SpN: Non Timebo Mala 23/?
3/9/10 11:10 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: 3609
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.)
OMG, you guys--I just can't. This is all I managed to get out and I've been working on it forever and I've got nothing. I'm almost in TEARS here. What the fuck...I feel like a big bowl of sugar frosted fail-ios....*sob*
Story.
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 his hand tight and shook it, a little hard. 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.
Sam walked across the yard, headed towards a corner made by an overgrown hedge and the rail fence that ran the length of the yard. Set in the corner was an old red oak; a single grave lay under it. He looked past the oak, across the wide, empty field on the other side of the fence. His eyes were drawn to the mountains over the way. The mountains here weren't as high as the mountains Singer made his home in, but there was still snow on the bony peaks. Below them, a stand of pines lined the ridge. For some reason, he thought of summer nights and bonfires and for a moment, felt a little peace….
Drawn back to the oak, he saw the grave under its canopy was neat, carefully tended. An unusual headstone rested at one end. It was an iron-work cross, the center engraved with the man's name, date of birth and death, and a single word under that, blacksmith. Like that described everything about the man. But Sam suspected what there was to know about the man was right there in the neatly tended grave, the care that'd gone into the making of the marker, the low, wrought-iron fence that surrounded the grave. Tobias's son was talented. In every part of that grave, settled in the shade of that oak, the love he felt for Kane was so plain it was a shout to the heavens. "Here lies a man I loved"…Sam felt a burning pain rise up in his throat. This boy had a spot where his father rested—Sam had the vague memory of a shack some ways back of Wyoming territory, burnt to the ground, the wood ash mixing with what was left of his dad's bones. John Winchester had no marker, nothing to say someone cared. Never once had he told the man I love you, or show it any way but to follow him where he went. There was no grave for John Winchester—*he* was the only sign of his dad's passage through the world—the piss-poor, weak and twisted shadow of a stronger man.
Sam was weary of it. Weary as fuck of it all. He felt wore-out, cored out like an apple. Just for once in his life he wanted something to come easy. Wanted not to claw for it, waste time yearning for it…
He dropped down to the grass and the dog came to sit next to him, wheezing as it settled against his ribs. "Damn it. Leave me alone," he growled, but didn't move and the dog huffed, leaned harder. "No one ever listens to me," Sam said, dipped his head and his shoulders shook in silent laughter—what else could he do?
There was a scuffle in the grass behind him and he didn't need to turn to know it was Kane come up on him. "Well man, I had no idea you'd be that tore up over Pa's passing. I'm sorry—I should have come out with you." Sam looked up at him and Kane took a quick step back. "Unless you want me to leave?"
"Nah—just a little wore out, I guess. Time for us to be moving along anyway." He pulled himself up and staggered—Kane reached out for him but yanked his hand back before they touched. Sam smirked and started to walk past him, snapping his fingers for the dog to follow. Kane surprised him by stepping in front of him, his face set in a determined scowl. He shook his head.
"Look at you; you're ready to drop in a heap where you stand. You ain't going no place until you've eaten, and rested a bit. The least I can do for the kindness Mr. Singer showed my pa is to treat his nephew right. "
"Yeah, well thank you, it's a right nice offer but I said already, it's past time I was leaving." Sam wanted to run, wanted to curse at the man. Sometimes…people trying to act nice just felt—like a nettle down his back. He glared, putting everything he felt into it--and those green eyes flashed right back at him.
Kane crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a long, steady look right back at Sam. "Son, my pa could peel paint off a wall with a look, make trees grow right 'round back into the ground," he drawled and mad as he was, Sam couldn't help the little twitch in his chest. He tried to force more heat into his glare instead.
Kane went on. "Mr. Kane, he could make rivers boil, make birds fall out the sky, plucked, stuffed, and dripping gravy, with a single glance." He tilted his head; narrowed eyes seemed to consider Sam. "I'd say…that look of yours…you're only about half-way there."
Sam felt a stab of envy that his glare didn’t measure up to Tobias'…until he realized just what it was that he was pouting about and the edges of his frown twitched.
The corners of Kane's scowl twitched right back, a liquid sparkle filled his eyes and Sam noticed there were spider-web fine lines in the corners of his eyes, sitting there like some kind of good thing waiting to pop up and suddenly that was something he had to see. He pouted harder—it felt like the right thing to do and it was. Kane started to laugh and Sam cracked out a laugh with him. The dog jumped and stared at Sam like he'd shot off a gun and Kane laughed so hard those fine lines crinkled deeper, his cheeks turned red, and his eyes--oh. Sam thought he'd never seen anything finer, nothing finer at all—he whipped away to face the mountains again. "It's…a good place you've put your dad. A fine spot here."
"Thanks," his voice came soft behind Sam, still warm from laughter. "We used to wait here for the Arapaho, long time ago. Pa told me stories, taught me what it meant to be a blacksmith, a man, while we sat out here…."
They sat quietly for a bit, Sam thinking about Dean and how differently they came to be men and yet, somehow, he felt they shared something…some connection. He glanced over at Dean whose attention was on the mountains. There was something in his presence that calmed whatever it was inside Sam that burned and scratched at him, felt like all the time. He was reluctant to move on right away…maybe dinner'd be just what he needed. "If dinner's still offered…."
"'Course it is, you're welcome, you and your dog," Kane said, and extended a hand to the dog. The dog lifted his lip, and a faint, faint growl leaked out of his jaws, low enough that only Sam heard and he trapped the dog between his knees—certain he was going to take Kane's fingers off. Instead, the dog settled back with an odd look on his face, not moving to bite, or retreat, just fixed Kane with what Sam swore was a contemplative stare. It was odd behavior—the dog hadn't marked him an enemy but hadn't marked him a friend either, Sam thought. Well.At least the dog knew enough not to be taken in by a smile and a pair of broad shoulders…he watched Kane stroll back to the house…or a truly fine ass. Damn dog was smarter than he was; Missouri had the truth of it.
Sam watched the way Kane's hips move and sighed. Damn him for always thinking with his dick.
* * * *
Sam settled the black horse in the barn, wiped him down, made sure the charms he'd woven into his mane were still in place. He'd redo the sigils that had been sweated away before he left in the morning. His pack he left in a corner of an empty stall, along with his bedroll and rifle. If Kane was going to want something else besides conversation in trade for dinner, he might also be moved to let him stay until morning. It'd be good to get a full night's rest. If not, it'd be no big thing to repack and ride on.
There was a pump close by, and he found a zinc wash tub upended against it. He filled it, carried it back inside the barn. The water was cold, but it was almost a treat to be able to wash up. Sam enjoyed any chance to scrub clean--he had a great many strikes against him already, no need to be crusted with dirt like some saddle-bum.
He was slinging the used water into the yard when he heard Kane call out. Sam froze before he realized the man was singing, and not yelling at him to clear off. It was surprising…and kind of nice, too. He tilted his head, closed his eyes and listened. It was almost…the song seemed a bit familiar. Probably heard it before, some where. Sam found himself humming too as he finished cleaning up, and slipped on a clean shirt. The laundry woman had done a good job by his shirts. They were bright, and smelled nice…he relished the look and the smell of clean things.
By the time Sam trotted up to the house's porch, Kane was done singing, though Sam still heard a low murmur of sound. He knocked on the door, and it swung open. The first thing he saw was the dog, lurking by the fireplace and looking up at Sam like he'd been caught in the henhouse with a mouth full of feathers.
"Come on in, food's ready. Sit down." There were two plates, full of chunks of ham in navy beans and topped with some thick slices of bread. Sam wiped at his mouth. Just looking at it set his stomach to howling and Kane smiled, jerked his chin to a couple of silver pitchers on the table. "Milk's in there, and water in the other if you like. Help yourself." Kane turned to the corner by the fireplace and dropped something on a plate on the floor and came back. "Your dog was hungry. What's his name?"
Sam just stared at him open-mouthed, until Kane dropped his eyes and shrugged. "All right. Go on, then--dig in."
Sam grabbed his spoon and ate fast as he could. Any minute Kane was going to snatch the plate away and laugh at him, but not before Sam made sure he got his fill.
What was wrong with the man anyway? Sam understood the feeding him—most folk would share what they had if they could, but this? Table set like for a favored guest, and feeding his ugly little flea bag of a dog, not to mention talking to the dog like he'd answer him…in Sam's experience, men who looked the way Kane did and took an interest in him, were more about taking instead of giving, and taking hard at that. It confused him. And whatever kind of thing confused Sam, made him mad.
"Why you treatin' the dog like that, Mr. Kane? Why'd you let him in your house?"
Kane looked surprised, and then, those green eyes landed on Sam's and he smiled. "Sam, I wish you'd call me Dean—there can't be that many years between us, and we can talk like friends, don’t you think? As for the dog—" Kane laughed, soft almost to himself. "You sound like my pa on the subject. I like animals. For the work they do for us, for keepin' us company, heck, for just sitting around and looking pretty, they should be repaid. Well—"he grinned at Sam "—not that your dog there's a pretty one, clever though he is. No offense."
Sam looked away from him and shoveled food down his throat. Clever. They were that, him and the dog. That was one thing they had going for them. He didn't need to be told a thing more than once. Not something he knew about himself from the inside out. "Thank you," he muttered from around a mouthful of food. "Thanks for feeding us. It's…it's good."
Kane said a soft you welcome. Kane was an odd duck, for damn sure. Sam looked up just as Kane was looking away, but not fast enough for Sam to miss a certain look in the green eyes. *That* look was unmistakable. He smirked at Kane, relaxed now he was back on familiar ground. Sam breathed out his confusion. Kane or Dean or whatever he wanted Sam to call him—he might come at it a little different than others but what he wanted was the same. Sam bent over his plate and mopped up the sauce from the beans with a slice of the bread. Hell, man was damn good looking and clean, so Sam counted it as good fortune. A place to sleep was practically guaranteed this evening.
Kane cleaned up and refused Sam's offer of help, sent him out to the barn to get his bedroll and bid him goodnight, leaving Sam alone in the kitchen, staring after him. Sam climbed the ladder to the loft Kane had assured him was where he expected him to sleep. Sam didn’t figure he'd read Kane wrong…unless maybe he had. He'd mistaken good looks for goodness inside before. There'd been a time or two he'd hobbled around with cracked ribs that he'd had to blame on being unseated, or black eyes he'd convinced Dad he'd gotten in a fight. He'd hated lying, hated disappointing the man further…but not useless, those lessons. Sam had learned to be dead certain what a fellow wanted. Best he just let this thing lay, and let Kane tell him how he wanted to be repaid.
* * * *
When the morning came and he'd slept undisturbed all night, Sam did his best to get gone quietly, but the man was already up and cooking, had corn cakes and molasses and bacon set on a platter, the good smell of coffee cooking on the stove put him in mind of Robert Singer's, and for a moment he felt lost.
He dropped his bags when Kane looked at him. There was something in his eyes Sam didn't get, the man's hands were fisted and his jaw was tight. "Sit down and eat before you go," he said and Sam sure felt like those weren't the words Kane wanted to use. The man set a plate and fork and an empty mug in front of him. "Help yourself to the food."
"Thank you, Mr. Kane."
"I'm not pouring you a cup until you call me by my name. Dean. It ain't hard." It was said as a joke but there was steel under the words and Sam just shrugged.
"Dean, I'd truly enjoy a cup of coffee and some of that bacon, it smells good. Unless you want something for it now—"
"I invited you as a guest." Dean jerked his head at him. "You go ahead and eat. I'm gonna take care of my animals—I'll feed your dog too."
He walked away like Sam had done something wrong. Sam cast his mind back over the conversation but couldn't puzzle out what he might have done to upset the man. He was still eating when Dean came back, just nibbling now, because good food like this was not something to be had traveling. Dean looked surprised to see him at the table still, his expression unfolded into one of pleasure. Sam had to admit, it was kind of heady to be regarded in that way.
Dean waited until Sam had finished eating and then asked him, "Sam, if I'm not overstepping, I have to say, I envy you your horse—he's a beautiful animal. I wondered about something, too--I haven't seen a white man paint his horse like that. Fact is, I thought I recognized a few of those markings on him. And the charms braided in his mane—where'd you learn to do that?"
"Well, I got that from my dad. He…was a powerful careful man." Sam smiled at his description of the man. Careful hardly began to describe it.
"I can see you're anxious to take off, but I'm hoping you’re not in so much a hurry that you can't spare time to share lunch with me—Sam, let me be honest here—"
Sam waited for the point at which Dean would expect payment, but the man looked away, colored a little, in fact, gave every sign that he was embarrassed, but for what?
"I'm a little—" Dean laughed, sharp and short before going on. "Well, a little lonely. It's been a few months since I've talked to anyone for longer than it took business to be settled. You say you brought a package from Mr. Singer, do you mind bringing it and going over what he sent? And maybe you can help me get something together for your uncle in return? You'd know what he wants—" Dean stopped talking and full out blushed. "I'm sorry; my mouth is running on fierce."
Sam shook his head. "I don’t mind Dean. I know what it's like not having anyone to talk to. Besides a dog and a horse, I mean. They're pleasant company but they keep close council."
Dean laughed and Sam cursed himself for constantly searching out ways to make the man laugh.
Sam came back to the house and they sat at the table. He unfolded the package, and set the items out.
He unwrapped a piece of rawhide to reveal a glass bottle packed in wool. "This here Robert said your pa would especially want."
Dean took it, opened it and sniffed, before laughing. "That's his pepper—" and his eyes got distant. Hurt. He smiled at Sam. "This has come a very long way. How did Mr. Singer come by it?"
Sam shook his head. "How he does what he does I never question. Now he sent this also." He unfolded a rawhide tied rectangle of parchment, and spread its contents, a bundle of yellowish, hairy leaves, on the table. "It's very good for cleansing, it also chases off nightmares. You burn it, or steep it like tea and make a wash…."
The afternoon passed pleasantly, went into lunch and on past to dinner and this time, Sam helped Dean with the meal. It was strange, he felt almost as safe here at Kane's as he did at Robert's, or with Missouri. He caught Dean looking at him from time to time, but it didn’t seem to be that flat disgusted look he'd had when first they met. Or that look full of want either. He seemed content to just be talking. Sam didn't mind that, either. It was a nice change, he thought.
They were sitting on the porch, heels kicked up against the porch rail, sipping whiskey and sharing a cigarette, when Dean asked Sam, "There was something you wanted to speak to my pa about. I got the feeling it might be that part of 'smithing folks act like don't exist, but come up here for charms anyway."
Sam dipped his head and laughed, cast a look sideways at Dean. He would never get tired of seeing that fellow smile….
He had his hat propped on his knee, and was looking at Dean through a curtain of hair when the man reached out and flicked the thick fringe of bang and scowled at him. "You need your hair cut, you look somewhat like a sheep," he said.
"Beg your pardon, son?" Sam jerked back, affronted. He snapped the hat back up, and slapped it on, the brim almost to the bridge of his nose. "My hair's just fine. Got it cut right before I left for here. It ain't…is it that long? I mean—ain't none of your business." The spurt of anger died away almost as quick as it came—Dean didn't mean anything by what he'd said, Sam was pretty sure…he sniffed, loud and put upon, waited a bit and it came, like spring showers—Dean's laugh. He reached out and poured a touch of whiskey into the glass Sam clutched in his fist.
"Don’t mean nothing by it. Just…it's a little hard to tell if you're a girl or a boy."
Sam caught that Dean was just teasing, it reminded him of Caleb, and he enjoyed it. "Well, if my alarming lack of breasts ain't tipped you off, then maybe you been screwing the wrong thing." He meant it as a joke but Dean looked…odd. Angry.
Sam tipped the brim of his cap up a bit and tried to search out what was wrong. They'd been having a good talk until then…Sam blinked—of course. The reason Dean hadn't come to his room…Sam sighed. It wasn't the first time he'd read a man wrong. He was glad that he hadn't gone farther. He liked Dean and wouldn’t have wanted to put him in the dirt. Dean finished off his drink and slapped the glass down.
"well, Sam Singer, I think it's time to hit the hay."
Sam was surprised—figured Dean would be showing him the gate, the way he'd looked. He asked, "I'm staying again?" and didn't bother to correct Dean's assumption concerning his last name.
"Well…yeah?"
"All right then. Thank you." Sam shook his head. This was…beginning to frighten him. It was too good. The last time something had been this good for him…he'd found out how horribly bad it could turn.
part 24
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 3609
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.)
OMG, you guys--I just can't. This is all I managed to get out and I've been working on it forever and I've got nothing. I'm almost in TEARS here. What the fuck...I feel like a big bowl of sugar frosted fail-ios....*sob*
Story.
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 his hand tight and shook it, a little hard. 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.
Sam walked across the yard, headed towards a corner made by an overgrown hedge and the rail fence that ran the length of the yard. Set in the corner was an old red oak; a single grave lay under it. He looked past the oak, across the wide, empty field on the other side of the fence. His eyes were drawn to the mountains over the way. The mountains here weren't as high as the mountains Singer made his home in, but there was still snow on the bony peaks. Below them, a stand of pines lined the ridge. For some reason, he thought of summer nights and bonfires and for a moment, felt a little peace….
Drawn back to the oak, he saw the grave under its canopy was neat, carefully tended. An unusual headstone rested at one end. It was an iron-work cross, the center engraved with the man's name, date of birth and death, and a single word under that, blacksmith. Like that described everything about the man. But Sam suspected what there was to know about the man was right there in the neatly tended grave, the care that'd gone into the making of the marker, the low, wrought-iron fence that surrounded the grave. Tobias's son was talented. In every part of that grave, settled in the shade of that oak, the love he felt for Kane was so plain it was a shout to the heavens. "Here lies a man I loved"…Sam felt a burning pain rise up in his throat. This boy had a spot where his father rested—Sam had the vague memory of a shack some ways back of Wyoming territory, burnt to the ground, the wood ash mixing with what was left of his dad's bones. John Winchester had no marker, nothing to say someone cared. Never once had he told the man I love you, or show it any way but to follow him where he went. There was no grave for John Winchester—*he* was the only sign of his dad's passage through the world—the piss-poor, weak and twisted shadow of a stronger man.
Sam was weary of it. Weary as fuck of it all. He felt wore-out, cored out like an apple. Just for once in his life he wanted something to come easy. Wanted not to claw for it, waste time yearning for it…
He dropped down to the grass and the dog came to sit next to him, wheezing as it settled against his ribs. "Damn it. Leave me alone," he growled, but didn't move and the dog huffed, leaned harder. "No one ever listens to me," Sam said, dipped his head and his shoulders shook in silent laughter—what else could he do?
There was a scuffle in the grass behind him and he didn't need to turn to know it was Kane come up on him. "Well man, I had no idea you'd be that tore up over Pa's passing. I'm sorry—I should have come out with you." Sam looked up at him and Kane took a quick step back. "Unless you want me to leave?"
"Nah—just a little wore out, I guess. Time for us to be moving along anyway." He pulled himself up and staggered—Kane reached out for him but yanked his hand back before they touched. Sam smirked and started to walk past him, snapping his fingers for the dog to follow. Kane surprised him by stepping in front of him, his face set in a determined scowl. He shook his head.
"Look at you; you're ready to drop in a heap where you stand. You ain't going no place until you've eaten, and rested a bit. The least I can do for the kindness Mr. Singer showed my pa is to treat his nephew right. "
"Yeah, well thank you, it's a right nice offer but I said already, it's past time I was leaving." Sam wanted to run, wanted to curse at the man. Sometimes…people trying to act nice just felt—like a nettle down his back. He glared, putting everything he felt into it--and those green eyes flashed right back at him.
Kane crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a long, steady look right back at Sam. "Son, my pa could peel paint off a wall with a look, make trees grow right 'round back into the ground," he drawled and mad as he was, Sam couldn't help the little twitch in his chest. He tried to force more heat into his glare instead.
Kane went on. "Mr. Kane, he could make rivers boil, make birds fall out the sky, plucked, stuffed, and dripping gravy, with a single glance." He tilted his head; narrowed eyes seemed to consider Sam. "I'd say…that look of yours…you're only about half-way there."
Sam felt a stab of envy that his glare didn’t measure up to Tobias'…until he realized just what it was that he was pouting about and the edges of his frown twitched.
The corners of Kane's scowl twitched right back, a liquid sparkle filled his eyes and Sam noticed there were spider-web fine lines in the corners of his eyes, sitting there like some kind of good thing waiting to pop up and suddenly that was something he had to see. He pouted harder—it felt like the right thing to do and it was. Kane started to laugh and Sam cracked out a laugh with him. The dog jumped and stared at Sam like he'd shot off a gun and Kane laughed so hard those fine lines crinkled deeper, his cheeks turned red, and his eyes--oh. Sam thought he'd never seen anything finer, nothing finer at all—he whipped away to face the mountains again. "It's…a good place you've put your dad. A fine spot here."
"Thanks," his voice came soft behind Sam, still warm from laughter. "We used to wait here for the Arapaho, long time ago. Pa told me stories, taught me what it meant to be a blacksmith, a man, while we sat out here…."
They sat quietly for a bit, Sam thinking about Dean and how differently they came to be men and yet, somehow, he felt they shared something…some connection. He glanced over at Dean whose attention was on the mountains. There was something in his presence that calmed whatever it was inside Sam that burned and scratched at him, felt like all the time. He was reluctant to move on right away…maybe dinner'd be just what he needed. "If dinner's still offered…."
"'Course it is, you're welcome, you and your dog," Kane said, and extended a hand to the dog. The dog lifted his lip, and a faint, faint growl leaked out of his jaws, low enough that only Sam heard and he trapped the dog between his knees—certain he was going to take Kane's fingers off. Instead, the dog settled back with an odd look on his face, not moving to bite, or retreat, just fixed Kane with what Sam swore was a contemplative stare. It was odd behavior—the dog hadn't marked him an enemy but hadn't marked him a friend either, Sam thought. Well.At least the dog knew enough not to be taken in by a smile and a pair of broad shoulders…he watched Kane stroll back to the house…or a truly fine ass. Damn dog was smarter than he was; Missouri had the truth of it.
Sam watched the way Kane's hips move and sighed. Damn him for always thinking with his dick.
Sam settled the black horse in the barn, wiped him down, made sure the charms he'd woven into his mane were still in place. He'd redo the sigils that had been sweated away before he left in the morning. His pack he left in a corner of an empty stall, along with his bedroll and rifle. If Kane was going to want something else besides conversation in trade for dinner, he might also be moved to let him stay until morning. It'd be good to get a full night's rest. If not, it'd be no big thing to repack and ride on.
There was a pump close by, and he found a zinc wash tub upended against it. He filled it, carried it back inside the barn. The water was cold, but it was almost a treat to be able to wash up. Sam enjoyed any chance to scrub clean--he had a great many strikes against him already, no need to be crusted with dirt like some saddle-bum.
He was slinging the used water into the yard when he heard Kane call out. Sam froze before he realized the man was singing, and not yelling at him to clear off. It was surprising…and kind of nice, too. He tilted his head, closed his eyes and listened. It was almost…the song seemed a bit familiar. Probably heard it before, some where. Sam found himself humming too as he finished cleaning up, and slipped on a clean shirt. The laundry woman had done a good job by his shirts. They were bright, and smelled nice…he relished the look and the smell of clean things.
By the time Sam trotted up to the house's porch, Kane was done singing, though Sam still heard a low murmur of sound. He knocked on the door, and it swung open. The first thing he saw was the dog, lurking by the fireplace and looking up at Sam like he'd been caught in the henhouse with a mouth full of feathers.
"Come on in, food's ready. Sit down." There were two plates, full of chunks of ham in navy beans and topped with some thick slices of bread. Sam wiped at his mouth. Just looking at it set his stomach to howling and Kane smiled, jerked his chin to a couple of silver pitchers on the table. "Milk's in there, and water in the other if you like. Help yourself." Kane turned to the corner by the fireplace and dropped something on a plate on the floor and came back. "Your dog was hungry. What's his name?"
Sam just stared at him open-mouthed, until Kane dropped his eyes and shrugged. "All right. Go on, then--dig in."
Sam grabbed his spoon and ate fast as he could. Any minute Kane was going to snatch the plate away and laugh at him, but not before Sam made sure he got his fill.
What was wrong with the man anyway? Sam understood the feeding him—most folk would share what they had if they could, but this? Table set like for a favored guest, and feeding his ugly little flea bag of a dog, not to mention talking to the dog like he'd answer him…in Sam's experience, men who looked the way Kane did and took an interest in him, were more about taking instead of giving, and taking hard at that. It confused him. And whatever kind of thing confused Sam, made him mad.
"Why you treatin' the dog like that, Mr. Kane? Why'd you let him in your house?"
Kane looked surprised, and then, those green eyes landed on Sam's and he smiled. "Sam, I wish you'd call me Dean—there can't be that many years between us, and we can talk like friends, don’t you think? As for the dog—" Kane laughed, soft almost to himself. "You sound like my pa on the subject. I like animals. For the work they do for us, for keepin' us company, heck, for just sitting around and looking pretty, they should be repaid. Well—"he grinned at Sam "—not that your dog there's a pretty one, clever though he is. No offense."
Sam looked away from him and shoveled food down his throat. Clever. They were that, him and the dog. That was one thing they had going for them. He didn't need to be told a thing more than once. Not something he knew about himself from the inside out. "Thank you," he muttered from around a mouthful of food. "Thanks for feeding us. It's…it's good."
Kane said a soft you welcome. Kane was an odd duck, for damn sure. Sam looked up just as Kane was looking away, but not fast enough for Sam to miss a certain look in the green eyes. *That* look was unmistakable. He smirked at Kane, relaxed now he was back on familiar ground. Sam breathed out his confusion. Kane or Dean or whatever he wanted Sam to call him—he might come at it a little different than others but what he wanted was the same. Sam bent over his plate and mopped up the sauce from the beans with a slice of the bread. Hell, man was damn good looking and clean, so Sam counted it as good fortune. A place to sleep was practically guaranteed this evening.
Kane cleaned up and refused Sam's offer of help, sent him out to the barn to get his bedroll and bid him goodnight, leaving Sam alone in the kitchen, staring after him. Sam climbed the ladder to the loft Kane had assured him was where he expected him to sleep. Sam didn’t figure he'd read Kane wrong…unless maybe he had. He'd mistaken good looks for goodness inside before. There'd been a time or two he'd hobbled around with cracked ribs that he'd had to blame on being unseated, or black eyes he'd convinced Dad he'd gotten in a fight. He'd hated lying, hated disappointing the man further…but not useless, those lessons. Sam had learned to be dead certain what a fellow wanted. Best he just let this thing lay, and let Kane tell him how he wanted to be repaid.
When the morning came and he'd slept undisturbed all night, Sam did his best to get gone quietly, but the man was already up and cooking, had corn cakes and molasses and bacon set on a platter, the good smell of coffee cooking on the stove put him in mind of Robert Singer's, and for a moment he felt lost.
He dropped his bags when Kane looked at him. There was something in his eyes Sam didn't get, the man's hands were fisted and his jaw was tight. "Sit down and eat before you go," he said and Sam sure felt like those weren't the words Kane wanted to use. The man set a plate and fork and an empty mug in front of him. "Help yourself to the food."
"Thank you, Mr. Kane."
"I'm not pouring you a cup until you call me by my name. Dean. It ain't hard." It was said as a joke but there was steel under the words and Sam just shrugged.
"Dean, I'd truly enjoy a cup of coffee and some of that bacon, it smells good. Unless you want something for it now—"
"I invited you as a guest." Dean jerked his head at him. "You go ahead and eat. I'm gonna take care of my animals—I'll feed your dog too."
He walked away like Sam had done something wrong. Sam cast his mind back over the conversation but couldn't puzzle out what he might have done to upset the man. He was still eating when Dean came back, just nibbling now, because good food like this was not something to be had traveling. Dean looked surprised to see him at the table still, his expression unfolded into one of pleasure. Sam had to admit, it was kind of heady to be regarded in that way.
Dean waited until Sam had finished eating and then asked him, "Sam, if I'm not overstepping, I have to say, I envy you your horse—he's a beautiful animal. I wondered about something, too--I haven't seen a white man paint his horse like that. Fact is, I thought I recognized a few of those markings on him. And the charms braided in his mane—where'd you learn to do that?"
"Well, I got that from my dad. He…was a powerful careful man." Sam smiled at his description of the man. Careful hardly began to describe it.
"I can see you're anxious to take off, but I'm hoping you’re not in so much a hurry that you can't spare time to share lunch with me—Sam, let me be honest here—"
Sam waited for the point at which Dean would expect payment, but the man looked away, colored a little, in fact, gave every sign that he was embarrassed, but for what?
"I'm a little—" Dean laughed, sharp and short before going on. "Well, a little lonely. It's been a few months since I've talked to anyone for longer than it took business to be settled. You say you brought a package from Mr. Singer, do you mind bringing it and going over what he sent? And maybe you can help me get something together for your uncle in return? You'd know what he wants—" Dean stopped talking and full out blushed. "I'm sorry; my mouth is running on fierce."
Sam shook his head. "I don’t mind Dean. I know what it's like not having anyone to talk to. Besides a dog and a horse, I mean. They're pleasant company but they keep close council."
Dean laughed and Sam cursed himself for constantly searching out ways to make the man laugh.
Sam came back to the house and they sat at the table. He unfolded the package, and set the items out.
He unwrapped a piece of rawhide to reveal a glass bottle packed in wool. "This here Robert said your pa would especially want."
Dean took it, opened it and sniffed, before laughing. "That's his pepper—" and his eyes got distant. Hurt. He smiled at Sam. "This has come a very long way. How did Mr. Singer come by it?"
Sam shook his head. "How he does what he does I never question. Now he sent this also." He unfolded a rawhide tied rectangle of parchment, and spread its contents, a bundle of yellowish, hairy leaves, on the table. "It's very good for cleansing, it also chases off nightmares. You burn it, or steep it like tea and make a wash…."
The afternoon passed pleasantly, went into lunch and on past to dinner and this time, Sam helped Dean with the meal. It was strange, he felt almost as safe here at Kane's as he did at Robert's, or with Missouri. He caught Dean looking at him from time to time, but it didn’t seem to be that flat disgusted look he'd had when first they met. Or that look full of want either. He seemed content to just be talking. Sam didn't mind that, either. It was a nice change, he thought.
They were sitting on the porch, heels kicked up against the porch rail, sipping whiskey and sharing a cigarette, when Dean asked Sam, "There was something you wanted to speak to my pa about. I got the feeling it might be that part of 'smithing folks act like don't exist, but come up here for charms anyway."
Sam dipped his head and laughed, cast a look sideways at Dean. He would never get tired of seeing that fellow smile….
He had his hat propped on his knee, and was looking at Dean through a curtain of hair when the man reached out and flicked the thick fringe of bang and scowled at him. "You need your hair cut, you look somewhat like a sheep," he said.
"Beg your pardon, son?" Sam jerked back, affronted. He snapped the hat back up, and slapped it on, the brim almost to the bridge of his nose. "My hair's just fine. Got it cut right before I left for here. It ain't…is it that long? I mean—ain't none of your business." The spurt of anger died away almost as quick as it came—Dean didn't mean anything by what he'd said, Sam was pretty sure…he sniffed, loud and put upon, waited a bit and it came, like spring showers—Dean's laugh. He reached out and poured a touch of whiskey into the glass Sam clutched in his fist.
"Don’t mean nothing by it. Just…it's a little hard to tell if you're a girl or a boy."
Sam caught that Dean was just teasing, it reminded him of Caleb, and he enjoyed it. "Well, if my alarming lack of breasts ain't tipped you off, then maybe you been screwing the wrong thing." He meant it as a joke but Dean looked…odd. Angry.
Sam tipped the brim of his cap up a bit and tried to search out what was wrong. They'd been having a good talk until then…Sam blinked—of course. The reason Dean hadn't come to his room…Sam sighed. It wasn't the first time he'd read a man wrong. He was glad that he hadn't gone farther. He liked Dean and wouldn’t have wanted to put him in the dirt. Dean finished off his drink and slapped the glass down.
"well, Sam Singer, I think it's time to hit the hay."
Sam was surprised—figured Dean would be showing him the gate, the way he'd looked. He asked, "I'm staying again?" and didn't bother to correct Dean's assumption concerning his last name.
"Well…yeah?"
"All right then. Thank you." Sam shook his head. This was…beginning to frighten him. It was too good. The last time something had been this good for him…he'd found out how horribly bad it could turn.
part 24
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(no subject)
3/10/10 06:39 am (UTC)You iz crazy, hon. I make a whole big deal every time you post with fic. We're talking roxy hot chocolate with whipped cream and my own special tune-age and my favorite chair and. . . ahem. Rambling again.
Anywho, I, uh, loved it. XD Sam not being able to help cracking jokes just to see Dean laugh? You make me a big ol' mushball, you really do. But it's so subtle and downplayed because it's. . . freakin' Sam and that kid is so internal (and wacked) I'm amazed every single time he talks. Am I wrong in assuming it's been a loooooong time since Sammy smiled? Let alone joked around and laughed?
I love this chapter, hon. You've been building up to these moments (and more, right? *nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more*) since Day One and I am frankly astounded that you not only met my expectations (which, with you, are understandably pretty damn lofty), but somehow managed to exceed them, too, damn you. It could have been cheesy or overly-shmoopy. It was neither. It was damn fine writing. Damn fine, I do declare! XD
My favorite line goes to:
He'd mistaken good looks for goodness inside before.
Simple. Direct. But, Jesus does that pack a shitload of depth, backstory, emotion and repression of emotion and everything else I'm too wiped out to think of at the moment. It resonates with us as readers pretty strongly, too. After all, who hasn't made that mistake. . . and kept making it over and over again? Sam's learned the hard way, just like we all do, that too often the insides don't match the outsides.
Luckily for us, though, in these two boys' case. . . those innards are just as fine as the packaging, which is to say MIGHTY FINE! *fans self*
*eyes you* Now no more of that silly talk. You hear me, Missy?
ETA: FIRST! Ha! *gloats. . . for cat's benefit*
(no subject)
3/10/10 09:11 pm (UTC)I love how you read Sam. In every instance you're right on point! It has been a long time since Sam really laughed, or wanted to make another person smile. It's been a long time since Sam has really *looked* at anyone else. I'm glad that it's plain what Sam's gone through--it's been a combination of mistakes and just not caring. It's obvious in canon that Dean doesn't think he's worth a lot--I think it's almost the same for Sam. I think a Sam without Dean *is* Dean.
I'm getting to the whole point of the story and I'm scared I can't do it justice, but then again, I always feel that way. Heck--I guess the person I really have to please is myself, right? *G* Though *koff*, it's been pointed out to me through the years that sometimes I get people wrong, so sometimes my characters have weird, off-key motivations...whatev! My sandbox, my rules! ;)
And thanks you a million, million times for holding my wizened little paw! *CLINGS* You're too good to me!
(no subject)
3/10/10 11:37 pm (UTC)*flails*
I want them to know each other so badly. Want them to be *brothers* and lovers if that's where it's going and just...stop having to be so sad.
Damnit.
*sniffles*
I'm sorry you're feeling all writer-faily. You did good here, bay-bee. Loved it.
(no subject)
3/10/10 11:42 pm (UTC)Damn--I just wish I wasn't so wishy-washy, y'know?
(no subject)
3/10/10 11:45 pm (UTC)Sometimes, you just need to write something *else*!
*smishes you*
(no subject)
3/10/10 11:51 pm (UTC)Say, you know you're my hero, right? *shmoosh*
(no subject)
3/11/10 12:04 am (UTC)*blushes*
And you are my hunny-bunny.
*beams at you*
*squishes you tight*
(no subject)
3/11/10 05:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
3/11/10 03:39 pm (UTC)That's what makes AUs so much fun for me, to write, to read. This is a fandom that's very AU friendly, thank goodness!
Thanks again, I feel better about where I'm going with this! :)
(no subject)
3/11/10 06:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/12/10 05:28 pm (UTC)