SpN: Non Timebo Mala part 26/?
5/2/10 05:05 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: 1477
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.)
This is an itty-bitty bit, but if I don’t post it, we'll never get anywhere.
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.
It was nearly dawn, the sky a shimmering grey and the sun a weak smudge of orange at the horizon. The dew had already burned off the grass; the slight breeze wafting through the yard was warm, almost sticky. Dean carried their breakfast wrapped in a piece of oilcloth, plus two mugs full of hot black coffee—Sam's sticky with sugar--out to the barn, the ugly dog trotting after him, snorting and growling as Dean's boots kicked up dust.
Sam was leaning against the black horse in his stall, one hand on the saddle and his jaws wide in a bone-cracking yawn. Dean managed to keep the smile off his face at the odd yodeling noise Sam made. It made him want to laugh, too, at the way he lifted one foot and then the other, trying hard not to step on the dog who seemed to think the way to give his boss a good morning greeting was by weaving his stocky little body in and out between Sam's ankles. Sam cursed steadily and promised grievous bodily harm, but not once actually stepped on the dog and Dean felt that place inside him that Sam was beginning to take over grow warmer.
Sam whirled about when Dean coughed softly. He looked all of ten years old, blinking bleary eyes at Dean, brow and chin wrinkled with an irritated kind of confusion. The tight line of his mouth relaxed and he gave what Dean thought was a particularly sweet smile—for Sam--when he caught the scent of coffee. Sam headed right to the mugs when Dean set them down on the work bench. "There's some cornbread and bacon wrapped up there, when you're ready," Dean said, and took a healthy sip of his own coffee.
"That sounds like a treat," Sam rumbled, and held onto the mug like it was his lifeline. While he gulped down the steaming liquid, Dean busied himself tacking up Raphael. Dean ran his eyes over Sam's horse, at its painted flanks and the charms worked into its mane. "I've meant to ask before this, but—what's the reasoning behind doing all that?" He jerked his chin towards the horse. "Are they worth much protection, those bits and pieces?"
Sam shrugged and set the mug down. "They're more like a signal to others like me. Sure, those are all protective charms and sigils but…I imagine it would have to be a right determined demon to try and possess me while I'm running full out on this horse."
Dean smiled at Sam's dry tone, "I guess that's so. You need to explain all this about demons. I don’t really know much about them. Pa was a bit reluctant to speak of them and he didn't like me asking questions." He glanced at Sam before going on. "All I know is that demons had something to do with the death of my family—just like they did yours."
"I've run across a few folks whose families have suffered that same fate. It's a cruel thing to live with," Sam said.
"I suppose so. It must hurt even more for it to be fresh and painful in your mind. I've only ever known it as a story…sad to say, it's more like an unhappy fairy tale, rather than any kind of history of mine. It's just…hard to believe that there are real fire-breathing devils walking around among us like that."
Sam shook his head. "I don’t get you, Dean. You believe in magic and witchcraft but not demons? Believe me, there are things out there, waiting to trip us up just for the sheer, mean, awful pleasure of it." He walked around his horse, checking the painted symbols, running his fingers over its mane. He rolled his shoulders, and went on. "Anyway, like I said, these symbols tell other Hunters that I'm one of them."
Dean threw his hands up. "And explain to me about hunters too! The way you say 'hunter' like that--you ain't talkin' about shooting buffalo."
"You're right there, Dean. Tell you what, you let me finish up this cornbread, and I'll instruct you about Hunters."
"Sounds fair enough, man, sounds fair enough."
Sam made the kind of noise eating that cornbread that Dean generally reserved to quiet evenings alone with his hand and a bit of oil….
He blushed a little, smiled to himself over the way Sam complimented him—Dean was beginning to think he might have to excuse himself, Sam looked that in love with his breakfast. When Sam had worked his way through the most of the cornbread, he leaned back, took a last gulp of coffee before he sighed regretfully and stood, brushing crumbs away. "I got one last thing to do before we go," he said and knelt in the straw again, pulled a rifle out of his pack and fastened it to his saddlebag.
"That's a beautiful piece," Dean said and Sam flushed faintly, looked pleased.
"Thanks, it was a…a birthday gift," he said and the way Sam stumbled over the word led Dean to believe that birthday gift meant something entirely different to him than to Dean. Sam looked up from his contemplation of the rifle to Dean and held it out, a bit. "Hold it, if you'd like," he said and gestured with the rifle.
Dean nodded eagerly. Something about that piece called to him. He held it, and stroked the walnut stock. Carved into either side of the stock were the words "Dei Gratia". Grace of God. The letters were a little rough, dark with age and handling, home made by someone who was not an expert, but who'd cared—a lot—about the work of carving
Sam watched him and even if his face was still, and his lips drawn into a tight line, his eyes were warm as they regarded Dean. "This is a beautiful piece Sam," Dean said. "You're lucky to have it." He handed the rifle back, and the loss of its weight was a disappointment and that surprised him—he wasn't one for weapons but this rifle…felt right in his hands. Familiar.
Sam swung up on the black horse and leaned over, let the dog jump up and grip his sleeve. He settled him in his spot and gave Dean the twist of his mouth that he'd come to see as Sam's usual smile. Sam screwed the faded blue hat down low enough to hide his eyes, the way Dean hated, and asked him, "Well? You ready to get a move on?"
Dean patted Raph's neck and urged him on. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, son."
They rode on in silence for a bit until Dean spoke. "You said you're going to pay me—"
Sam jerked his head around to face Dean. "I don't say nothing I don’t mean," he snapped. "I'll pay you. Whatever way you want."
"Man—you'd make a rattler bite itself! I was about to say that you needn't pay me for this work. It's too important to do for pay. It's something you need done, and I want to help you because…well, because I like you. You're a decent fellow, Sam. And--"
Sam started to protest, hot red spots on his cheeks, and Dean fought to keep from shouting at him. "--swan, you got the shortest damn fuse of anyone I ever known. I was going to say, I want to know more about this hunting stuff. What you do…what you know. Is it like…some kind of secret guild?"
Sam shook his head, snapped out a bitter laugh. "All you got to do to join us is to have your heart ripped out, simple as that. Every Hunter you're ever gonna meet has had something destroy what was precious to him. Not all by demons—there's every kind of evil thing you can imagine lurking out there, all of them real…" he turned his head to face Dean and smirked. "Including the monster under your bed."
Dean stared at Sam for a long time, until Sam colored and dropped his head and muttered, "It is true, damn it."
"Oh, I believe you. I guess I meet the price too, don't I? You know, I'm just realizing that growing up in the forge protected me…and you been out there since you were a chap, alone and subject to every kind of monster. I wish…."
Sam cast Dean a sharp glance, raked him with that cold-hearted version of a smile, and rode off ahead without another word.
Dean didn't try to catch up with him, just watched him ride ahead, and was watched back, the big flat head of Sam's dog curled around the man's arm, his beady eyes fixed on Dean like he had a lot on his mind….
part 27
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 1477
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.)
This is an itty-bitty bit, but if I don’t post it, we'll never get anywhere.
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.
It was nearly dawn, the sky a shimmering grey and the sun a weak smudge of orange at the horizon. The dew had already burned off the grass; the slight breeze wafting through the yard was warm, almost sticky. Dean carried their breakfast wrapped in a piece of oilcloth, plus two mugs full of hot black coffee—Sam's sticky with sugar--out to the barn, the ugly dog trotting after him, snorting and growling as Dean's boots kicked up dust.
Sam was leaning against the black horse in his stall, one hand on the saddle and his jaws wide in a bone-cracking yawn. Dean managed to keep the smile off his face at the odd yodeling noise Sam made. It made him want to laugh, too, at the way he lifted one foot and then the other, trying hard not to step on the dog who seemed to think the way to give his boss a good morning greeting was by weaving his stocky little body in and out between Sam's ankles. Sam cursed steadily and promised grievous bodily harm, but not once actually stepped on the dog and Dean felt that place inside him that Sam was beginning to take over grow warmer.
Sam whirled about when Dean coughed softly. He looked all of ten years old, blinking bleary eyes at Dean, brow and chin wrinkled with an irritated kind of confusion. The tight line of his mouth relaxed and he gave what Dean thought was a particularly sweet smile—for Sam--when he caught the scent of coffee. Sam headed right to the mugs when Dean set them down on the work bench. "There's some cornbread and bacon wrapped up there, when you're ready," Dean said, and took a healthy sip of his own coffee.
"That sounds like a treat," Sam rumbled, and held onto the mug like it was his lifeline. While he gulped down the steaming liquid, Dean busied himself tacking up Raphael. Dean ran his eyes over Sam's horse, at its painted flanks and the charms worked into its mane. "I've meant to ask before this, but—what's the reasoning behind doing all that?" He jerked his chin towards the horse. "Are they worth much protection, those bits and pieces?"
Sam shrugged and set the mug down. "They're more like a signal to others like me. Sure, those are all protective charms and sigils but…I imagine it would have to be a right determined demon to try and possess me while I'm running full out on this horse."
Dean smiled at Sam's dry tone, "I guess that's so. You need to explain all this about demons. I don’t really know much about them. Pa was a bit reluctant to speak of them and he didn't like me asking questions." He glanced at Sam before going on. "All I know is that demons had something to do with the death of my family—just like they did yours."
"I've run across a few folks whose families have suffered that same fate. It's a cruel thing to live with," Sam said.
"I suppose so. It must hurt even more for it to be fresh and painful in your mind. I've only ever known it as a story…sad to say, it's more like an unhappy fairy tale, rather than any kind of history of mine. It's just…hard to believe that there are real fire-breathing devils walking around among us like that."
Sam shook his head. "I don’t get you, Dean. You believe in magic and witchcraft but not demons? Believe me, there are things out there, waiting to trip us up just for the sheer, mean, awful pleasure of it." He walked around his horse, checking the painted symbols, running his fingers over its mane. He rolled his shoulders, and went on. "Anyway, like I said, these symbols tell other Hunters that I'm one of them."
Dean threw his hands up. "And explain to me about hunters too! The way you say 'hunter' like that--you ain't talkin' about shooting buffalo."
"You're right there, Dean. Tell you what, you let me finish up this cornbread, and I'll instruct you about Hunters."
"Sounds fair enough, man, sounds fair enough."
Sam made the kind of noise eating that cornbread that Dean generally reserved to quiet evenings alone with his hand and a bit of oil….
He blushed a little, smiled to himself over the way Sam complimented him—Dean was beginning to think he might have to excuse himself, Sam looked that in love with his breakfast. When Sam had worked his way through the most of the cornbread, he leaned back, took a last gulp of coffee before he sighed regretfully and stood, brushing crumbs away. "I got one last thing to do before we go," he said and knelt in the straw again, pulled a rifle out of his pack and fastened it to his saddlebag.
"That's a beautiful piece," Dean said and Sam flushed faintly, looked pleased.
"Thanks, it was a…a birthday gift," he said and the way Sam stumbled over the word led Dean to believe that birthday gift meant something entirely different to him than to Dean. Sam looked up from his contemplation of the rifle to Dean and held it out, a bit. "Hold it, if you'd like," he said and gestured with the rifle.
Dean nodded eagerly. Something about that piece called to him. He held it, and stroked the walnut stock. Carved into either side of the stock were the words "Dei Gratia". Grace of God. The letters were a little rough, dark with age and handling, home made by someone who was not an expert, but who'd cared—a lot—about the work of carving
Sam watched him and even if his face was still, and his lips drawn into a tight line, his eyes were warm as they regarded Dean. "This is a beautiful piece Sam," Dean said. "You're lucky to have it." He handed the rifle back, and the loss of its weight was a disappointment and that surprised him—he wasn't one for weapons but this rifle…felt right in his hands. Familiar.
Sam swung up on the black horse and leaned over, let the dog jump up and grip his sleeve. He settled him in his spot and gave Dean the twist of his mouth that he'd come to see as Sam's usual smile. Sam screwed the faded blue hat down low enough to hide his eyes, the way Dean hated, and asked him, "Well? You ready to get a move on?"
Dean patted Raph's neck and urged him on. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, son."
They rode on in silence for a bit until Dean spoke. "You said you're going to pay me—"
Sam jerked his head around to face Dean. "I don't say nothing I don’t mean," he snapped. "I'll pay you. Whatever way you want."
"Man—you'd make a rattler bite itself! I was about to say that you needn't pay me for this work. It's too important to do for pay. It's something you need done, and I want to help you because…well, because I like you. You're a decent fellow, Sam. And--"
Sam started to protest, hot red spots on his cheeks, and Dean fought to keep from shouting at him. "--swan, you got the shortest damn fuse of anyone I ever known. I was going to say, I want to know more about this hunting stuff. What you do…what you know. Is it like…some kind of secret guild?"
Sam shook his head, snapped out a bitter laugh. "All you got to do to join us is to have your heart ripped out, simple as that. Every Hunter you're ever gonna meet has had something destroy what was precious to him. Not all by demons—there's every kind of evil thing you can imagine lurking out there, all of them real…" he turned his head to face Dean and smirked. "Including the monster under your bed."
Dean stared at Sam for a long time, until Sam colored and dropped his head and muttered, "It is true, damn it."
"Oh, I believe you. I guess I meet the price too, don't I? You know, I'm just realizing that growing up in the forge protected me…and you been out there since you were a chap, alone and subject to every kind of monster. I wish…."
Sam cast Dean a sharp glance, raked him with that cold-hearted version of a smile, and rode off ahead without another word.
Dean didn't try to catch up with him, just watched him ride ahead, and was watched back, the big flat head of Sam's dog curled around the man's arm, his beady eyes fixed on Dean like he had a lot on his mind….
part 27
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(no subject)
5/2/10 09:34 pm (UTC)Sam's so brittle here. I think I say that every time, but he's just. . . it's like Dean and Sam here in NTM are the opposite of themselves in SpN canon. Does that make sense? I like it. Mmmm, role reversal? :)
I ♥ this story so freakin' muchly. *happysigh*
(no subject)
5/2/10 09:52 pm (UTC)I LOVE the dog because I'm a goof! I write stories about the dog in my head, lol!
I'm glad you guys still like this fic! I need to finish this story, so thanks for your support! *shmoochies*!!!
(no subject)
5/2/10 10:06 pm (UTC):)
And Dog. Heeee! I love the image of Sam's horse, done up in paint and charms, like some kind of charger out of an Arabian Nights fantasy.....
*dances you*
(no subject)
5/2/10 10:43 pm (UTC)Thank you, love!
(no subject)
5/3/10 09:23 pm (UTC)As always, I want more.
(no subject)
5/3/10 09:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/6/10 02:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/6/10 02:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/6/10 03:42 am (UTC)As I've said before, just wow! What a world you've built here, the characters, the back-story, the brooding menace, the tension between Dean and Sam (sexual and everything else).
I admit to being one of the impatient children and wanting moar nowz plz?
Thanks for sharing this with us. =]
(no subject)
5/6/10 03:58 am (UTC)I'm feeling my way to the next part now, thank you so much!
(no subject)
5/8/10 02:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/8/10 05:34 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you're enjoying this!
(no subject)
5/8/10 03:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/8/10 05:33 pm (UTC)love your icon!