SpN: Non Timebo Mala 25/?
4/17/10 08:57 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: 2947
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.)
He stood his ground and tried to fight the feeling down, he did, but Dean working was a sight to behold, that smooth, mostly unmarked skin wet and gleaming, the muscles that clenched and stretched in his wide back, in his strong arms. Sam watched him work and thought of pretty green eyes closed, long lashes on his cheeks and that soft pink mouth open. Sam wanted to touch so bad and refused to let himself think about the wanting, the useless, useless wanting.
Dean worked on, unaware. He said, "I think we can work together—maybe."
While Sam went off to get the package of what-all he claimed would make some kind of magic weapon, Dean began packing completed pot hooks and shutter dogs that he'd had an order sitting for—the little pieces didn't take a lot of time or thought to make, but it was that kind of work that kept the forge running. Sam came back about half way through and Dean took some pleasure in making him help pack the items, and got his word he'd go with him into town. Dean cast glances Sam's way…his pout was purely entertaining.
Finally, the iron pieces were packed away, and Sam's barely contained impatience evaporated as he took objects and papers out of box he'd opened on the table with care. What Dean assumed was Sam's natural enthusiasm for the subject took him over, and he eagerly explained what each herb signified, what words would be used to infuse his weapon with power and intent. Dean listened to Sam, frowning a bit as he studied the items…something about this, about what Sam was explaining, seemed oddly familiar to Dean for some reason…maybe it was just because Pa had taken some slightly similar steps making charms and witch jars, he thought. Maybe….
Sam gave him a quick apologetic look. "I know all this probably sounds like it came out of some fever dream, I'm sorry, Dean. No doubt having an untrained hand in the way's bound to be annoyin', too. I'm not sure how far it needs to go, this thing about me being the only one to handle all the makings for this weapon, but I'd like not to have to try this more than once."
Dean nodded. He had no real problem with Sam being in the midst of things, 'long as he didn't set himself on fire. What wondered Dean most was how they were going to test if the weapon worked or not—or even how it was supposed to work. What would the finished knife do that any plain old knife of silver or iron couldn't? How would the weapon ferret out evil, if that's what it was charged with?
Sam seemed to read his mind, and gave Dean a small, tight smile. "Don’t worry; everything we dug out of Robert's old books promised a good result. I swear, this ain't no wild goose chase, or some chuck line runner's gag to stay where the stayin's good."
Dean blushed…it might have crossed his mind, briefly, some thought of Sam staying around a while, even though Dean knew how stupid a thought it was…"I've got no problem with you grabbing a couple of meals…mind you, you don’t look the type to…to..." To stay around or—or--to not repay a meal. Hell, Dean wasn't sure what he meant himself, but from the sudden steel in Sam's eyes, Dean could tell sure enough, he'd taken it to mean something insulting.
"You got no call to assume anything about me; you don’t know a thing about me." Sam pulled back from the table. "Told you I wasn't lookin' for nothing from you but this work—and I aim to pay for it." Sam stalked out of the forge, radiating anger.
Well, damn… Dean watched him stomp off, rubbed his hand hard over his hair, his hand come to rest over his mouth, fighting down the urge to cuss Sam Singer out something fierce. He had no damn idea what climbed up that boy's ass. He was one confusing sonofagun for sure. "I guess I know one thing about you, Sam Singer," he muttered, "you're snappier than a bitch wolf in heat."
He considered rewrapping the various items with the linen it'd been wrapped in but decided he took the risk in touching something and as much s he hated to admit it—Sam was some kind of scary. No, he'd better let Sam get over his fit and take care of it himself.
Besides, scary or not, Sam struck him as a summer storm kind of person. One who'd blow up sharp and hard and all of a sudden, and then blow over just as quickly. Dean shook his head and headed towards the house. "Bitch,' he muttered, but the edges of his mouth tugged up in a smile.
* * * * *
Sam hadn't been in sight when Dean came back into the house. He'd taken himself off somewhere, and didn't show up again that night, not for dinner, and not for a smoke on the porch when the sun went down. The dog was there though, happily resting from the hard work of having begged half of Dean's dinner from him, and just as happily snoring and farting away under the chair while Dean tried to enjoy his evening smoke, so he was assured Sam was still close by…probably having himself a good sized snit in the barn, Dean thought.
He finished his cigarette, sent the dog off to the barn and took himself off to his room, to wash up before bed.
Dean closed his eyes and rubbed water over his face, followed it with a soapy cloth, washed hard until his skin tingled. He rubbed the cloth under his arms, down his ribs, over his belly, between his legs. He washed thighs and knees and feet…he scrubbed until the water was grey and when he was done, he still felt a little grimy. Was it wanting that boy, or knowing he couldn't have him? There was something, wound up in the wanting of Sam, that just…felt unsettling, made him want to run 'til he couldn't breathe anymore, and he didn't know why. Wanting Archie had felt pretty simple. It was no big thing, not at all. Archie—they—had wanted, and so they took. It was in a man's nature to be direct in that way. But this Sam fellow, something about him troubled Dean—he'd felt that way after Sam'd told his story about his family--it felt like something was missing from the story.
Dean sighed. He was tired, his routine had been upset, and he was just…feeling out of sorts. No call to think Sam was holding something back. He seemed an honest enough fellow. It was clear to see he'd been through rough times, Dean thought. And that was expected, Sam being so young and having lost all the family he had in the world. Despite the way the boy held himself, he couldn't be more than eighteen, maybe nineteen at the most--two years younger than Dean. If a full grown man like himself felt like he'd been cruelly orphaned, than maybe that's what it was about Sam. Could be it was the pain of that recent loss twisting him up into knots. Dean shrugged. Maybe—or maybe Sam was just--odd.
He twisted water out the rag and hung it over the sink rail to dry—he'd empty the bowl in the morning. He slipped on his night shirt and lay down on the bed with a deep sigh. Right after Pa died, he used to imagine that he'd wake in the morning and find Pa smirking at him, callin' on him to get his lazy butt out of bed, or that he'd just missed him on the stair and he was in the kitchen cooking, or in the yard, taking care of the animals….his heart lifted a little. Well, he might not have Pa, but he did have someone to cook for, even if it was just for a short time. Gave him something else to think about besides himself.
Dean threw his arm over his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, tried to make sleep come on so he wouldn’t have to think about endings. Come morning, he'd make breakfast for him and Sam and let it go from there…maybe he ought to head into town, restock on basics, the few ingredients they'd need for the weapon…and pay Dotty a visit. Letting off some steam should make it easier to deal with his guest.
Sam was in a much less prickly kind of mood, the next day, and Dean was glad to settle down and begin some work on his project. The damn thing was beginning to get under his skin. He got a nagging kind of feeling deep down every time he thought about that knife. Sam on the other hand, seemed happy to get working on it. He hummed under his breath as he unpacked the various items again. From the rosewood box it all came out of, he took a thin rolled tube of paper out and opened it.
"Yesterday, I…didn't quite manage to get to the important parts of this manufacture," Sam said, carefully not looking Dean in the eye. He slid the thin curl of paper across to Dean. "There's the words to be spoken over the metal…after the ochre, silver, and amber have gone into the steel while it's liquid. " Sam's long elegant finger traced the words on the paper and Dean followed the track, wondering how it'd feel to have those long fingers tracing that same sweeping loop across his skin. He was so caught up in the imagining of it that he jumped when Sam spoke.
"Do you know Latin, Dean? It makes no nevermind if you don't, I speak it well enough. "
Dean said, "I know just a bit, not enough to converse, but enough…"
"I know a few helpful prayers, I know enough to read and translate some."
Dean had the distinct feeling that Sam knew a lot more than he claimed, but let it go. He sat back, arms folded across his chest and watched as Sam anchored the thin-as-onion skin roll of paper with a few loose roofing nails. He unrolled the linen bundle and set it in front of him. "These herbs that go in the fire, I wanna leave in the forge. Basil, assant, cinnamon, oh, and we'll need some cedar chips." Sam shrugged. "Nothing fancy."
Dean agreed. "It's all good stuff and effective, but these things are only good for protection. Is that all you want, some kitchen witch spells? Don't you need to call on…some kind of…power?"
"Nope, the strength of this weapon isn't in its manufacturin'. It ain't worth much 'til it's held in the hand of the determined man. What goes into it will surely kill a vampire, a werewolf, or various things that come out of the dark corners, but this knife—it's got a bigger job than that. It needs…" Sam hesitated, his eyes slid away from Dean, and Dean got the feeling--an increasingly familiar feeling--that Sam was holding something back. Sam shook himself and went on. "Ah, salt should be in the water that quenches the metal, and a bit of the powdered amber. Now the ocher…."
Dean nods. "The ocher's just more iron."
"Right. And we use it to paint these symbols on the floor in front of the anvil, and--and on you."
Dean blinked at him, shrugged and stood to get a better look at the thin roll of paper. "Did Robert pass off on these? I ask because this one here, the one goes on the floor," he pointed at one of the sketches, "he's got this labeled as a protective sigil but that's not so. It's really…well, it's. Means nothing. Almost."
Dean squinted at the paper, grabbed a piece of charcoal from the forge's fireplace and sketched the sign out on the tabletop. He said, "I'm sure what's missing is another ring, one that goes inside this big one. In-between them, goes another ring of symbols, for air, the sun and the earth. These little curves mean the wind—air. Then little smooth circles," he added the missing symbols, "stand for the earth--the dust we all return to." Dean sketched in another four circles, spiked circles, "and then we have the sun, fire that purifies. That makes this a protective symbol drawing on the elements. These sigils Robert gave you aren't from the old world. I'm sure you recognize that they're from right here. They draw on the Indian symbols, mostly…Tobe was the one taught me about the Indian magic, taught me about some magic the old Africans brought with them. He knew about that magic, and about the old time magic that came secretly with the first settlers. He knew a lot more than he taught me, I think. What I know is mostly hearth magic."
Sam squinted at Dean. "Don’t make it sound like it ain't important magic. I'm gonna copy this and let Robert know—he'll want to make a note in his books that he was wrong."
"Wasn't wrong," Dean corrected. "It's just not complete. That's why spell makin's dangerous unless a body's well schooled in this—and heck, even the knowledgeable make mistakes, that's what Pa always said. Those old medicine men, mages and witches and such—they'd leave off some small piece of it to protect their work, make it so they were the only ones who knew the spell entire. Make them the…the go to fella. Sometimes those broken symbols got passed down for the truth, and ended up in scholarly books, like the ones I guess Robert's got." Dean broke off when he realized Sam was staring at him-- shook himself. He kind of liked giving out knowledge, but it made him run off at the mouth sometimes. "Well, Sam, it looks like we have everything we need. Pa's got a chest filled with what's needed for those special jobs folks want every now and then. Let's go take a look."
He led Sam to the back of the forge where a narrow chest of drawers stood. It held dozens of small drawers, each neatly labeled with a strip of yellowed paper. Dean opened one drawer and then another, and led Sam to spoon out powders into small glass vials: the ocher, the powdered amber, flakes of cedar. "That takes care of everything, I think?"
Sam shook his head. "I have all the herbs we need. But…for the haft of the knife I needed something specific. I'd like a certain type of wood—like the wood of this box."
"We can take care of that. What does the wood signify?"
Sam bit his lip so hard Dean winced, almost expecting blood. "Nothin'. I just like the look of it," Sam muttered, and looked so put out about having to admit he wanted something just for the sake of wanting it, that Dean struggled not to laugh. He was sure that if even a peep of humor broke loose, Sam would shoot him dead.
Dean took a steadying breath and said, "We'll have to go into town…there's a cabinet maker there who does work like that for us—me. He'll have different woods but if he doesn't have what you want…" Dean looked away. "Might have to order it. It'd take…some time before it came from the city." He licked his suddenly tight, dry lips. "You can. You can stay. 'til it comes…."
Sam glanced quickly at Dean. "I don't have to. There's a boarding house in town. I can." He shrugged, and reached for the brim of the cap he wasn't wearing, and blushed.
Dean felt better for the blush. Sam wasn't quite the boy made of stone he wanted to be. "Sam, you stay here as long as you need to, or want to. You see I have space, and I really do like the company."
Sam cocked his head at Dean, narrowed his eyes. His whole face tightened and Dean could see the ice come into his features, his eyes, like he was waiting for the punch line of a mean joke. Dean sighed inside, and wondered if he'd know Sam long enough to break through that ice….
"Well, all right, you got me,' Dean said. "It ain't you I want around, it's your dog. That animal is mighty attractive company and a charming raconteur, besides."
Sam's eyes went wide for a second, before he snorted hard. "You're something of an asshole, Dean Kane," he said, and Dean laughed out loud.
"I'm sorry, Sam Singer, you just make it too easy."
Sam shook his head. "Winchester. That's my last name."
"Oh! Well than, Samuel Winchester, my hearth is open to you. You come and go as you wish," Dean said. He felt strangely pleased that Sam had corrected him—told him his true name.
Sam looked stunned, dipped his head so his long hair covered his face. "Thank you. Thank you, Dean. That's…more than generous of you."
Dean blinked. Well…that had sounded like a little more than just offering Sam a place to sleep…an echo of his words ran through him, forced a shiver out of him…he snorted, shook off the odd feeling and fixed a grin on his face. "My offer's not so generous as you might think, Winchester. I got a forge needs sweeping, and scrap needs sortin' and a garden needs weedin'—you ain't just hanging around here lookin' pretty you know—" Dean stopped short as he realized what he'd said. What in the hell--his tongue was truly unfettered today, he wondered. He flushed hot, backed away. "Well, dinner's not going to make itself," he said and rushed straight out the door. Go ahead, Dean,that's the way to chase him off.
He chanced a quick backward glance and saw Sam still at the table staring at him open mouthed. When he realized Dean was looking, his mouth slammed shut into a thin, white, line.
part 26
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 2947
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.)
He stood his ground and tried to fight the feeling down, he did, but Dean working was a sight to behold, that smooth, mostly unmarked skin wet and gleaming, the muscles that clenched and stretched in his wide back, in his strong arms. Sam watched him work and thought of pretty green eyes closed, long lashes on his cheeks and that soft pink mouth open. Sam wanted to touch so bad and refused to let himself think about the wanting, the useless, useless wanting.
Dean worked on, unaware. He said, "I think we can work together—maybe."
While Sam went off to get the package of what-all he claimed would make some kind of magic weapon, Dean began packing completed pot hooks and shutter dogs that he'd had an order sitting for—the little pieces didn't take a lot of time or thought to make, but it was that kind of work that kept the forge running. Sam came back about half way through and Dean took some pleasure in making him help pack the items, and got his word he'd go with him into town. Dean cast glances Sam's way…his pout was purely entertaining.
Finally, the iron pieces were packed away, and Sam's barely contained impatience evaporated as he took objects and papers out of box he'd opened on the table with care. What Dean assumed was Sam's natural enthusiasm for the subject took him over, and he eagerly explained what each herb signified, what words would be used to infuse his weapon with power and intent. Dean listened to Sam, frowning a bit as he studied the items…something about this, about what Sam was explaining, seemed oddly familiar to Dean for some reason…maybe it was just because Pa had taken some slightly similar steps making charms and witch jars, he thought. Maybe….
Sam gave him a quick apologetic look. "I know all this probably sounds like it came out of some fever dream, I'm sorry, Dean. No doubt having an untrained hand in the way's bound to be annoyin', too. I'm not sure how far it needs to go, this thing about me being the only one to handle all the makings for this weapon, but I'd like not to have to try this more than once."
Dean nodded. He had no real problem with Sam being in the midst of things, 'long as he didn't set himself on fire. What wondered Dean most was how they were going to test if the weapon worked or not—or even how it was supposed to work. What would the finished knife do that any plain old knife of silver or iron couldn't? How would the weapon ferret out evil, if that's what it was charged with?
Sam seemed to read his mind, and gave Dean a small, tight smile. "Don’t worry; everything we dug out of Robert's old books promised a good result. I swear, this ain't no wild goose chase, or some chuck line runner's gag to stay where the stayin's good."
Dean blushed…it might have crossed his mind, briefly, some thought of Sam staying around a while, even though Dean knew how stupid a thought it was…"I've got no problem with you grabbing a couple of meals…mind you, you don’t look the type to…to..." To stay around or—or--to not repay a meal. Hell, Dean wasn't sure what he meant himself, but from the sudden steel in Sam's eyes, Dean could tell sure enough, he'd taken it to mean something insulting.
"You got no call to assume anything about me; you don’t know a thing about me." Sam pulled back from the table. "Told you I wasn't lookin' for nothing from you but this work—and I aim to pay for it." Sam stalked out of the forge, radiating anger.
Well, damn… Dean watched him stomp off, rubbed his hand hard over his hair, his hand come to rest over his mouth, fighting down the urge to cuss Sam Singer out something fierce. He had no damn idea what climbed up that boy's ass. He was one confusing sonofagun for sure. "I guess I know one thing about you, Sam Singer," he muttered, "you're snappier than a bitch wolf in heat."
He considered rewrapping the various items with the linen it'd been wrapped in but decided he took the risk in touching something and as much s he hated to admit it—Sam was some kind of scary. No, he'd better let Sam get over his fit and take care of it himself.
Besides, scary or not, Sam struck him as a summer storm kind of person. One who'd blow up sharp and hard and all of a sudden, and then blow over just as quickly. Dean shook his head and headed towards the house. "Bitch,' he muttered, but the edges of his mouth tugged up in a smile.
Sam hadn't been in sight when Dean came back into the house. He'd taken himself off somewhere, and didn't show up again that night, not for dinner, and not for a smoke on the porch when the sun went down. The dog was there though, happily resting from the hard work of having begged half of Dean's dinner from him, and just as happily snoring and farting away under the chair while Dean tried to enjoy his evening smoke, so he was assured Sam was still close by…probably having himself a good sized snit in the barn, Dean thought.
He finished his cigarette, sent the dog off to the barn and took himself off to his room, to wash up before bed.
Dean closed his eyes and rubbed water over his face, followed it with a soapy cloth, washed hard until his skin tingled. He rubbed the cloth under his arms, down his ribs, over his belly, between his legs. He washed thighs and knees and feet…he scrubbed until the water was grey and when he was done, he still felt a little grimy. Was it wanting that boy, or knowing he couldn't have him? There was something, wound up in the wanting of Sam, that just…felt unsettling, made him want to run 'til he couldn't breathe anymore, and he didn't know why. Wanting Archie had felt pretty simple. It was no big thing, not at all. Archie—they—had wanted, and so they took. It was in a man's nature to be direct in that way. But this Sam fellow, something about him troubled Dean—he'd felt that way after Sam'd told his story about his family--it felt like something was missing from the story.
Dean sighed. He was tired, his routine had been upset, and he was just…feeling out of sorts. No call to think Sam was holding something back. He seemed an honest enough fellow. It was clear to see he'd been through rough times, Dean thought. And that was expected, Sam being so young and having lost all the family he had in the world. Despite the way the boy held himself, he couldn't be more than eighteen, maybe nineteen at the most--two years younger than Dean. If a full grown man like himself felt like he'd been cruelly orphaned, than maybe that's what it was about Sam. Could be it was the pain of that recent loss twisting him up into knots. Dean shrugged. Maybe—or maybe Sam was just--odd.
He twisted water out the rag and hung it over the sink rail to dry—he'd empty the bowl in the morning. He slipped on his night shirt and lay down on the bed with a deep sigh. Right after Pa died, he used to imagine that he'd wake in the morning and find Pa smirking at him, callin' on him to get his lazy butt out of bed, or that he'd just missed him on the stair and he was in the kitchen cooking, or in the yard, taking care of the animals….his heart lifted a little. Well, he might not have Pa, but he did have someone to cook for, even if it was just for a short time. Gave him something else to think about besides himself.
Dean threw his arm over his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, tried to make sleep come on so he wouldn’t have to think about endings. Come morning, he'd make breakfast for him and Sam and let it go from there…maybe he ought to head into town, restock on basics, the few ingredients they'd need for the weapon…and pay Dotty a visit. Letting off some steam should make it easier to deal with his guest.
Sam was in a much less prickly kind of mood, the next day, and Dean was glad to settle down and begin some work on his project. The damn thing was beginning to get under his skin. He got a nagging kind of feeling deep down every time he thought about that knife. Sam on the other hand, seemed happy to get working on it. He hummed under his breath as he unpacked the various items again. From the rosewood box it all came out of, he took a thin rolled tube of paper out and opened it.
"Yesterday, I…didn't quite manage to get to the important parts of this manufacture," Sam said, carefully not looking Dean in the eye. He slid the thin curl of paper across to Dean. "There's the words to be spoken over the metal…after the ochre, silver, and amber have gone into the steel while it's liquid. " Sam's long elegant finger traced the words on the paper and Dean followed the track, wondering how it'd feel to have those long fingers tracing that same sweeping loop across his skin. He was so caught up in the imagining of it that he jumped when Sam spoke.
"Do you know Latin, Dean? It makes no nevermind if you don't, I speak it well enough. "
Dean said, "I know just a bit, not enough to converse, but enough…"
"I know a few helpful prayers, I know enough to read and translate some."
Dean had the distinct feeling that Sam knew a lot more than he claimed, but let it go. He sat back, arms folded across his chest and watched as Sam anchored the thin-as-onion skin roll of paper with a few loose roofing nails. He unrolled the linen bundle and set it in front of him. "These herbs that go in the fire, I wanna leave in the forge. Basil, assant, cinnamon, oh, and we'll need some cedar chips." Sam shrugged. "Nothing fancy."
Dean agreed. "It's all good stuff and effective, but these things are only good for protection. Is that all you want, some kitchen witch spells? Don't you need to call on…some kind of…power?"
"Nope, the strength of this weapon isn't in its manufacturin'. It ain't worth much 'til it's held in the hand of the determined man. What goes into it will surely kill a vampire, a werewolf, or various things that come out of the dark corners, but this knife—it's got a bigger job than that. It needs…" Sam hesitated, his eyes slid away from Dean, and Dean got the feeling--an increasingly familiar feeling--that Sam was holding something back. Sam shook himself and went on. "Ah, salt should be in the water that quenches the metal, and a bit of the powdered amber. Now the ocher…."
Dean nods. "The ocher's just more iron."
"Right. And we use it to paint these symbols on the floor in front of the anvil, and--and on you."
Dean blinked at him, shrugged and stood to get a better look at the thin roll of paper. "Did Robert pass off on these? I ask because this one here, the one goes on the floor," he pointed at one of the sketches, "he's got this labeled as a protective sigil but that's not so. It's really…well, it's. Means nothing. Almost."
Dean squinted at the paper, grabbed a piece of charcoal from the forge's fireplace and sketched the sign out on the tabletop. He said, "I'm sure what's missing is another ring, one that goes inside this big one. In-between them, goes another ring of symbols, for air, the sun and the earth. These little curves mean the wind—air. Then little smooth circles," he added the missing symbols, "stand for the earth--the dust we all return to." Dean sketched in another four circles, spiked circles, "and then we have the sun, fire that purifies. That makes this a protective symbol drawing on the elements. These sigils Robert gave you aren't from the old world. I'm sure you recognize that they're from right here. They draw on the Indian symbols, mostly…Tobe was the one taught me about the Indian magic, taught me about some magic the old Africans brought with them. He knew about that magic, and about the old time magic that came secretly with the first settlers. He knew a lot more than he taught me, I think. What I know is mostly hearth magic."
Sam squinted at Dean. "Don’t make it sound like it ain't important magic. I'm gonna copy this and let Robert know—he'll want to make a note in his books that he was wrong."
"Wasn't wrong," Dean corrected. "It's just not complete. That's why spell makin's dangerous unless a body's well schooled in this—and heck, even the knowledgeable make mistakes, that's what Pa always said. Those old medicine men, mages and witches and such—they'd leave off some small piece of it to protect their work, make it so they were the only ones who knew the spell entire. Make them the…the go to fella. Sometimes those broken symbols got passed down for the truth, and ended up in scholarly books, like the ones I guess Robert's got." Dean broke off when he realized Sam was staring at him-- shook himself. He kind of liked giving out knowledge, but it made him run off at the mouth sometimes. "Well, Sam, it looks like we have everything we need. Pa's got a chest filled with what's needed for those special jobs folks want every now and then. Let's go take a look."
He led Sam to the back of the forge where a narrow chest of drawers stood. It held dozens of small drawers, each neatly labeled with a strip of yellowed paper. Dean opened one drawer and then another, and led Sam to spoon out powders into small glass vials: the ocher, the powdered amber, flakes of cedar. "That takes care of everything, I think?"
Sam shook his head. "I have all the herbs we need. But…for the haft of the knife I needed something specific. I'd like a certain type of wood—like the wood of this box."
"We can take care of that. What does the wood signify?"
Sam bit his lip so hard Dean winced, almost expecting blood. "Nothin'. I just like the look of it," Sam muttered, and looked so put out about having to admit he wanted something just for the sake of wanting it, that Dean struggled not to laugh. He was sure that if even a peep of humor broke loose, Sam would shoot him dead.
Dean took a steadying breath and said, "We'll have to go into town…there's a cabinet maker there who does work like that for us—me. He'll have different woods but if he doesn't have what you want…" Dean looked away. "Might have to order it. It'd take…some time before it came from the city." He licked his suddenly tight, dry lips. "You can. You can stay. 'til it comes…."
Sam glanced quickly at Dean. "I don't have to. There's a boarding house in town. I can." He shrugged, and reached for the brim of the cap he wasn't wearing, and blushed.
Dean felt better for the blush. Sam wasn't quite the boy made of stone he wanted to be. "Sam, you stay here as long as you need to, or want to. You see I have space, and I really do like the company."
Sam cocked his head at Dean, narrowed his eyes. His whole face tightened and Dean could see the ice come into his features, his eyes, like he was waiting for the punch line of a mean joke. Dean sighed inside, and wondered if he'd know Sam long enough to break through that ice….
"Well, all right, you got me,' Dean said. "It ain't you I want around, it's your dog. That animal is mighty attractive company and a charming raconteur, besides."
Sam's eyes went wide for a second, before he snorted hard. "You're something of an asshole, Dean Kane," he said, and Dean laughed out loud.
"I'm sorry, Sam Singer, you just make it too easy."
Sam shook his head. "Winchester. That's my last name."
"Oh! Well than, Samuel Winchester, my hearth is open to you. You come and go as you wish," Dean said. He felt strangely pleased that Sam had corrected him—told him his true name.
Sam looked stunned, dipped his head so his long hair covered his face. "Thank you. Thank you, Dean. That's…more than generous of you."
Dean blinked. Well…that had sounded like a little more than just offering Sam a place to sleep…an echo of his words ran through him, forced a shiver out of him…he snorted, shook off the odd feeling and fixed a grin on his face. "My offer's not so generous as you might think, Winchester. I got a forge needs sweeping, and scrap needs sortin' and a garden needs weedin'—you ain't just hanging around here lookin' pretty you know—" Dean stopped short as he realized what he'd said. What in the hell--his tongue was truly unfettered today, he wondered. He flushed hot, backed away. "Well, dinner's not going to make itself," he said and rushed straight out the door. Go ahead, Dean,that's the way to chase him off.
He chanced a quick backward glance and saw Sam still at the table staring at him open mouthed. When he realized Dean was looking, his mouth slammed shut into a thin, white, line.
part 26
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
4/18/10 01:21 am (UTC)Sam's so brittle here. I love it! XD And poor Dean having to watch every word he says for fear of spooking the "snappy bitch wolf in heat." (Best line ever, by the way, and upon its heels our beloved Dean's simple, "Bitch." Ah, you're too good to us nerds!) Must be hard cos Dean is still Dean. Which is to say, not completely of the Tact. :/
That twinge of unease that Dean got when pondering his want for Sam. . . man, that killed me! It's like all those genetic markers are screaming in his blood, but of course we don't want him to listen. At least, *I* don't want him to listen to that warning. These guys need each other. I'm worried about Sam going back to the hunt without Dean, without anybody but the occasional Bobby. That's some scary shit. Dean thinks Sam is "some kind of scary" now, when he's getting human interaction and positive (for the most part) feedback/reinforcement? God. Wait till he goes all psycho, John's-son on us again. No, scratch that. I don't want to see that terrifying guy again, and I definitely don't want Dean to "meet" that guy. *wibbles*
Rambly McRambleson here! Loved this, hon, and well freakin' done!!!!! Can't wait for more!
ETA: Dude! I forgot to say how awesome those two talking shop was! The mechanics of it is really fascinating and intricate. Did you do a lot of Teh Research? If you did, good for you! And if you didn't, I can't freakin' tell, so don't lemme know! XD Fantabulous!
THANK YOU!!!!! *clings*
4/18/10 02:26 am (UTC)I'm hoping getting over this stumbling block will help me move forward. I wrote this a while ago and have been sitting on it--kind of picking here and there. From this point on, I don't know what's going to happen. I know what was supposed to happen but it didn't fit anymore, lol! And if I don't get more on this, I'll post the odd little snippets I've cut as an AU version of this, ha! :)
(no subject)
4/18/10 04:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/18/10 05:19 am (UTC)Thank you!!!
(no subject)
4/24/10 05:19 am (UTC)I suck, i know. It took me *forever* to read this, so very lame of me. BUT!
It's awesome. I love them getting down to the nitty-gritty of the spell, working out what they need, Dean knowing a bit more than Sam thinks he will, both of them 'talking shop' - so cool!
And Dean just a bit twitchy over Sam, and Sam of course 'snappier than a bitch wolf in heat' - heeeeeee!
*luffs*
I adore this story. :)
(no subject)
4/29/10 02:38 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you like this story still. As soon as I get this last bit straightened out, I'm going to post to a community--you know, share the love. ;)