SpN: Non Timebo Mala part 27/?
5/8/10 11:43 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:hard R
Word Count: 3826
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.)
STRONG WARNING for violent sexual contact, dubious consent, in this chapter
By the time the road smoothed and widened and turned into Bristol's main street, the sun was high and lemon bright in the sky, a sky so blue it hurt the eyes; the few wispy clouds scudding across it were whiter than angels' wings. Dean reined in Raphael and just stared upwards, eyes squinted against the unreal brightness, at the sky. It felt…like suddenly waking from a dream, or waking into one. He untied his canteen and took a long deep drink of the water, drew his hand across his mouth, thinking about sky, and angels and…fate. He slowly turned to look at Sam and Sam was staring at him, a curious expression on his face. His eyes dropped and he looked drawn and pale even under the sun--shot through with some kind of pain.
Something in Dean flared, drawn to that suggestion of pain, wanting to calm it…mostly. Wondered if he'd really seen it or made it up….
Sam pulled his horse up next to Dean and leaned over. Dean raised an eyebrow and curious, he leaned towards Sam. Sam grabbed his shirt sleeve, pinched up a handful of fabric, pulled Dean closer to him, so close his breath skated warm over Dean's cheek. "You need to get you a hat, Dean. This sun ain't a friend of yours. Look at you, all spattered with freckles and red from being under it. You're going to hurt tonight," he said, and the way he said it, drawing it out in a low, soft drawl, made Dean's bones shiver pleasantly. He swallowed hard.
Parlor house. That's where he needed to be. It took him a moment before he realized he'd closed his eyes.
"Are you okay, Dean? You look like you took a funny kind of turn there."
He cut a glance towards Sam but his face was smooth, his eyes unreadable, hidden in the shadow the hat cast over his eyes. The barest flicker of concern rippled across the blank set of Sam's face before sinking away. The dog leaned forward, watching Dean. He lifted his lip in what Dean chose to believe was a smile.
"Ah…Sam. How 'bout we go on over to the cabinet maker's and then…and then, maybe the parlor house?"
Sam nodded, glanced up and down the street--he seemed to find something of interest in a group of drovers up the way. Dean looked closer—sparks of light glittered in the horses' manes, their tails, Hunters like Sam, maybe? A fine, barely noticeable tremor swept over Sam, it made Dean fix all his attention on Sam, but Sam just shrugged. "The cabinet maker sounds fine, Dean. I might beg off the parlor house. I don't care for them much. I'm about to head over to the laundry, anyway."
Dean started to protest, Sam could get his shirts done any where--hell, he could do Sam's shirts for him at home—and then he realized what else could be had at the laundry, for much less than it cost for the same at the parlor house and he blushed. No doubt Sam didn’t want to spend the money, might not have the money to spend if he was worrying about paying Dean….
Well hell, if Dotty wasn't about his best friend in the world (and Lord, that was some kind of pathetic, his only friend, a whore) he'd probably save himself a good bit by just getting head from the laundress too…but the thing was, he loved sitting up in Dotty's soft, warm bed with her, rid of his problems for an hour or so. There was the comfort of talking to someone who knew him probably as well as Pa had—maybe better in some ways, even though she insisted some day he'd come to his senses and discover his love for pussy. Dean grinned ruefully. Yeah, that was something not ever likely to be.
******
It was quite a bit cooler inside the cabinet maker's shop than out on the street. The shades partly drawn over the wide shop windows made it dim inside, and it was quiet except for the hollow sound of their boots against the floor, and a low, constant murmuring coming from the back of the shop…Mr. Johansen's office.
Dean inhaled, relishing the spicy scent of the different woods. It was a pleasurable change from the scents he spent his days with--smell of hot metal, burning coal. There was something about the smell of varnish and wood he found oddly comforting, like a dim memory of home…for all he knew it was.
He wandered around the shop leisurely, dogged by an impatient Sam close on his heels. All twitch and huff, the boy ignored anything Dean pointed out that didn't have a direct connection to their project. He thought it was a damn shame Sam couldn't just admire the man's skill with wood. If ever there was a body that needed instruction in relaxation…Dean shook his head.
Thankfully, it wasn't too very long before Mr. Johansen came out of the back and greeted Dean and Sam, told them he'd be with them in no more than a minute; he was nearly done talking with another client in his office.
"Take your time," Dean said, and pretended that he didn't hear the irritated intake of breath behind him. "We're fine." He picked up pieces of wood, stained and varnished samples to show to potential customers. He held a few pieces of unfinished pear wood out to Sam. Sam rolled his eyes, barely interested, but Dean took his time, enjoying the good smell of pine, cedar, of apple wood. Towards the front of the shop, pegged to the wall, were wood hafts, made to be fitted to the tang of a knife. There were a few stocks for rifles, a few for revolvers, too. Dean ran his fingers over the glossy smooth wood.
Sam reached over his shoulder to pick up a richly colored piece of wood. "Rosewood. That's what I want for the haft," he said.
Dean smiled and tried not to rub against Sam's shoulder. "It's nice. Real pretty."
Sam scowled, and Dean laughed inside. Sam was just too easy to rile up, and he enjoyed doing it just a bit too much. "Do you want to buy one of the blanks here? Or have one made up for you, special?" Dean frowned at the neat row of different hafts…there was something missing, something on the edge of his mind, and no matter how he tried to focus on it, it just kept sliding away from him. There was something he was missing…"Sam, wait a bit before you buy. There's…I'm not sure. We need to…"
Sam nodded. "We'll think on it. These are all fine but…" He shrugged. "I don’t mind waiting—for a bit longer."
"Well, in that case, I'm headed to the parlor house and I imagine you're eager to get…your shirts washed."
Sam rolled his shoulders and made a small sound that a less generous man would have described as a sniff…Dean grinned at him, a grin that dimmed a bit when Sam snarled at him and stomped away. Oh well… Whatever Dean had done wrong again, he wasn't going to waste time trying to figure out. He called after Sam, "Want to meet me, later, at the House? They have a pretty good kitchen, and reasonable prices for a good steak. My treat…?" Just like he figured, offering food was no mistake, and Sam settled his ruffled feathers a bit, enough to smirk at Dean.
"Yeah…sounds good." Sam snorted. "Enjoy getting your *own* shirt washed," he said and left Dean chuckling.
******
"Well, if it isn't my prettiest customer." Dotty crowed, when Dean opened her door.
"I'm not pretty." He scowled and tossed his jacket at her; she caught it with a laugh and draped it over a bed post.
"Sugar, you tell yourself that, it don't make no difference. It's a pleasure to look at you." She twitched over to the door and pulled Dean the rest of the way in. "Come on now, let me make you comfortable." She pushed him onto the bed, unlaced his boots and eased him to lie down. She unbuttoned his pants, and his shirt and eased it over his shoulder.
"I got a visitor," he said.
"I may have heard about that…a visitor like Archie?" She asked and her brow furrowed. "I…well, you were pretty darn upset after he left."
Dean flushed a bit, remembering how for a little bit, he'd behave kind of ridiculous…"No. Not like that. He's…he's the nephew of a friend of Pa's. He wants some work done, a special job."
"Oh, is that so?" Dotty smiled. "You gonna help out here or what?"
She held her hands over her head while Dean pulled off her shift but didn't bother posturing or rubbing herself against him like she would with her other clients…they both knew it wouldn't do anything but make Dean kind of uncomfortable. She smiled at him, and dropped onto her belly next to him in the bed, propped her chin up on her fists. "So, darling…what's been keeping you so busy you don’t have time for me?"
"Told you," he murmured, "visitor. Doing some work for him. I'm not looking to talk right now, if you don't mind."
"All right then," she laughed. "You tell me what you want and how you want it."
He closed his eyes, and put her hand on him. "If you could put your mouth where your hand is, I'd be pleased."
She snorted, and slid down the bed. "You think after all this time, you could just say it."
"Can't help it if I'm kind of a gentleman," he said, and she laughed even harder.
"Shoo, you mean you're kind of a girl."
He rolled over quick and grabbed her wrist, tight but not enough to hurt. "It’s just because we're such good friends, I don’t put you over my knee and spank you."
"Lord, look at you with the promises," she smirked, a little flush staining her cheeks. Dean smiled back, and as always wished that he felt more for her.
Dotty was a good match to him, and she deserved more out of life than what she had. He'd thought about it from time to time, to take her out of the house, marry her. Her company was pleasant, she was smart, and knew how to run a household and understood—more or less—his nature. And it wouldn't be a bad thing for her, either. She'd have a bit more respect and a place to call her own…except being unfair to her in the long run. He sighed. And not much right for him either, in the long run….
"Stop thinking about whatever you’re thinking about," Dotty scolded. "You just lie back and let me take care of you," she said, taking his soft cock in her hand she started to stroke, slow and tight. "Close your eyes, let it come…we got nothing but time," she whispered and he did as she said, let the familiar dream take him, imagined that tall dark shape across from him, the flames of the fire higher and higher—once he'd imagined Archie as the person nearly hidden in flames and shadow, only his green eyes visible—he knew better now. Now that stranger had no face, just those odd changeable green eyes, like…like…Dean gasped and bucked in her grip and she crooned encouragement. "That’s it honey, that’s it, come on now…"
He sat up, and pulled her hand away. "Can we?"
"Oh well, you're in charge, your money; we spend it how you want."
He grinned and flipped her to her stomach and she pulled up to her knees. He took the condom from her fingers and smoothed it on; he pushed inside her, a quick, hard flick of his hips.
"Dean—" she sighed. And rolled her hips. "You're my favorite," she purred.
"Yeah—" he groaned, "Sure, I'm your favorite." He reached under her, slid fingers inside her along side himself and fucked her fast and hard. He pulled them out and rolled her clit between his wet fingers the way she liked. She moaned and gasped out breathy little sighs, tilted her hips so that he was in deeper. He squeezed his eyes tight and imagined Sam on his knees, ass in the air and begging him for it, like Dotty was doing. She snapped her hips and he thumbed her faster, harder until she was clenching around him, her gasps sounding surprised. He felt her pulse and flutter, orgasm shoving little cries out of her. He pushed and clawed for his own release, drowning himself in the image of Sam coming, mouthing his name, and it was the whispered Sam coming from his mouth that sent him over the edge at last.
Samuel
Sam tied the horse up at the laundry porch, and told the dog not to move. He stopped before running up to the door, ran a boot toe over the pentagram carved into the step, beginning to go black with accumulated dirt. He was satisfied it was still there. He'd liked the woman. He rapped a few times on the closed door and stepped into the laundry. Inside, the familiar, peppery scent of laundry soap and starch filled the air. The rear door was closed and a voice called out. "Be right there."
A minute or two later, the laundress opened the door and stood to the side as a man came out, a lazy smile on his face. The sleepy glance he'd tossed Sam's way sharpened. "You look familiar," he said, peering up under Sam's cap.
Sam took a step away from the man's searching eyes. He nodded "You too." Glanced down at the man's hand and saw a blurry, home done tattoo of a pentagram in the web of his thumb. Hunter, like him. "Sam Winchester. You know Caleb, right—"
"Hell yeah. 'M Charlie Smith. Good to see ya." The man offered his hand. "Bunch of us came up through Kansas Territory. There was some--" the man stopped, looked back at the woman, before going on. "—trouble there. Looking to stock up before heading north. You should come see us." He hesitated. "Heard about your pa. Sorry, he was a damn good man, good Hunter."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, he was. Thank you. I'll come round before you leave. I'm in town for…" he stopped, licked his lips. "For the summer I think."
"Really?"
"Working on something for Robert Singer," Sam said and the man nodded.
"There's a fine fellow," the man said. "No finer one for searching out a meaning or working out a trail. So! Getting your shirts washed, hunh?" the man grinned and Sam flushed.
"Ah…yeah." And flushed deeper, scowled when the man winked. Still, Sam figured it was a good thing, running into Smith here. He couldn't remember if the man was one of a group that he'd caught up with right before Dad died. There'd been one of them that had followed Sam into the dark outside the campfire…more than likely the other hadn't said anything about that night. Not without being pulled out into the light himself….
As it turned out, he only got his shirts washed that evening.
******
Rough hands pushed him against the stable wall, held him up against it like he was a side of beef. His pants were around his ankles, his shirt rolled up, over his shoulders. He shook his head, trying to clear the tangled hair from his eyes and gasped. His teeth ripped into his lip as the man behind him speared him in one sharp thrust, knocking the air out of Sam lungs, burning into him. The pain was blinding—he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. It hurt so much that it filled the whole center of his being. He concentrated on the pain, devoted himself to it until he could feel it without trying to run from it. He concentrated on turning it into pleasure. He wrapped himself in it, warmed himself in the burning ache, let his breathlessness become excitement…the pit of his stomach tightened and he moaned, splinters raked at his cheek. The man transferred his grip from Sam's hip to the back of his neck and squeezed. Stars filled his eyes and the edges of everything thickened and darkened…"you like this don’t you boy, you're just eating it up, good little whore, aren't we...."
Sam nodded, not really sure what the man was saying, not trying to hear him because there was a huge, twisted, ripping, burning knot somewhere in the middle of him and he had to keep a handle on it, continuously turn it over into pleasure, force it into pleasure—he was hard now, achingly hard—he could come if only he could touch himself but he didn't want to ask if he was allowed, they didn't like it, he didn't do anything unless he had the word.
A shape swam up in front of his eyes, dark, man-shaped, just about blocking what little light leaked into the narrow alley way between buildings…he couldn't really see who or what it was. Sam blinked, trying to pull back from the pit long enough to focus.
He heard, "You want some after me—he don’t care. He'd do this all night--wouldn't you?" and Sam assumed that was directed at him so he nodded. It's what the man wanted…the other one, the man in the dark, made a noise, a low hiss of disgust…maybe. Sam was too busy fighting down a scream to figure it out and then the shape was gone and Sam felt a hot spill of come inside him, fingers twist and rake at his skin, and he dug splinters into his hands trying to keep that pleasure tuned the right way in his head.
The man slapped his ass hard enough to drive him face first into the wall. He dropped a dollar on the ground and said, "See ya around pretty boy. Come back if you wanna do this again."
Sam waited until the man was gone before he righted himself. He jerked himself off, almost as roughly as the man had fucked him—seconds later he was spilling himself, thick come dropping into the dust between his feet, his cock jerking in his hand, his stomach roiling and lurching and he fought that down too. He breathed hard for a few seconds, just until he could inhale without wanting to vomit, and then, he crouched, fished the dollar out of the dirt and shoved it in his pocket. It belonged to him.
He limped to the rear of the stables, picking his way along by the light of a pale yellow moon. He squeezed his way in between parked carriages, back where he'd left the horse tied, and the dog leashed to a fence post. The dog growled at him when Sam leaned down to untie him, his lips wrinkled back to expose every single tooth he had, and murder in his tiny red eyes. He leaned away from Sam's touch and his growls grew louder. He snapped at the air, and Sam cursed him.
"Fuck you, you sonky, slat-ribbed bag of flea grub. Shut up, so I can get you loose. Wouldn't have to do this if you didn't try to kill everyone…" Well, mostly just the men he fucked. The dog was crazy, and a pain in Sam's ass besides.
The lead dropped to the ground and the dog jerked away when Sam tried to touch him. "Fine. Do what the fuck ever you want," he said and left the dog to check on the horse. The horse whickered softly, blowing warm air into Sam's palms. He drew shaking hands over its velvety soft nose before taking up the tie and heading back towards the lights of town, back to street lamps and people and Dean maybe waiting for him. He thought about it, Dean's soft green eyes, full rose mouth, tilted in that smile or curving up into a laugh…bright as the sun….
Sam shook his head. Too bright for him. He had his bedroll; he'd head out to where the Hunters were camping, and wait for morning. He started walking, and heard the dog coming up behind him. Smiled a little. The dog would forgive him for tying him up like that, he always did. He glanced behind him and the dog trotted after. He looked up at Sam and for one weird moment Sam had the feeling the dog was angry not about what Sam did to him, but what Sam was doing to himself. "Stop it," he growled and the dog just wagged his tail and growled back. Sam sighed. It was more than likely he'd lost his mind, imagining that old mutt cared about anything beyond where his next meal was coming from.
******
Dean met up with him the next morning. If he'd waited to meet Sam at the parlor house for dinner last night, he didn't say. Sam figured he'd not waited long, if he'd waited at all. Dean seemed pretty cheerful, full of chatter about the house and some Dotty, and how the only time he drank tea was with her because it made her happy. Sam listened to that with a great deal of puzzlement. Wasn't the parlor house a place you went to fuck whores? What did tea and yammering have to do with fucking? Kind of figured though, if anyone was going to be running their trap, it’d be Dean. Man had no idea what silence meant. Sam pushed the mixed up thought of Dean fucking and not being quiet into a deep recess of his brain.
All the while Sam had been thinking, Dean had been talking and now he was into some tale about having been to the general store while Sam was loafing somewhere and how he'd picked up the things they needed, got the sugar and flour, some salt beef and a few small things, did Sam like peppermint? Told Sam even if they hadn't got the haft for the knife, it wasn't a wasted trip at all. He'd had a good meal last night, shame Sam had missed it. Steak done right, some good green beans with salt pork in them, he liked it like that…Dean's voiced trailed off and Sam looked up at him, catching Dean's sharp-eyed stare. As soon as he saw that Sam was looking back, his face softened, his eyes grew distant. He asked Sam why he was walking and Sam just looked at him and said, "Feel like it."
"Okay," Dean said back, and that was that, not another word was exchanged until they were back at the forge.
Part 28
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:hard R
Word Count: 3826
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.)
STRONG WARNING for violent sexual contact, dubious consent, in this chapter
By the time the road smoothed and widened and turned into Bristol's main street, the sun was high and lemon bright in the sky, a sky so blue it hurt the eyes; the few wispy clouds scudding across it were whiter than angels' wings. Dean reined in Raphael and just stared upwards, eyes squinted against the unreal brightness, at the sky. It felt…like suddenly waking from a dream, or waking into one. He untied his canteen and took a long deep drink of the water, drew his hand across his mouth, thinking about sky, and angels and…fate. He slowly turned to look at Sam and Sam was staring at him, a curious expression on his face. His eyes dropped and he looked drawn and pale even under the sun--shot through with some kind of pain.
Something in Dean flared, drawn to that suggestion of pain, wanting to calm it…mostly. Wondered if he'd really seen it or made it up….
Sam pulled his horse up next to Dean and leaned over. Dean raised an eyebrow and curious, he leaned towards Sam. Sam grabbed his shirt sleeve, pinched up a handful of fabric, pulled Dean closer to him, so close his breath skated warm over Dean's cheek. "You need to get you a hat, Dean. This sun ain't a friend of yours. Look at you, all spattered with freckles and red from being under it. You're going to hurt tonight," he said, and the way he said it, drawing it out in a low, soft drawl, made Dean's bones shiver pleasantly. He swallowed hard.
Parlor house. That's where he needed to be. It took him a moment before he realized he'd closed his eyes.
"Are you okay, Dean? You look like you took a funny kind of turn there."
He cut a glance towards Sam but his face was smooth, his eyes unreadable, hidden in the shadow the hat cast over his eyes. The barest flicker of concern rippled across the blank set of Sam's face before sinking away. The dog leaned forward, watching Dean. He lifted his lip in what Dean chose to believe was a smile.
"Ah…Sam. How 'bout we go on over to the cabinet maker's and then…and then, maybe the parlor house?"
Sam nodded, glanced up and down the street--he seemed to find something of interest in a group of drovers up the way. Dean looked closer—sparks of light glittered in the horses' manes, their tails, Hunters like Sam, maybe? A fine, barely noticeable tremor swept over Sam, it made Dean fix all his attention on Sam, but Sam just shrugged. "The cabinet maker sounds fine, Dean. I might beg off the parlor house. I don't care for them much. I'm about to head over to the laundry, anyway."
Dean started to protest, Sam could get his shirts done any where--hell, he could do Sam's shirts for him at home—and then he realized what else could be had at the laundry, for much less than it cost for the same at the parlor house and he blushed. No doubt Sam didn’t want to spend the money, might not have the money to spend if he was worrying about paying Dean….
Well hell, if Dotty wasn't about his best friend in the world (and Lord, that was some kind of pathetic, his only friend, a whore) he'd probably save himself a good bit by just getting head from the laundress too…but the thing was, he loved sitting up in Dotty's soft, warm bed with her, rid of his problems for an hour or so. There was the comfort of talking to someone who knew him probably as well as Pa had—maybe better in some ways, even though she insisted some day he'd come to his senses and discover his love for pussy. Dean grinned ruefully. Yeah, that was something not ever likely to be.
It was quite a bit cooler inside the cabinet maker's shop than out on the street. The shades partly drawn over the wide shop windows made it dim inside, and it was quiet except for the hollow sound of their boots against the floor, and a low, constant murmuring coming from the back of the shop…Mr. Johansen's office.
Dean inhaled, relishing the spicy scent of the different woods. It was a pleasurable change from the scents he spent his days with--smell of hot metal, burning coal. There was something about the smell of varnish and wood he found oddly comforting, like a dim memory of home…for all he knew it was.
He wandered around the shop leisurely, dogged by an impatient Sam close on his heels. All twitch and huff, the boy ignored anything Dean pointed out that didn't have a direct connection to their project. He thought it was a damn shame Sam couldn't just admire the man's skill with wood. If ever there was a body that needed instruction in relaxation…Dean shook his head.
Thankfully, it wasn't too very long before Mr. Johansen came out of the back and greeted Dean and Sam, told them he'd be with them in no more than a minute; he was nearly done talking with another client in his office.
"Take your time," Dean said, and pretended that he didn't hear the irritated intake of breath behind him. "We're fine." He picked up pieces of wood, stained and varnished samples to show to potential customers. He held a few pieces of unfinished pear wood out to Sam. Sam rolled his eyes, barely interested, but Dean took his time, enjoying the good smell of pine, cedar, of apple wood. Towards the front of the shop, pegged to the wall, were wood hafts, made to be fitted to the tang of a knife. There were a few stocks for rifles, a few for revolvers, too. Dean ran his fingers over the glossy smooth wood.
Sam reached over his shoulder to pick up a richly colored piece of wood. "Rosewood. That's what I want for the haft," he said.
Dean smiled and tried not to rub against Sam's shoulder. "It's nice. Real pretty."
Sam scowled, and Dean laughed inside. Sam was just too easy to rile up, and he enjoyed doing it just a bit too much. "Do you want to buy one of the blanks here? Or have one made up for you, special?" Dean frowned at the neat row of different hafts…there was something missing, something on the edge of his mind, and no matter how he tried to focus on it, it just kept sliding away from him. There was something he was missing…"Sam, wait a bit before you buy. There's…I'm not sure. We need to…"
Sam nodded. "We'll think on it. These are all fine but…" He shrugged. "I don’t mind waiting—for a bit longer."
"Well, in that case, I'm headed to the parlor house and I imagine you're eager to get…your shirts washed."
Sam rolled his shoulders and made a small sound that a less generous man would have described as a sniff…Dean grinned at him, a grin that dimmed a bit when Sam snarled at him and stomped away. Oh well… Whatever Dean had done wrong again, he wasn't going to waste time trying to figure out. He called after Sam, "Want to meet me, later, at the House? They have a pretty good kitchen, and reasonable prices for a good steak. My treat…?" Just like he figured, offering food was no mistake, and Sam settled his ruffled feathers a bit, enough to smirk at Dean.
"Yeah…sounds good." Sam snorted. "Enjoy getting your *own* shirt washed," he said and left Dean chuckling.
"Well, if it isn't my prettiest customer." Dotty crowed, when Dean opened her door.
"I'm not pretty." He scowled and tossed his jacket at her; she caught it with a laugh and draped it over a bed post.
"Sugar, you tell yourself that, it don't make no difference. It's a pleasure to look at you." She twitched over to the door and pulled Dean the rest of the way in. "Come on now, let me make you comfortable." She pushed him onto the bed, unlaced his boots and eased him to lie down. She unbuttoned his pants, and his shirt and eased it over his shoulder.
"I got a visitor," he said.
"I may have heard about that…a visitor like Archie?" She asked and her brow furrowed. "I…well, you were pretty darn upset after he left."
Dean flushed a bit, remembering how for a little bit, he'd behave kind of ridiculous…"No. Not like that. He's…he's the nephew of a friend of Pa's. He wants some work done, a special job."
"Oh, is that so?" Dotty smiled. "You gonna help out here or what?"
She held her hands over her head while Dean pulled off her shift but didn't bother posturing or rubbing herself against him like she would with her other clients…they both knew it wouldn't do anything but make Dean kind of uncomfortable. She smiled at him, and dropped onto her belly next to him in the bed, propped her chin up on her fists. "So, darling…what's been keeping you so busy you don’t have time for me?"
"Told you," he murmured, "visitor. Doing some work for him. I'm not looking to talk right now, if you don't mind."
"All right then," she laughed. "You tell me what you want and how you want it."
He closed his eyes, and put her hand on him. "If you could put your mouth where your hand is, I'd be pleased."
She snorted, and slid down the bed. "You think after all this time, you could just say it."
"Can't help it if I'm kind of a gentleman," he said, and she laughed even harder.
"Shoo, you mean you're kind of a girl."
He rolled over quick and grabbed her wrist, tight but not enough to hurt. "It’s just because we're such good friends, I don’t put you over my knee and spank you."
"Lord, look at you with the promises," she smirked, a little flush staining her cheeks. Dean smiled back, and as always wished that he felt more for her.
Dotty was a good match to him, and she deserved more out of life than what she had. He'd thought about it from time to time, to take her out of the house, marry her. Her company was pleasant, she was smart, and knew how to run a household and understood—more or less—his nature. And it wouldn't be a bad thing for her, either. She'd have a bit more respect and a place to call her own…except being unfair to her in the long run. He sighed. And not much right for him either, in the long run….
"Stop thinking about whatever you’re thinking about," Dotty scolded. "You just lie back and let me take care of you," she said, taking his soft cock in her hand she started to stroke, slow and tight. "Close your eyes, let it come…we got nothing but time," she whispered and he did as she said, let the familiar dream take him, imagined that tall dark shape across from him, the flames of the fire higher and higher—once he'd imagined Archie as the person nearly hidden in flames and shadow, only his green eyes visible—he knew better now. Now that stranger had no face, just those odd changeable green eyes, like…like…Dean gasped and bucked in her grip and she crooned encouragement. "That’s it honey, that’s it, come on now…"
He sat up, and pulled her hand away. "Can we?"
"Oh well, you're in charge, your money; we spend it how you want."
He grinned and flipped her to her stomach and she pulled up to her knees. He took the condom from her fingers and smoothed it on; he pushed inside her, a quick, hard flick of his hips.
"Dean—" she sighed. And rolled her hips. "You're my favorite," she purred.
"Yeah—" he groaned, "Sure, I'm your favorite." He reached under her, slid fingers inside her along side himself and fucked her fast and hard. He pulled them out and rolled her clit between his wet fingers the way she liked. She moaned and gasped out breathy little sighs, tilted her hips so that he was in deeper. He squeezed his eyes tight and imagined Sam on his knees, ass in the air and begging him for it, like Dotty was doing. She snapped her hips and he thumbed her faster, harder until she was clenching around him, her gasps sounding surprised. He felt her pulse and flutter, orgasm shoving little cries out of her. He pushed and clawed for his own release, drowning himself in the image of Sam coming, mouthing his name, and it was the whispered Sam coming from his mouth that sent him over the edge at last.
Sam tied the horse up at the laundry porch, and told the dog not to move. He stopped before running up to the door, ran a boot toe over the pentagram carved into the step, beginning to go black with accumulated dirt. He was satisfied it was still there. He'd liked the woman. He rapped a few times on the closed door and stepped into the laundry. Inside, the familiar, peppery scent of laundry soap and starch filled the air. The rear door was closed and a voice called out. "Be right there."
A minute or two later, the laundress opened the door and stood to the side as a man came out, a lazy smile on his face. The sleepy glance he'd tossed Sam's way sharpened. "You look familiar," he said, peering up under Sam's cap.
Sam took a step away from the man's searching eyes. He nodded "You too." Glanced down at the man's hand and saw a blurry, home done tattoo of a pentagram in the web of his thumb. Hunter, like him. "Sam Winchester. You know Caleb, right—"
"Hell yeah. 'M Charlie Smith. Good to see ya." The man offered his hand. "Bunch of us came up through Kansas Territory. There was some--" the man stopped, looked back at the woman, before going on. "—trouble there. Looking to stock up before heading north. You should come see us." He hesitated. "Heard about your pa. Sorry, he was a damn good man, good Hunter."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, he was. Thank you. I'll come round before you leave. I'm in town for…" he stopped, licked his lips. "For the summer I think."
"Really?"
"Working on something for Robert Singer," Sam said and the man nodded.
"There's a fine fellow," the man said. "No finer one for searching out a meaning or working out a trail. So! Getting your shirts washed, hunh?" the man grinned and Sam flushed.
"Ah…yeah." And flushed deeper, scowled when the man winked. Still, Sam figured it was a good thing, running into Smith here. He couldn't remember if the man was one of a group that he'd caught up with right before Dad died. There'd been one of them that had followed Sam into the dark outside the campfire…more than likely the other hadn't said anything about that night. Not without being pulled out into the light himself….
As it turned out, he only got his shirts washed that evening.
Rough hands pushed him against the stable wall, held him up against it like he was a side of beef. His pants were around his ankles, his shirt rolled up, over his shoulders. He shook his head, trying to clear the tangled hair from his eyes and gasped. His teeth ripped into his lip as the man behind him speared him in one sharp thrust, knocking the air out of Sam lungs, burning into him. The pain was blinding—he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. It hurt so much that it filled the whole center of his being. He concentrated on the pain, devoted himself to it until he could feel it without trying to run from it. He concentrated on turning it into pleasure. He wrapped himself in it, warmed himself in the burning ache, let his breathlessness become excitement…the pit of his stomach tightened and he moaned, splinters raked at his cheek. The man transferred his grip from Sam's hip to the back of his neck and squeezed. Stars filled his eyes and the edges of everything thickened and darkened…"you like this don’t you boy, you're just eating it up, good little whore, aren't we...."
Sam nodded, not really sure what the man was saying, not trying to hear him because there was a huge, twisted, ripping, burning knot somewhere in the middle of him and he had to keep a handle on it, continuously turn it over into pleasure, force it into pleasure—he was hard now, achingly hard—he could come if only he could touch himself but he didn't want to ask if he was allowed, they didn't like it, he didn't do anything unless he had the word.
A shape swam up in front of his eyes, dark, man-shaped, just about blocking what little light leaked into the narrow alley way between buildings…he couldn't really see who or what it was. Sam blinked, trying to pull back from the pit long enough to focus.
He heard, "You want some after me—he don’t care. He'd do this all night--wouldn't you?" and Sam assumed that was directed at him so he nodded. It's what the man wanted…the other one, the man in the dark, made a noise, a low hiss of disgust…maybe. Sam was too busy fighting down a scream to figure it out and then the shape was gone and Sam felt a hot spill of come inside him, fingers twist and rake at his skin, and he dug splinters into his hands trying to keep that pleasure tuned the right way in his head.
The man slapped his ass hard enough to drive him face first into the wall. He dropped a dollar on the ground and said, "See ya around pretty boy. Come back if you wanna do this again."
Sam waited until the man was gone before he righted himself. He jerked himself off, almost as roughly as the man had fucked him—seconds later he was spilling himself, thick come dropping into the dust between his feet, his cock jerking in his hand, his stomach roiling and lurching and he fought that down too. He breathed hard for a few seconds, just until he could inhale without wanting to vomit, and then, he crouched, fished the dollar out of the dirt and shoved it in his pocket. It belonged to him.
He limped to the rear of the stables, picking his way along by the light of a pale yellow moon. He squeezed his way in between parked carriages, back where he'd left the horse tied, and the dog leashed to a fence post. The dog growled at him when Sam leaned down to untie him, his lips wrinkled back to expose every single tooth he had, and murder in his tiny red eyes. He leaned away from Sam's touch and his growls grew louder. He snapped at the air, and Sam cursed him.
"Fuck you, you sonky, slat-ribbed bag of flea grub. Shut up, so I can get you loose. Wouldn't have to do this if you didn't try to kill everyone…" Well, mostly just the men he fucked. The dog was crazy, and a pain in Sam's ass besides.
The lead dropped to the ground and the dog jerked away when Sam tried to touch him. "Fine. Do what the fuck ever you want," he said and left the dog to check on the horse. The horse whickered softly, blowing warm air into Sam's palms. He drew shaking hands over its velvety soft nose before taking up the tie and heading back towards the lights of town, back to street lamps and people and Dean maybe waiting for him. He thought about it, Dean's soft green eyes, full rose mouth, tilted in that smile or curving up into a laugh…bright as the sun….
Sam shook his head. Too bright for him. He had his bedroll; he'd head out to where the Hunters were camping, and wait for morning. He started walking, and heard the dog coming up behind him. Smiled a little. The dog would forgive him for tying him up like that, he always did. He glanced behind him and the dog trotted after. He looked up at Sam and for one weird moment Sam had the feeling the dog was angry not about what Sam did to him, but what Sam was doing to himself. "Stop it," he growled and the dog just wagged his tail and growled back. Sam sighed. It was more than likely he'd lost his mind, imagining that old mutt cared about anything beyond where his next meal was coming from.
Dean met up with him the next morning. If he'd waited to meet Sam at the parlor house for dinner last night, he didn't say. Sam figured he'd not waited long, if he'd waited at all. Dean seemed pretty cheerful, full of chatter about the house and some Dotty, and how the only time he drank tea was with her because it made her happy. Sam listened to that with a great deal of puzzlement. Wasn't the parlor house a place you went to fuck whores? What did tea and yammering have to do with fucking? Kind of figured though, if anyone was going to be running their trap, it’d be Dean. Man had no idea what silence meant. Sam pushed the mixed up thought of Dean fucking and not being quiet into a deep recess of his brain.
All the while Sam had been thinking, Dean had been talking and now he was into some tale about having been to the general store while Sam was loafing somewhere and how he'd picked up the things they needed, got the sugar and flour, some salt beef and a few small things, did Sam like peppermint? Told Sam even if they hadn't got the haft for the knife, it wasn't a wasted trip at all. He'd had a good meal last night, shame Sam had missed it. Steak done right, some good green beans with salt pork in them, he liked it like that…Dean's voiced trailed off and Sam looked up at him, catching Dean's sharp-eyed stare. As soon as he saw that Sam was looking back, his face softened, his eyes grew distant. He asked Sam why he was walking and Sam just looked at him and said, "Feel like it."
"Okay," Dean said back, and that was that, not another word was exchanged until they were back at the forge.
Part 28
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