' up my bed with critters…." He rolled out of bed and hissed at the touch of cold floor boards under his feet. Shuffled to the sink stand in the corner and poured a bit of water from the pitcher into the white and blue enameled bowl and a splash into the tumbler. He scrubbed his face with the freezing water, grabbed the can of tooth powder sitting near the tumbler. Wet his finger and dumped a bit of powder on it, scrubbed it vigorously around in his mouth until all he tasted was mint. He spit, rinsed, gulped a bit of fresh water, and pronounced himself fit for the day. The dog was completely uninterested in anything but being able to sprawl now that Sam had left the bed.
Sam scowled at the dog. "Lazy ass…." He got a rolling growl in return and smiled. That ugly little bastard stinking up his bed was probably the only thing breathing that he understood.
He opened the bedroom door and blinked against the light streaming out of the window at the end of the hall, bright enough to light the stairs all the way to the bottom floor. Sam walked down the hall, trailing his hand over the crisp new wallpaper. He liked that about Robert's house—it was always clean and warm, filled with light and good smells of all sorts.
He eased his way quietly down the stairs, not wanting to wake Robert but of course, the man was up already. He rose the second the sun did. Sam smelled coffee, and his mouth watered. Robert had a fancy foreign thing that made coffee—a press he called it, and it made powerful good coffee—no grounds or shell bits or anything but pure coffee in it. He smelled eggs, and ham, and toast and knew there was probably a good strawberry jam too. He poured himself a cup of still hot coffee and stuffing a piece of toast into his mouth, headed towards the study.
There sat Robert Singer at his huge desk, deeply absorbed in an open book. There were other books piled in uneven stacks on either end of the desk, and on the floor, leaning against tables and even stacked on one end of the little velvet curlicue of a sofa. The air smelled good, of beeswax candles, the warm scent of the apple wood he liked to burn. Robert was scratching away, no doubt taking notes on whatever he was researching. In the early morning quiet, the sound of the pen's nib was almost as loud as the tick of the old clock on the mantle.
Robert's was expression blank…far away. He ran a hand through his hair and Sam was startled. Where had all the grey come from?
Robert hummed faintly, combing fingers through his beard, frowning, tugging at the ends before seeming to come back from a great distance. He blinked in surprise, then smiled at Sam. "There you are, boy."
Sam felt a warm rush of pleasure, waved his cup at Robert. "Morning, Uncle. Sorry to sleep in, but it's been a hell of a long time since I slept in a bed that didn't try to crawl 'way from me."
Robert smirked. "That so?"
"Yessir. Have you given any thought to what we talked about the other day?"
"Boy, I ain't thought about air else since you brought it up. And I still think it's foolishness and I'd tell you so again but Winchesters are known for being hard-headed lack-wits so I won’t waste my breath. I know that woman told you you need to atone for what's been done to you. Well, I say that's crazy. Weren't your fault." He leaned back in his chair, and stared a hole in Sam. "Having said that, it's true that what's been done can't be undone. What it did…well, it didn't just do it to you. If it don’t come for you, than it's marked your descendants. Your son's sons."
Sam felt like screaming, tearing something to shreds…the poison in him had ruined him forever. Until death and beyond…he pulled his shattered self together and managed a bitter sort of laugh. "Son's sons, hunh? Well, small mercies--that ain't likely to happen."
Robert's eyebrows climbed high. "You studying to be a priest or---"
"Or," Sam said and left it at that.
"Okay," Robert coughed. "Well, needn't be a direct line from you. See…" his forehead wrinkled and he hesitated, measuring his words. "There's a way that…well, some say there's souls that travel anywhere in time—if you think of time like a ladder, I guess. That these souls touch down nearly whole on any rung of it. That some are tied together for etern—"
"Wait, wait…what are you saying? It doesn't have to be my descendants? That's. You're saying that this…foulness is *tied* to my soul? You're telling me my *soul* could go anywhere and infect some innocent…." Sam stared at Robert for a long minute before laughing. "You're crazy, Singer. My soul's only going one way after this. One place, one fiery, final, stop."
"Have some faith, boy."
"Faith? Shit like souls and faith and fate is tales for babies, Singer—hell," Sam shouted, threw his arms wide, "you just told me I don't have a fuckin' chance."
From upstairs came deep throated barking and the sound of the dog's claws on the stairs.
Singer sprang up from his desk, bringing the flat of his hand down on the surface, hard—Sam jumped at the gunshot loud noise. "God *damn* it Samuel, try some faith," Robert roared. What Sam could see of his face over his beard was a furious red. "Try praying boy, it won’t break ya, ya damn stiff-neck!"
Sam felt ridiculously hurt. Robert had never raised his voice at him, ever, not once in all the time he was a mulish, horrible little terror of a boy….he stalked away, threw open the study door, nearly hitting the dog. "It won’t help me either, Robert. I—I'm going to wash up the dishes. Later, I'm looking for something that I can use to kill the evil son of a bitch who consigned me to hell. Help me or not, it's all the same to me."
part 21
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:hard R, more vanilla sex….
Word Count: 1934
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.)
Dean hesitated for a moment before saying, "So…I'm planning on turning over the vegetable garden tomorrow…."
Archie looked thoughtful. "That would be a good three or four days work," he mused, gazing out towards the corner the garden lay. He cut his eyes toward Dean and grinned. "Are you looking for ways to keep me here, young Master Kane?"
"Shut up," Dean mumbled and blushed bright when Archie laughed. Taking the plate and knife from Dean, he leaned over him, and pressed a kiss into his neck.
Archie stood in the kitchen, in front of the fireplace. The nights were still a little chilly, and the fire felt good. Archie looked like an ancient god, the flame's glow painting him a soft ivory, dusting his hair with threads of copper. Archie held his hands over his head as Dean washed him carefully, sweeping the washcloth in dripping arcs across his shoulders, down his ribs. He turned Archie to face away from him and washed his back, bringing the cloth lower and lower until Dean dropped all pretense of washing, cupped the swell of Archie's ass in his dripping hands. He eased to his knees and bit at that tempting flesh, soothed the nip with his tongue. "Mmmm. You taste so good…."
Archie groaned, threw his head back and closed his eyes. "Damn it Dean. You're going to kill me…"
Dean huffed a little laugh against Archie's damp skin. Licked his way over Archie's ass, his hip, until his lips were pressed up against his prick. He tapped Archie until the man opened his eyes, and when Dean knew he had his attention, opened his mouth and took him in. Dean loved it when Archie groaned; enjoyed the bit of power he had over him like that. Archie was rocking slowly, just enough to slide the fat head of his prick over Dean's lips, just barely in his mouth. Dean pulled back and let it fall out of his mouth. "Deeper."
"Such a clever student, so studious," Archie hissed. He wrapped a huge hand around the back of Dean's head, and began fucking his mouth, hard, fast, keeping Dean on the edge of bright throbbing pleasure, even better with the slight thread of pain through it. He was moaning, rocking against his own hand--he was a mess, a happy, bliss-filled, mess--chin and throat sloppy wet, eyes streaming, he relished the sting of swollen lips, the faintest tang of copper, salt—he loved that, and loved it when Archie pulled back and came all over his throat, his chest….
"I love you," he sighed, leaned back into Archie's hand still cradling his head, as he brought himself off, quick, frantic…orgasm had him shaking from head to toe and flying with his bold declaration. "I mean it," Dean said. "I love you."
Archie said, "Let me clean you up, pretty boy."
In the morning Archie was gone. On the table sat the wooden revolver, and a note.
My dear friend,
It pains me terribly to write this but it is past time for me to move on. I am not one for putting down roots. If it was in my nature to do so and be content I would wish to stay here with you. Trust that I will never forget you.
I leave you with the model of the revolver. I do not need it to remember my friend and I wished for you to have something in return for what you have given me. I hope when you look at it, you see your friend.
Sincerely and with deep fondness,
Archibald J. Joseph.
Dean read the letter until it blurred, then flung it into the fire. Thought about burning the gun, or throwing it into the river, or just smashing it into a million pieces. But in the end, he did none of that. He wrapped it up in its cover and laid it into the bottom drawer of his dresser.
It turned out Dotty had been right. It was different between men, and there was something wrong with him, beyond this nature that drove him to men. He wasn't stupid, and it didn’t take a mule kick to get his attention. The lesson had been learned.
He'd like to think that what happened between him and Archie had just been a wild lark, that it was being drunk on it that lost him the rein on his tongue and made him say something stupid; he'd like to think that he didn’t regret a minute…that it had been worth everything.
But it wasn't.
It hurt almost worse than Tobe dying, and he wished mightily that he'd never met that bastard Archie, because than he'd still have his ridiculous dreams and fantasies. No--he was *grateful* not to get dreams of the bonfire anymore, or see those eyes in the flames. They'd flown away with Archie. Whatever they'd meant, he was sure as fuck it wasn't that worthless sonofa bitch, Archibald Joseph.
Dean wasn't able to drown in misery for long—or at all. Gabe got sick, and then the business of the forge picked up, and he had an odd run on protective amulets, and there was the garden to take care of if he wanted vegetables that summer….
When he lifted his head up again for a breath, spring was easing its way into summer.
1852
Sam woke with a cry, quickly smothered. He'd had an odd dream, one that made no sense. He'd been packing a trunk with doves, or pigeons or such, snatching them out of the air and shoving them into a seemingly bottomless trunk…and he'd woken with tears on his face. That made him instantly angry. Tears were for women. He shifted against the warm weight against his side—and let out an exasperated groan.
"How many times I gotta tell you animals sleep on the floor?" He got a growl in response, and maybe a lick on the arm, the touch was too light and fleeting to be sure. "Little bastard, fillin' up my bed with critters…." He rolled out of bed and hissed at the touch of cold floor boards under his feet. Shuffled to the sink stand in the corner and poured a bit of water from the pitcher into the white and blue enameled bowl and a splash into the tumbler. He scrubbed his face with the freezing water, grabbed the can of tooth powder sitting near the tumbler. Wet his finger and dumped a bit of powder on it, scrubbed it vigorously around in his mouth until all he tasted was mint. He spit, rinsed, gulped a bit of fresh water, and pronounced himself fit for the day. The dog was completely uninterested in anything but being able to sprawl now that Sam had left the bed.
Sam scowled at the dog. "Lazy ass…." He got a rolling growl in return and smiled. That ugly little bastard stinking up his bed was probably the only thing breathing that he understood.
He opened the bedroom door and blinked against the light streaming out of the window at the end of the hall, bright enough to light the stairs all the way to the bottom floor. Sam walked down the hall, trailing his hand over the crisp new wallpaper. He liked that about Robert's house—it was always clean and warm, filled with light and good smells of all sorts.
He eased his way quietly down the stairs, not wanting to wake Robert but of course, the man was up already. He rose the second the sun did. Sam smelled coffee, and his mouth watered. Robert had a fancy foreign thing that made coffee—a press he called it, and it made powerful good coffee—no grounds or shell bits or anything but pure coffee in it. He smelled eggs, and ham, and toast and knew there was probably a good strawberry jam too. He poured himself a cup of still hot coffee and stuffing a piece of toast into his mouth, headed towards the study.
There sat Robert Singer at his huge desk, deeply absorbed in an open book. There were other books piled in uneven stacks on either end of the desk, and on the floor, leaning against tables and even stacked on one end of the little velvet curlicue of a sofa. The air smelled good, of beeswax candles, the warm scent of the apple wood he liked to burn. Robert was scratching away, no doubt taking notes on whatever he was researching. In the early morning quiet, the sound of the pen's nib was almost as loud as the tick of the old clock on the mantle.
Robert's was expression blank…far away. He ran a hand through his hair and Sam was startled. Where had all the grey come from?
Robert hummed faintly, combing fingers through his beard, frowning, tugging at the ends before seeming to come back from a great distance. He blinked in surprise, then smiled at Sam. "There you are, boy."
Sam felt a warm rush of pleasure, waved his cup at Robert. "Morning, Uncle. Sorry to sleep in, but it's been a hell of a long time since I slept in a bed that didn't try to crawl 'way from me."
Robert smirked. "That so?"
"Yessir. Have you given any thought to what we talked about the other day?"
"Boy, I ain't thought about air else since you brought it up. And I still think it's foolishness and I'd tell you so again but Winchesters are known for being hard-headed lack-wits so I won’t waste my breath. I know that woman told you you need to atone for what's been done to you. Well, I say that's crazy. Weren't your fault." He leaned back in his chair, and stared a hole in Sam. "Having said that, it's true that what's been done can't be undone. What it did…well, it didn't just do it to you. If it don’t come for you, than it's marked your descendants. Your son's sons."
Sam felt like screaming, tearing something to shreds…the poison in him had ruined him forever. Until death and beyond…he pulled his shattered self together and managed a bitter sort of laugh. "Son's sons, hunh? Well, small mercies--that ain't likely to happen."
Robert's eyebrows climbed high. "You studying to be a priest or---"
"Or," Sam said and left it at that.
"Okay," Robert coughed. "Well, needn't be a direct line from you. See…" his forehead wrinkled and he hesitated, measuring his words. "There's a way that…well, some say there's souls that travel anywhere in time—if you think of time like a ladder, I guess. That these souls touch down nearly whole on any rung of it. That some are tied together for etern—"
"Wait, wait…what are you saying? It doesn't have to be my descendants? That's. You're saying that this…foulness is *tied* to my soul? You're telling me my *soul* could go anywhere and infect some innocent…." Sam stared at Robert for a long minute before laughing. "You're crazy, Singer. My soul's only going one way after this. One place, one fiery, final, stop."
"Have some faith, boy."
"Faith? Shit like souls and faith and fate is tales for babies, Singer—hell," Sam shouted, threw his arms wide, "you just told me I don't have a fuckin' chance."
From upstairs came deep throated barking and the sound of the dog's claws on the stairs.
Singer sprang up from his desk, bringing the flat of his hand down on the surface, hard—Sam jumped at the gunshot loud noise. "God *damn* it Samuel, try some faith," Robert roared. What Sam could see of his face over his beard was a furious red. "Try praying boy, it won’t break ya, ya damn stiff-neck!"
Sam felt ridiculously hurt. Robert had never raised his voice at him, ever, not once in all the time he was a mulish, horrible little terror of a boy….he stalked away, threw open the study door, nearly hitting the dog. "It won’t help me either, Robert. I—I'm going to wash up the dishes. Later, I'm looking for something that I can use to kill the evil son of a bitch who consigned me to hell. Help me or not, it's all the same to me."
part 21
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
1/27/10 05:50 am (UTC)Still angry, I see, Sam. *sigh*
One small, nitpicky thing: Is Sam a Winchester in this? Cos I thought they were Colts. Or am I wrong? Happens all the time, so just tell me to f*** off if I'm being stupid. . .
I love this story to bits, and love even more how much you're posting these days!!!!
(no subject)
1/27/10 06:09 am (UTC)I think I've completely changed the timeline for this--I think the Show has him making that Colt in Wyoming and the Devil's Trap too at the time he was actually at sea, and in my 'verse, meeting this little kid Archie. (I think, I'm too lazy to check my notes right now). Our Sammy is little Sammy Winchester, still pissed off, still full of issues. And as has been pointed out to me, Dean Kane is Superman. *koff* but not in this story...*G*
(no subject)
1/27/10 04:45 pm (UTC)And as has been pointed out to me, Dean Kane is Superman.
Man, it took me way too long just now to get that. Whew! I am on a roll -- Life: 2, Arielle: 0.
(no subject)
1/27/10 04:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/27/10 01:12 pm (UTC)http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Colt
(July 19, 1814 – January 10, 1862)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Linoleum
"Linoleum, which he derived from the the Latin words linum ("flax") and oleum ("oil"), and in 1864 established the Linoleum Manufacturing Company Ltd., with a factory at Staines, near London."
I'm so loving this story. What year are you setting it? *snickers* It's got demons in it and such like and I'm fussing about the floor.
(no subject)
1/27/10 04:33 pm (UTC)But hey--it's SpN and you like it!! *BEAMS*
(no subject)
1/27/10 05:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/27/10 05:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/27/10 05:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/27/10 01:59 pm (UTC)I knew it. You just...have to be mean. You just have to break hearts! It's like you're some kind of crazy *freaky meanie heart-breaky* person!
I don't know why i even read your stuff!!!
*flails*
Oh, Dean, oh Sam....
*sniffle*
(no subject)
1/27/10 04:37 pm (UTC)I know right?
'cause it's not like you ever break any hearts or nuthin'...*koff*
(no subject)
1/27/10 06:18 pm (UTC)My boys are always happy in the end!!
*flails at you*
It's me, I'm too lazy to sign in.
1/27/10 04:14 pm (UTC)I miss Tobe.
And the part with Sam and Bobby is sad. I feel so bad for poor Sammy. I love how you can weave something as sci-fi and fantastical as time-traveling souls into an Old Western setting. Know what?
You're awesome. :)
Re: It's me, I'm too lazy to sign in.
1/27/10 04:39 pm (UTC)something as sci-fi and fantastical as time-traveling souls into an Old Western setting
You know, when you put it like that, I sound like a complete nutjob. *beams*
(no subject)
1/27/10 11:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/27/10 11:27 pm (UTC)Thank you lovey, thank you!!! I will try to get more out by this weekend! :)
(no subject)
2/1/10 09:37 pm (UTC)And the conversation between Sam and Bobby... so intense and so sad. :(
Can't wait for the next, hon!
(no subject)
2/1/10 11:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/7/10 02:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/7/10 03:24 am (UTC)