SpN: Non Timebo Mala part 22/?
2/10/10 04:05 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: 2683
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.)
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
Sam tossed the dollar in his hand up, caught it, tossed and caught, tossed and caught, before sighing. Well, it'd be something different than his hand; he was getting heartily sick of that. And while he couldn't get what he really wanted, it'd be at least…something.
The dog huffed and brought Sam's attention back to him. He was scratching viciously at his ragged ears—his little red eyes were narrow slits as he gave himself over fully to the task. Sam pointed at his feet. "You stay right here, you hear me?"
The dog looked up at him, and wagged its whip of a tail. "I mean it, you stay." The tail whipped the air harder, but the little bastard didn’t move so Sam figured could be he'd still have a dog when he came out of the laundry. Maybe. He figured between him and the dog, they were mostly one good meal away from a parting of the ways. The dog had surprised him by sticking with him saving his life when the shack burnt but he knew it was only a matter of time. That's why he'd never given him a name--what was the point, when the dog would just wander off some day, same as the way he'd wandered in? Couldn't blame him if he did—it was just the way things were.
He didn't look back as he headed towards a building that was barely more than a couple of low-slung huts pasted together. The sign nailed to the wall said 'laundry', but he'd got it from a fellow in town that shirts weren't all that got washed there. And the price was a damn sight better than the five dollars a night the parlor house madam demanded, was sure to be cleaner than the cribs squatting behind the stables….
His heels knocked out a hollow beat on the boards set over a shallow, vile smelling ditch. There were other houses around it, small houses cheaply thrown together looking like it'd only take a good wind to flatten them. There were children, wild-looking things, playing in some of the yards. A few stopped whatever they were doing and gawked up at him. Sam grit his teeth and ignored them, their excited whispers.
He pushed his way between lines of laundry, carefully winding his way past shirts, pants, underclothes and such hung out to dry, the light breeze making them shimmy in the air. He walked up a couple of narrow stairs to the half-open door and pushed through.
The smell of wet paper and pepper—that sharp smell he associated with laundry soap—was thick in the air. The air itself was warm, and settled on him like a cloak. He dropped the bag of shirts he'd brought with him and hailed the woman whose laundry it was. "Hello? Anyone in?" Copper pots boiled away in the fireplace, some with a thick plopping sound—starch being prepared for shirts, Sam figured. Along one wall, a few wooden tubs sat steaming, full of washing.
A door creaked open in the rear of the laundry, and a tired looking, maybe middle-aged woman came out. She was scowling faintly, held a long wooden bat or paddle in one hand. "Yeah?" she said, looking at Sam speculatively and started to smile—seemed to catch herself and sighed, and now her look was impatient. "Twenty-five cents a load," she snapped. She set the paddle down by the tubs before turning to face Sam. "More fer ironing."
Sam shoved the bag forward with a little kick. "What's it cost for more than that?"
"More than—really?" She planted a hand on her hip and tipped her head. "A fine set up man like you? Don’t need to pay."
Rage filled him hot and sudden, like an arroyo in a flash flood. "I came here to get laid, not play games. Save that hogwash for suckers."
She took a step back and for some reason, looked confused. When she spoke again, she seemed a little flustered. "I—I charge a dollar for home care," she said and tried to paste a cocky grin on, but her lips fell.
Sam took a deep breath and forced calm on himself. "Look, I ain't gonna hurt you. All I want is…here." He tossed her the dollar. "And you on your knees."
She took a deep breath herself. "All right. Jest let me turn the sign. So we don’t get disturbed." She walked quickly to the door, turned the sign so that it read, 'closed' and turned back to Sam. She twisted her hands. "I don’t get many—" she glanced at him, at the tight, angry line of his lips and caught whatever she was going to say and turned it into, "young bucks here. Or many as clean as you." she tried a little smile and Sam could let himself agree to that. He grinned.
"Well, in that case, whyn't you show me how much you like it?"
She snorted, back in control and confident in her ability to make a man come undone. Sam could see it in her walk, in the wry little smile she gave him. She raised her eyebrows when he opened his pants and lowered them. "Well now, nature's been generous to you in more'n height, I see," she smirked and Sam nodded. He knew. He'd been told it before, the few times he'd had someone interested in his dick. He closed his eyes and licked his lips, guided her down with a hand on her head. Imagined someone else, someone stocky and muscled, with close-cropped hair, strong jaw and thick strong neck. His hips jerked at the heat surrounding him, the tongue that rubbed and slipped around him. He groaned. A strong hand grabbed the shaft and jerked what didn’t fit in her mouth. Calluses scrapped down the length of him and it felt good--right. She squeezed him just right, too--not too light like most women, sure and fast—business like. He jerked his hips, and she made an encouraging noise, it went right through him. "Fuck…" She concentrated on the head, sucking like she loved it, her hand coming up to his hips, sliding around to pull him in. For a moment he thought she was going to finger him too, and the idea made him curse, jerk forward and spill in her mouth.
She jerked back and spit on the floor. "Warn a person, damn it." She got up and grabbed a bucket of soapy water, threw it on the spunk she'd spat on the floor. He laughed, bones and muscle still warm and relaxed, back pressed against the wall and not feeling at all like moving.
"Pull your pants up, you fool. Can't be lolling around here with your pecker hanging out. I still got washing to do."
"Sweet-talker, you are," he smirked. He set the twenty-five cents for the shirts on a table. "Okay?"
"That's fine." She wiped her thumbs across the corners of her mouth. "Another ten cents will get you tea. If you like."
"Yeah? Okay. Tea sounds mighty good right now."
* * * *
They sat on the steps of the laundry and passed a cigarette back and forth, drank tea. The warm, wet scent of the boiling clothes wafted out of the shop, and the clothes hanging on the line filtered the sun shining through them. "Might not seem like it, but I'm picky about who I let in my laundry. I make my living washing clothes. But sometimes the money don’t go far enough. I got kids back east. I send money." She stared out past the scrubby front yard of the laundry, what she was looking at was a thousand miles away, might as well be an ocean away. Sam exhaled a fat plume of gray smoke and passed the butt back to her. He knew that look. Seen it on his dad often enough to recognize it well.
"That's…good of you. To try'n take care of family." Sam wasn't about to argue with whatever it took to get by. He'd done what he had to himself, things he wasn't about to brag about…wasn't ashamed of either.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, snorted. "Sure. Well, I got work to do, and you…tell me where you want your laundry sent." She was on her feet, grinding the butt end to a swooping black smear on the step.
Sam stood too, and brushed off his knees. "I'm at the boarding house on Main…say; can you tell me where I can find the African blacksmith? His shop's not in town…."
"African—oh, you mean Toby? He's dead. Died early spring." She started at the look on Sam's face. "You knew him? I'm sorry to give you the news like that, mister. Hear he was a good blacksmith."
After she went inside, Sam grabbed the knife from his boot, and carved a quick pentagram into the lowest step. It wasn't much but…something about her…he liked her.
And now, here he was, good plans gone up in smoke. He'd been counting on this man…Sam wondered if it was possible to just—do it himself. Maybe he'd find someone willing to indulge him. Make a knife the way he wanted it. Damn. It would have been a sight easier to do with Tobias Kane's help. He felt a flash of guilt, and a prick of regret. Robert had seemed to like this Kane fellow. He'd be sad to hear of his passing. Robert had made him seem like a kind man….
Sam blew out a frustrated breath, and set his cap a little lower on his head. All right. He'd head out to…to Caleb's, see what hunts were under way, and who was where, and then 'round again to Robert's.
* * * *
It hadn't taken long to pack his gear, and settle up at the boarding house. The dog followed him as they made their way out of town. He glanced at the barber shop porch, and that guy was hitched there again, leaning against the wall and smoking like he was getting paid for it. He waved, and just like that, the little son of a bitch dog ran right up on the porch and jumped against the old goats' legs like they were long lost brothers meeting again. He leaned over and scratched the flat skull and squeezed the little bastard's chewed up ears like he knew exactly what the dog liked. Sam was…some kind of feeling that wasn't jealousy, 'cause he'd never be jealous over a waste of skin like that animal. "Get back over here!"
The old goat looked up and grinned. "Leaving town already?"
Sam took a few seconds to remember his manners. "Yes sir," he said, and sighed. Somehow the words fell out--"Came all this way to see someone and just found out they passed in the spring."
The old man held up on sending the dog into fits of ecstasy and fixed Sam with a glare that could peel paint off a wall. "You don’t mean Mr. Kane, the blacksmith, rest his soul?"
"Yessir, that was him. I…could you tell me where they buried him? I'd like to pay my respects. My uncle counted Mr. Kane as a friend and I feel I should do that for him, since I'm here."
Waller stood and walked to the edge of the porch. Leaned against the rail and Sam got the uncomfortable feeling the old man was examining him inside as well as out. "Well, that's mannerly of you, for sure. Tell you what—he's out at the forge. His son buried him on his own property. He probably won’t mind if you go to see old Tobe. Tell him Waller, that's me, sent ya."
Sam nodded and gave the old man his thanks. Didn't take too long, maybe an hour, a little less and he was standing near the forge's fence-line. There was a nice little house at the end of a dirt road. Wood siding painted white, shingle roof practically gleaming—brand new, Sam thought. The forge must be doing well. There was a good old garden close by the house, planted with herbs, and farther behind that, a small barn and corral. An old horse and a younger one wandered up to the fence, eyes on him. Sam smiled a little. Bet they were the greedy sort, he thought, certain of getting some sugar or an apple…
The blacksmith shop was at one side of the house, all of brick and stone, and far enough away not to be a fire risk to the little wooden house. All the shutters were open, on house and forge, and smoke trailed from the forge's chimney. The son must be in the forge….
Sam tied the black horse up to a hitching post near the forge and walked across the brick terrace to the shop. There was a Seal of Solomon worked in the brick—a very basic one, more a warning than a weapon, but evident to those who knew. He approved. He stepped over the threshold and called out, "Hello, Mr. Kane?"
A man turned to face him, came out of the shadows of the rear of the shop. His hands were dripping with water and he wiped them on his thighs. "I am Mr. Kane," he said. "Can I help you?"
Sam almost fell back out of the shop. "No, I—I'm looking for Tobias Kane's *son*. I—" Damn it.
Sweat broke out all over him, his breath seized up like a fist had closed over his lungs. He shook his head, because words wouldn't come. The white man glaring at him snapped, "I *am* his son."
Sam started to say that it was impossible, but some ounce of self-preservation held him back. If this fellow said he was the man's son, well…that's who he must be. Somehow. The man glaring at him was a wall of muscle wrapped in golden skin, thick arms crossed over a broad *bare* chest not exactly hidden behind a leather apron that fell to his knees. Sam thought the sight was damn fine…Sam's dick agreed, it really was an awfully fine sight. He shifted, spread his legs a bit and swallowed. "I—" he stopped. His vision swam, a faint itch shivered under his skull bone…"I know you."
The man's startlingly green eyes blinked rapidly. "What? I—don't see how. No. You don’t know me," he said, and Sam got the feeling the man was lying. Didn't bother him in the least--he'd search out the truth later if it was important. Right now, he had work on his mind.
"Feller in town, Waller, told me to tell you he sent me. But what I come out here for was to bring Mr. Kane greetings from my uncle, Robert Singer. Waller let me know that Mr. Kane passed. I come to pay my respects. My uncle will be darn unhappy to know your—your--dad passed."
Green eyes thawed a bit. "That's kind. Robert Singer…right, right. I remember. Pa and he often exchanged letters, and packages. Pa was putting one together before—before."
Sam said, "I have some packages for him now. And…a request I was going to make of him. Maybe we could speak, after?"
Green eyes nodded. "Sounds fine, Mr…."
"Just call me Sam. And you?"
Green eyes held his hand out and Sam had to tear his eyes away from the play of muscle. "Dean. Pleased to meet you," he said, but at the moment Sam looked up, he could see in the man's eyes, in the twist of his mouth, he was anything but. Sam grinned wide, held the man's hand tighter and shook it a little harder. He was used to that look, to being assessed and found lacking. He smiled a bit wider, put everything he had into it and tried not to…to laugh.
"I'm real damn pleased to meet you, Dean. Real pleased."
part 23
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 2683
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.)
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
Sam tossed the dollar in his hand up, caught it, tossed and caught, tossed and caught, before sighing. Well, it'd be something different than his hand; he was getting heartily sick of that. And while he couldn't get what he really wanted, it'd be at least…something.
The dog huffed and brought Sam's attention back to him. He was scratching viciously at his ragged ears—his little red eyes were narrow slits as he gave himself over fully to the task. Sam pointed at his feet. "You stay right here, you hear me?"
The dog looked up at him, and wagged its whip of a tail. "I mean it, you stay." The tail whipped the air harder, but the little bastard didn’t move so Sam figured could be he'd still have a dog when he came out of the laundry. Maybe. He figured between him and the dog, they were mostly one good meal away from a parting of the ways. The dog had surprised him by sticking with him saving his life when the shack burnt but he knew it was only a matter of time. That's why he'd never given him a name--what was the point, when the dog would just wander off some day, same as the way he'd wandered in? Couldn't blame him if he did—it was just the way things were.
He didn't look back as he headed towards a building that was barely more than a couple of low-slung huts pasted together. The sign nailed to the wall said 'laundry', but he'd got it from a fellow in town that shirts weren't all that got washed there. And the price was a damn sight better than the five dollars a night the parlor house madam demanded, was sure to be cleaner than the cribs squatting behind the stables….
His heels knocked out a hollow beat on the boards set over a shallow, vile smelling ditch. There were other houses around it, small houses cheaply thrown together looking like it'd only take a good wind to flatten them. There were children, wild-looking things, playing in some of the yards. A few stopped whatever they were doing and gawked up at him. Sam grit his teeth and ignored them, their excited whispers.
He pushed his way between lines of laundry, carefully winding his way past shirts, pants, underclothes and such hung out to dry, the light breeze making them shimmy in the air. He walked up a couple of narrow stairs to the half-open door and pushed through.
The smell of wet paper and pepper—that sharp smell he associated with laundry soap—was thick in the air. The air itself was warm, and settled on him like a cloak. He dropped the bag of shirts he'd brought with him and hailed the woman whose laundry it was. "Hello? Anyone in?" Copper pots boiled away in the fireplace, some with a thick plopping sound—starch being prepared for shirts, Sam figured. Along one wall, a few wooden tubs sat steaming, full of washing.
A door creaked open in the rear of the laundry, and a tired looking, maybe middle-aged woman came out. She was scowling faintly, held a long wooden bat or paddle in one hand. "Yeah?" she said, looking at Sam speculatively and started to smile—seemed to catch herself and sighed, and now her look was impatient. "Twenty-five cents a load," she snapped. She set the paddle down by the tubs before turning to face Sam. "More fer ironing."
Sam shoved the bag forward with a little kick. "What's it cost for more than that?"
"More than—really?" She planted a hand on her hip and tipped her head. "A fine set up man like you? Don’t need to pay."
Rage filled him hot and sudden, like an arroyo in a flash flood. "I came here to get laid, not play games. Save that hogwash for suckers."
She took a step back and for some reason, looked confused. When she spoke again, she seemed a little flustered. "I—I charge a dollar for home care," she said and tried to paste a cocky grin on, but her lips fell.
Sam took a deep breath and forced calm on himself. "Look, I ain't gonna hurt you. All I want is…here." He tossed her the dollar. "And you on your knees."
She took a deep breath herself. "All right. Jest let me turn the sign. So we don’t get disturbed." She walked quickly to the door, turned the sign so that it read, 'closed' and turned back to Sam. She twisted her hands. "I don’t get many—" she glanced at him, at the tight, angry line of his lips and caught whatever she was going to say and turned it into, "young bucks here. Or many as clean as you." she tried a little smile and Sam could let himself agree to that. He grinned.
"Well, in that case, whyn't you show me how much you like it?"
She snorted, back in control and confident in her ability to make a man come undone. Sam could see it in her walk, in the wry little smile she gave him. She raised her eyebrows when he opened his pants and lowered them. "Well now, nature's been generous to you in more'n height, I see," she smirked and Sam nodded. He knew. He'd been told it before, the few times he'd had someone interested in his dick. He closed his eyes and licked his lips, guided her down with a hand on her head. Imagined someone else, someone stocky and muscled, with close-cropped hair, strong jaw and thick strong neck. His hips jerked at the heat surrounding him, the tongue that rubbed and slipped around him. He groaned. A strong hand grabbed the shaft and jerked what didn’t fit in her mouth. Calluses scrapped down the length of him and it felt good--right. She squeezed him just right, too--not too light like most women, sure and fast—business like. He jerked his hips, and she made an encouraging noise, it went right through him. "Fuck…" She concentrated on the head, sucking like she loved it, her hand coming up to his hips, sliding around to pull him in. For a moment he thought she was going to finger him too, and the idea made him curse, jerk forward and spill in her mouth.
She jerked back and spit on the floor. "Warn a person, damn it." She got up and grabbed a bucket of soapy water, threw it on the spunk she'd spat on the floor. He laughed, bones and muscle still warm and relaxed, back pressed against the wall and not feeling at all like moving.
"Pull your pants up, you fool. Can't be lolling around here with your pecker hanging out. I still got washing to do."
"Sweet-talker, you are," he smirked. He set the twenty-five cents for the shirts on a table. "Okay?"
"That's fine." She wiped her thumbs across the corners of her mouth. "Another ten cents will get you tea. If you like."
"Yeah? Okay. Tea sounds mighty good right now."
They sat on the steps of the laundry and passed a cigarette back and forth, drank tea. The warm, wet scent of the boiling clothes wafted out of the shop, and the clothes hanging on the line filtered the sun shining through them. "Might not seem like it, but I'm picky about who I let in my laundry. I make my living washing clothes. But sometimes the money don’t go far enough. I got kids back east. I send money." She stared out past the scrubby front yard of the laundry, what she was looking at was a thousand miles away, might as well be an ocean away. Sam exhaled a fat plume of gray smoke and passed the butt back to her. He knew that look. Seen it on his dad often enough to recognize it well.
"That's…good of you. To try'n take care of family." Sam wasn't about to argue with whatever it took to get by. He'd done what he had to himself, things he wasn't about to brag about…wasn't ashamed of either.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, snorted. "Sure. Well, I got work to do, and you…tell me where you want your laundry sent." She was on her feet, grinding the butt end to a swooping black smear on the step.
Sam stood too, and brushed off his knees. "I'm at the boarding house on Main…say; can you tell me where I can find the African blacksmith? His shop's not in town…."
"African—oh, you mean Toby? He's dead. Died early spring." She started at the look on Sam's face. "You knew him? I'm sorry to give you the news like that, mister. Hear he was a good blacksmith."
After she went inside, Sam grabbed the knife from his boot, and carved a quick pentagram into the lowest step. It wasn't much but…something about her…he liked her.
And now, here he was, good plans gone up in smoke. He'd been counting on this man…Sam wondered if it was possible to just—do it himself. Maybe he'd find someone willing to indulge him. Make a knife the way he wanted it. Damn. It would have been a sight easier to do with Tobias Kane's help. He felt a flash of guilt, and a prick of regret. Robert had seemed to like this Kane fellow. He'd be sad to hear of his passing. Robert had made him seem like a kind man….
Sam blew out a frustrated breath, and set his cap a little lower on his head. All right. He'd head out to…to Caleb's, see what hunts were under way, and who was where, and then 'round again to Robert's.
It hadn't taken long to pack his gear, and settle up at the boarding house. The dog followed him as they made their way out of town. He glanced at the barber shop porch, and that guy was hitched there again, leaning against the wall and smoking like he was getting paid for it. He waved, and just like that, the little son of a bitch dog ran right up on the porch and jumped against the old goats' legs like they were long lost brothers meeting again. He leaned over and scratched the flat skull and squeezed the little bastard's chewed up ears like he knew exactly what the dog liked. Sam was…some kind of feeling that wasn't jealousy, 'cause he'd never be jealous over a waste of skin like that animal. "Get back over here!"
The old goat looked up and grinned. "Leaving town already?"
Sam took a few seconds to remember his manners. "Yes sir," he said, and sighed. Somehow the words fell out--"Came all this way to see someone and just found out they passed in the spring."
The old man held up on sending the dog into fits of ecstasy and fixed Sam with a glare that could peel paint off a wall. "You don’t mean Mr. Kane, the blacksmith, rest his soul?"
"Yessir, that was him. I…could you tell me where they buried him? I'd like to pay my respects. My uncle counted Mr. Kane as a friend and I feel I should do that for him, since I'm here."
Waller stood and walked to the edge of the porch. Leaned against the rail and Sam got the uncomfortable feeling the old man was examining him inside as well as out. "Well, that's mannerly of you, for sure. Tell you what—he's out at the forge. His son buried him on his own property. He probably won’t mind if you go to see old Tobe. Tell him Waller, that's me, sent ya."
Sam nodded and gave the old man his thanks. Didn't take too long, maybe an hour, a little less and he was standing near the forge's fence-line. There was a nice little house at the end of a dirt road. Wood siding painted white, shingle roof practically gleaming—brand new, Sam thought. The forge must be doing well. There was a good old garden close by the house, planted with herbs, and farther behind that, a small barn and corral. An old horse and a younger one wandered up to the fence, eyes on him. Sam smiled a little. Bet they were the greedy sort, he thought, certain of getting some sugar or an apple…
The blacksmith shop was at one side of the house, all of brick and stone, and far enough away not to be a fire risk to the little wooden house. All the shutters were open, on house and forge, and smoke trailed from the forge's chimney. The son must be in the forge….
Sam tied the black horse up to a hitching post near the forge and walked across the brick terrace to the shop. There was a Seal of Solomon worked in the brick—a very basic one, more a warning than a weapon, but evident to those who knew. He approved. He stepped over the threshold and called out, "Hello, Mr. Kane?"
A man turned to face him, came out of the shadows of the rear of the shop. His hands were dripping with water and he wiped them on his thighs. "I am Mr. Kane," he said. "Can I help you?"
Sam almost fell back out of the shop. "No, I—I'm looking for Tobias Kane's *son*. I—" Damn it.
Sweat broke out all over him, his breath seized up like a fist had closed over his lungs. He shook his head, because words wouldn't come. The white man glaring at him snapped, "I *am* his son."
Sam started to say that it was impossible, but some ounce of self-preservation held him back. If this fellow said he was the man's son, well…that's who he must be. Somehow. The man glaring at him was a wall of muscle wrapped in golden skin, thick arms crossed over a broad *bare* chest not exactly hidden behind a leather apron that fell to his knees. Sam thought the sight was damn fine…Sam's dick agreed, it really was an awfully fine sight. He shifted, spread his legs a bit and swallowed. "I—" he stopped. His vision swam, a faint itch shivered under his skull bone…"I know you."
The man's startlingly green eyes blinked rapidly. "What? I—don't see how. No. You don’t know me," he said, and Sam got the feeling the man was lying. Didn't bother him in the least--he'd search out the truth later if it was important. Right now, he had work on his mind.
"Feller in town, Waller, told me to tell you he sent me. But what I come out here for was to bring Mr. Kane greetings from my uncle, Robert Singer. Waller let me know that Mr. Kane passed. I come to pay my respects. My uncle will be darn unhappy to know your—your--dad passed."
Green eyes thawed a bit. "That's kind. Robert Singer…right, right. I remember. Pa and he often exchanged letters, and packages. Pa was putting one together before—before."
Sam said, "I have some packages for him now. And…a request I was going to make of him. Maybe we could speak, after?"
Green eyes nodded. "Sounds fine, Mr…."
"Just call me Sam. And you?"
Green eyes held his hand out and Sam had to tear his eyes away from the play of muscle. "Dean. Pleased to meet you," he said, but at the moment Sam looked up, he could see in the man's eyes, in the twist of his mouth, he was anything but. Sam grinned wide, held the man's hand tighter and shook it a little harder. He was used to that look, to being assessed and found lacking. He smiled a bit wider, put everything he had into it and tried not to…to laugh.
"I'm real damn pleased to meet you, Dean. Real pleased."
part 23
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2/10/10 09:19 pm (UTC)YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!
Ahem.
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2/10/10 09:50 pm (UTC)I know, right?
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2/11/10 12:17 pm (UTC)*snickers and flees for her life*
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2/12/10 03:41 pm (UTC)EVOL!!!!!!
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2/12/10 11:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/12/10 11:30 pm (UTC)Hey, my current journal name is MizzRose, Amateur Liar. I think that says it all! ;)
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2/12/10 11:35 pm (UTC)http://www.journalfen.net/tools/memories.bml?user=fandom_wank&keyword=Supernatural&filter=all
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2/13/10 12:00 am (UTC)Sadly, seems this fandom is *FULL* of scaryazz whackos!
(no subject)
2/13/10 12:03 am (UTC)http://www.journalfen.net/tools/memories.bml?user=fandom_wank
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2/10/10 10:30 pm (UTC)So they meet, and Sam and his damn *inferiority complex* is making him all...mean and then, and then, and then....
You're gonna drag this out and make this horrible and angsty and painful, aren't you? You're gonna make me *cry*.
*hoards hankies*
*twirls you*
YAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!
(no subject)
2/12/10 03:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/15/10 07:28 am (UTC)So excited that they finally met!
(no subject)
2/15/10 07:47 am (UTC)Thanks, your comment was like chocolate truffles!
(no subject)
3/11/10 02:08 pm (UTC)Please prepare yourself for more comments.
YAY!
It's me again.
3/11/10 04:53 pm (UTC)