SpN: Non Timebo Mala 21/?
2/1/10 08:06 pm![[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:R
Word Count: 2277
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.)
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."
"This is what I've found—"
They'd settled back into the routine of digging through the reams of dusty parchments filled with tiny, faded writing, obscure monographs, and arcane books that Robert had stacked in towers and piled in the corners of the room. It was as if Sam and he had never hollered at one another, stormed out of the room—something Sam was damn grateful for. He hated the uncomfortable act of apologizing. It never felt honest. When he lost his temper, he meant it. What he said when he was angry was just the truth—maybe a little overmuch the truth sometimes, but there it was. At least Uncle Robert understood. He never pushed him for an apology, or cast dark disappointed eyes at him like Dad had.
Robert's voice rumbled on, his eyes jumping from Sam to the pile of papers, rolled, or creased, or crumbled and carefully smoothed out again, that lay in front of him. He found what he was searching for, a yellowed roll covered over with writing; he smoothed the curl of it carefully and turned it so Sam could see it too. "Now, I gotta bushel load of notes on what we're about. It's a damn common story, magic weapons—"
Robert sounded offended by the surfeit of tales and Sam snorted—actually it still sounded silly to him, for all that it was a life and death kind of situation. Felt like, like they were digging through fairy tales looking for help. Maybe some prince was going to come out of nowhere and kiss him out of this nightmare. He grinned at the impossible image and Robert looked up, caught him just as he was starting to smile. "Glad to see ya in a good mood fer once. Maybe you wanna do this on yer own, since yer enjoying it so much?" Robert's accent always thickened some when he was mad or annoyed. Sam peeked at him, trying to hide behind his messy hair the way he'd done as a kid--shit.
Man looked like a bear with a stomach ache…"Uncle, swear, it wasn't this makin' me laugh—fuck. I—I—I'm all ears. Waiting. For. You know." Sure, he wasn't going to apologize for yesterday morning…but…Sam figured it wouldn't hurt none to be the most agreeable he could manage. Even the dog had left off chewing on table legs and whatnot, as if he was doing his part to be pleasant.
Robert huffed and pushed the parchment closer to Sam. "This here is a lot more productive than those books. Seems we got a actual recipe for makin' a killing blade. Now, from what I can piece together, it's not so much ingredients as timing, and words, and knowledge--*belief*--in what you're makin. There's a man I know, a blacksmith, who knows the world we do. He's trained in all the old ways, an African--he's from that town you and your daddy and Caleb spent a few weeks in a year ago. I think it was that water-woman job, am I right?"
Sam huffed. He'd hated the job—days of slogging knee-deep through the muddy river, cold as the ass end of hell and them stinking of mold and rot from sliding around on the slimy banks of it. In the end, they'd got her with silver and salt, and she'd never sweet talk another poor fool to his death. And Sam had had no complaint of the company. Caleb always had been decent to him; his praise after the act had made him feel ten feet tall… "I don’t remember hearing anything about the blacksmith when we were there…."
He frowned. The only thing he'd remembered about the town was the weird feeling that'd gripped him when he saw that boy—or rather, that man. Like as if he'd known him. Like he knew him better than he knew Caleb. And he'd been prettier, too. Sam'd always thought there was no one alive as good to look at as Caleb--up until that day.
Robert was talking and Sam forced himself to catch up. "Well, he's out there. I gotta few witch jars buried about the property, made by his hands. And those protective sigils, the ones made outta iron, nailed in the side of the house—he made those too. He's a right clever fellow I hear. I ain't met him personally but I've exchanged a few letters, exchanged a coupla dozen packages or so with him over the years."
Sam nodded. He remembered helping Robert bury some jars around the apple orchard that took up most of the land nearest the house. The apple orchard. He sighed. Another place where he felt safe, and at home. He'd loved climbing the trees, hiding in them when he was a boy. At the moment, the trees were almost in full bloom; petals drifted all about and fell against the windows like snow. He liked the look of it….
"--ain't disturbing ya none, am I?"
Sam grimaced. "I'm sorry—don’t know what's wrong with me, my mind keeps flopping all over the place."
"Hmm." Robert shifted through the pile again and picked up a few sheets of paper, idly skimming what was written on them. "Anyway, Tobias is just the man to do this for you. He'll make something just as worthy as Shamshir-e Zomorrodnegar—Solomon's sword, or Cronus's sickle, *that* he used on his dad's--eh—well, that probably wouldn't make a handy tool for what you want. Carnwennan, the witch-killer, that was King Arthur's knife. A knife might be just the thing...all these magic things, all them champions, raised up to kill evil things."
"Well, we know I'm hardly any kind of champion. But I am pretty damn good with a knife, I've been told. And I got the experience in killing evil things with them."
Robert shrugged. "We're all of us good at killing, boy, that's certain. Now, I'd normally send the man a letter, and warn him of your coming—"
Sam hissed, and started to rise from his chair, but Robert waved him back down "—but I know you got the patience of a bobcat with a burr under it's tail, so I'm going to let you take the letter with you. And we'll get you stocked up and ready to go. All we have to do is get these ingredients together. It has to be gathered with your own hand. Everything should only be touched by you, and filled with your purpose. Tobias will know the why and the how." He stood, all in a hurry now that they were ready. "We'll have to pay him."
"Uncle…I don’t…if my pockets were any flatter, they'd be inside out."
"Your dad, he put some money away for you in case…in case. You take some with you. As for Tobe, we can't pay cash for what we want. But I have some gifts for him. Something he'd cherish."
Sam spent a few days gathering what Robert told him he'd need—surprisingly little. What he hadn't told him was how blood in the making would make the knife completely unstoppable, make it a truly invincible weapon. Blood of a demon. Or an angel, which Sam figured was the fairy tale part of the story. If there was anything he was sure of it was that angels didn’t exist. As for needing the blood of a demon, couldn't be much difference between that and human blood tainted with it. Sam's heart twisted painnfully with the thought of it, but he'd had a lot of practice keeping it off his face.
* * * *
"This here flask has got the holy water in it—don’t spill it. This package has got beeswax from the hives, an' this one's got. Chamomile flowers in, and this one's got alligator-pepper. Don’t lose it. He likes it for spice," he said to Sam's questioning look. "Everything ain't about killing evil things—gotta take care of the everyday business of livin', too. Something do you powerful good to remember, boy." He shoved the packages into the leather bag Sam had slung over the black horse's back. "Strung tightern' a bow, I swear…."
Sam ignored Robert and the comments he knew were directed to Sam's way of relaxing...or more to the point, his lack of it. Wasn't worried. He was headed to a town that was the major gathering point for transients. There'd be someone there not picky about what they fucked. He might be ugly, but he'd managed to talk up a fair amount of relaxation…and if that didn't work out for him, he had a dollar or two—there was bound to be a 'laundress' in town and a blow job was a blow job. He wiped his nose and flicked quick through the packages he'd picked to carry-- paper twists of willow switches, a small bag of red clay, a mix of minerals…all meant to go toward making the knife this Tobias fellow would make—hopefully.
When everything was packed, and Robert had handed over a portion of the money Dad had left for him, he leaned over in the saddle and hung his arm down, shaking the sleeve of his jacket. When the dog latched on to it, he pulled him up in front of him. "And don't break wind, for god's sake," he muttered, "you liked to have killed me coming out here."
He snuck a quick scratch over the dog's bony skull and squeezed his ears. The dog whined, happy to be on the trail again and pushed back against Sam, his compact, solid self baking heat into Sam's chest was welcome. He thanked Robert, putting every ounce of the gratitude he felt into his good-bye, and Robert made him promise to spend the coming winter with him. It was a promise Sam wanted to make—he hoped with everything he had they'd be back to Singer's come November.
Waller watched with great interest the progress of a boy on a big black horse, something on the saddle in front of him.
Stranger, of course. Lately there'd been a lot of strangers coming through town. Some right odd fellas—the keep-to-themselves kind. Quite a few drovers come in and out of town, too. Them cowboys, loud and stupid most of 'em, generally pretty good-natured boys, though... if he was of that ilk, he'd certainly fallen on hard times. He had that look in the eyes, like he'd seen too much for all he was a young one. His clothes were dusty and ill-fitting. Could be because of how tall he was, and skinny, like he was a good dozen or so meals behind. The thing squatting in front of him was about the ugliest critter he'd ever seen, kind of a pinkish and dirty white color, with red eyes and a mouth near cutting his head in two. Had to be a dog…maybe. Waller squinted at it, and it squinted back, and then grinned. Every fang in its head was exposed, and it slurped a tongue like a long, wet strip of red flannel over its muzzle. Uglier than sin it was, and Waller had the feeling it was laughing at him. Like it knew damn well what he was thinking and didn’t give a fuck. Waller grinned right with it. He knew a kindred spirit when he saw one.
The boy on the other hand he took an instant dislike to.
"Hey, old timer. Any place a man can get a room here abouts?" The boy called and Waller frowned.
"Maybe."
The boy sat silently, waiting. Waller picked a bit of tobacco off his lip and watched a buzzard ride the wind. The dog shifted a bit and laughed some more. Waller shook a little more tobacco from the pouch in his vest pocket into a cigarette paper. In the distance, a woman's voice called out for a Jimmy to come on home right now or else. Waller rolled the paper and licked it closed….
"*Well*?"
Waller smiled at the dog. "Well what?"
The boy's face went through some interesting changes Waller thought, before settling on patience. He wore it pretty bad. "Well, would you mind telling me where a body could get a room," he said slowly.
Waller pointed up the street. "See that sign says 'boarding house'," he answered just as slowly. "Lessen you cain't read…"
The boys face went a startling red. "I can read well enough," he said through his teeth. "Thanks," was muttered a second or two after.
So the pup had some kind of manners after all, Waller thought. "You're welcome," Waller said aloud, as cheerful as he could, and enjoyed the show. That boy had some active nostrils, and a right amusing way of pursing up his mouth.
The dog seemed to agree. Shame such a clever thing was keeping such bad company.
Sam led the horse toward the house the old goat had pointed out. He'd see about renting a room and then he'd look for the African. He rubbed hard at his face, tired to the bone and feeling like he was painted with grit and mud. It'd been a long, unpleasant way back to Bristol. He'd been sorry to have to leave Singer's place, more so this time than any other. It was as much a haven as it always was to him, a place of rest and restoration. He sighed. He'd do this thing, maybe head out to Caleb's if he was home, and not out on the trail of something. There was no doubt with his help, he'd nail this supernatural beast into it's coffin…and if he survived that, he'd go to Robert's and maybe…maybe he'd stay there, if Robert was willing.
part 22
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 2277
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.)
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."
"This is what I've found—"
They'd settled back into the routine of digging through the reams of dusty parchments filled with tiny, faded writing, obscure monographs, and arcane books that Robert had stacked in towers and piled in the corners of the room. It was as if Sam and he had never hollered at one another, stormed out of the room—something Sam was damn grateful for. He hated the uncomfortable act of apologizing. It never felt honest. When he lost his temper, he meant it. What he said when he was angry was just the truth—maybe a little overmuch the truth sometimes, but there it was. At least Uncle Robert understood. He never pushed him for an apology, or cast dark disappointed eyes at him like Dad had.
Robert's voice rumbled on, his eyes jumping from Sam to the pile of papers, rolled, or creased, or crumbled and carefully smoothed out again, that lay in front of him. He found what he was searching for, a yellowed roll covered over with writing; he smoothed the curl of it carefully and turned it so Sam could see it too. "Now, I gotta bushel load of notes on what we're about. It's a damn common story, magic weapons—"
Robert sounded offended by the surfeit of tales and Sam snorted—actually it still sounded silly to him, for all that it was a life and death kind of situation. Felt like, like they were digging through fairy tales looking for help. Maybe some prince was going to come out of nowhere and kiss him out of this nightmare. He grinned at the impossible image and Robert looked up, caught him just as he was starting to smile. "Glad to see ya in a good mood fer once. Maybe you wanna do this on yer own, since yer enjoying it so much?" Robert's accent always thickened some when he was mad or annoyed. Sam peeked at him, trying to hide behind his messy hair the way he'd done as a kid--shit.
Man looked like a bear with a stomach ache…"Uncle, swear, it wasn't this makin' me laugh—fuck. I—I—I'm all ears. Waiting. For. You know." Sure, he wasn't going to apologize for yesterday morning…but…Sam figured it wouldn't hurt none to be the most agreeable he could manage. Even the dog had left off chewing on table legs and whatnot, as if he was doing his part to be pleasant.
Robert huffed and pushed the parchment closer to Sam. "This here is a lot more productive than those books. Seems we got a actual recipe for makin' a killing blade. Now, from what I can piece together, it's not so much ingredients as timing, and words, and knowledge--*belief*--in what you're makin. There's a man I know, a blacksmith, who knows the world we do. He's trained in all the old ways, an African--he's from that town you and your daddy and Caleb spent a few weeks in a year ago. I think it was that water-woman job, am I right?"
Sam huffed. He'd hated the job—days of slogging knee-deep through the muddy river, cold as the ass end of hell and them stinking of mold and rot from sliding around on the slimy banks of it. In the end, they'd got her with silver and salt, and she'd never sweet talk another poor fool to his death. And Sam had had no complaint of the company. Caleb always had been decent to him; his praise after the act had made him feel ten feet tall… "I don’t remember hearing anything about the blacksmith when we were there…."
He frowned. The only thing he'd remembered about the town was the weird feeling that'd gripped him when he saw that boy—or rather, that man. Like as if he'd known him. Like he knew him better than he knew Caleb. And he'd been prettier, too. Sam'd always thought there was no one alive as good to look at as Caleb--up until that day.
Robert was talking and Sam forced himself to catch up. "Well, he's out there. I gotta few witch jars buried about the property, made by his hands. And those protective sigils, the ones made outta iron, nailed in the side of the house—he made those too. He's a right clever fellow I hear. I ain't met him personally but I've exchanged a few letters, exchanged a coupla dozen packages or so with him over the years."
Sam nodded. He remembered helping Robert bury some jars around the apple orchard that took up most of the land nearest the house. The apple orchard. He sighed. Another place where he felt safe, and at home. He'd loved climbing the trees, hiding in them when he was a boy. At the moment, the trees were almost in full bloom; petals drifted all about and fell against the windows like snow. He liked the look of it….
"--ain't disturbing ya none, am I?"
Sam grimaced. "I'm sorry—don’t know what's wrong with me, my mind keeps flopping all over the place."
"Hmm." Robert shifted through the pile again and picked up a few sheets of paper, idly skimming what was written on them. "Anyway, Tobias is just the man to do this for you. He'll make something just as worthy as Shamshir-e Zomorrodnegar—Solomon's sword, or Cronus's sickle, *that* he used on his dad's--eh—well, that probably wouldn't make a handy tool for what you want. Carnwennan, the witch-killer, that was King Arthur's knife. A knife might be just the thing...all these magic things, all them champions, raised up to kill evil things."
"Well, we know I'm hardly any kind of champion. But I am pretty damn good with a knife, I've been told. And I got the experience in killing evil things with them."
Robert shrugged. "We're all of us good at killing, boy, that's certain. Now, I'd normally send the man a letter, and warn him of your coming—"
Sam hissed, and started to rise from his chair, but Robert waved him back down "—but I know you got the patience of a bobcat with a burr under it's tail, so I'm going to let you take the letter with you. And we'll get you stocked up and ready to go. All we have to do is get these ingredients together. It has to be gathered with your own hand. Everything should only be touched by you, and filled with your purpose. Tobias will know the why and the how." He stood, all in a hurry now that they were ready. "We'll have to pay him."
"Uncle…I don’t…if my pockets were any flatter, they'd be inside out."
"Your dad, he put some money away for you in case…in case. You take some with you. As for Tobe, we can't pay cash for what we want. But I have some gifts for him. Something he'd cherish."
Sam spent a few days gathering what Robert told him he'd need—surprisingly little. What he hadn't told him was how blood in the making would make the knife completely unstoppable, make it a truly invincible weapon. Blood of a demon. Or an angel, which Sam figured was the fairy tale part of the story. If there was anything he was sure of it was that angels didn’t exist. As for needing the blood of a demon, couldn't be much difference between that and human blood tainted with it. Sam's heart twisted painnfully with the thought of it, but he'd had a lot of practice keeping it off his face.
"This here flask has got the holy water in it—don’t spill it. This package has got beeswax from the hives, an' this one's got. Chamomile flowers in, and this one's got alligator-pepper. Don’t lose it. He likes it for spice," he said to Sam's questioning look. "Everything ain't about killing evil things—gotta take care of the everyday business of livin', too. Something do you powerful good to remember, boy." He shoved the packages into the leather bag Sam had slung over the black horse's back. "Strung tightern' a bow, I swear…."
Sam ignored Robert and the comments he knew were directed to Sam's way of relaxing...or more to the point, his lack of it. Wasn't worried. He was headed to a town that was the major gathering point for transients. There'd be someone there not picky about what they fucked. He might be ugly, but he'd managed to talk up a fair amount of relaxation…and if that didn't work out for him, he had a dollar or two—there was bound to be a 'laundress' in town and a blow job was a blow job. He wiped his nose and flicked quick through the packages he'd picked to carry-- paper twists of willow switches, a small bag of red clay, a mix of minerals…all meant to go toward making the knife this Tobias fellow would make—hopefully.
When everything was packed, and Robert had handed over a portion of the money Dad had left for him, he leaned over in the saddle and hung his arm down, shaking the sleeve of his jacket. When the dog latched on to it, he pulled him up in front of him. "And don't break wind, for god's sake," he muttered, "you liked to have killed me coming out here."
He snuck a quick scratch over the dog's bony skull and squeezed his ears. The dog whined, happy to be on the trail again and pushed back against Sam, his compact, solid self baking heat into Sam's chest was welcome. He thanked Robert, putting every ounce of the gratitude he felt into his good-bye, and Robert made him promise to spend the coming winter with him. It was a promise Sam wanted to make—he hoped with everything he had they'd be back to Singer's come November.
Waller watched with great interest the progress of a boy on a big black horse, something on the saddle in front of him.
Stranger, of course. Lately there'd been a lot of strangers coming through town. Some right odd fellas—the keep-to-themselves kind. Quite a few drovers come in and out of town, too. Them cowboys, loud and stupid most of 'em, generally pretty good-natured boys, though... if he was of that ilk, he'd certainly fallen on hard times. He had that look in the eyes, like he'd seen too much for all he was a young one. His clothes were dusty and ill-fitting. Could be because of how tall he was, and skinny, like he was a good dozen or so meals behind. The thing squatting in front of him was about the ugliest critter he'd ever seen, kind of a pinkish and dirty white color, with red eyes and a mouth near cutting his head in two. Had to be a dog…maybe. Waller squinted at it, and it squinted back, and then grinned. Every fang in its head was exposed, and it slurped a tongue like a long, wet strip of red flannel over its muzzle. Uglier than sin it was, and Waller had the feeling it was laughing at him. Like it knew damn well what he was thinking and didn’t give a fuck. Waller grinned right with it. He knew a kindred spirit when he saw one.
The boy on the other hand he took an instant dislike to.
"Hey, old timer. Any place a man can get a room here abouts?" The boy called and Waller frowned.
"Maybe."
The boy sat silently, waiting. Waller picked a bit of tobacco off his lip and watched a buzzard ride the wind. The dog shifted a bit and laughed some more. Waller shook a little more tobacco from the pouch in his vest pocket into a cigarette paper. In the distance, a woman's voice called out for a Jimmy to come on home right now or else. Waller rolled the paper and licked it closed….
"*Well*?"
Waller smiled at the dog. "Well what?"
The boy's face went through some interesting changes Waller thought, before settling on patience. He wore it pretty bad. "Well, would you mind telling me where a body could get a room," he said slowly.
Waller pointed up the street. "See that sign says 'boarding house'," he answered just as slowly. "Lessen you cain't read…"
The boys face went a startling red. "I can read well enough," he said through his teeth. "Thanks," was muttered a second or two after.
So the pup had some kind of manners after all, Waller thought. "You're welcome," Waller said aloud, as cheerful as he could, and enjoyed the show. That boy had some active nostrils, and a right amusing way of pursing up his mouth.
The dog seemed to agree. Shame such a clever thing was keeping such bad company.
Sam led the horse toward the house the old goat had pointed out. He'd see about renting a room and then he'd look for the African. He rubbed hard at his face, tired to the bone and feeling like he was painted with grit and mud. It'd been a long, unpleasant way back to Bristol. He'd been sorry to have to leave Singer's place, more so this time than any other. It was as much a haven as it always was to him, a place of rest and restoration. He sighed. He'd do this thing, maybe head out to Caleb's if he was home, and not out on the trail of something. There was no doubt with his help, he'd nail this supernatural beast into it's coffin…and if he survived that, he'd go to Robert's and maybe…maybe he'd stay there, if Robert was willing.
part 22
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2/3/10 04:35 am (UTC)And we will have meeting soon!!!