SpN: Non Timebo Mala 28/?
5/14/10 10:49 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: 2400
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 warnings for sex containing dubious consent
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."
Dean
Dean lay in his bed that night, wore out from trying to leash the thoughts and images racing around in his head. Trying to make sense of what he'd seen, even as he shied away from it like a spooked horse….
The 'round about tumble of his thoughts lead to Jan and the long-ago kiss he'd had from him, that searing kiss that broke Dean wide open and left him like that for years, too open to stop Archie from crawling right into that hole, ripping the edges wider, digging it deeper and making the middle of him into a well--impossible to fill, too damn easy to empty. Archie left, left him empty. Then here out of the dark, this boy. All green fox eyes and full of fire. When Sam passed him Dean smelled it, the scent of hot ashes and burnt blood. The smell of Sam, it left a taste on his tongue, some midnight thing…but there was a taste of stars too, and a feeling that Sam knew a thing or two about the well echoing inside Dean.
Dean closed his eyes and saw that the man on the other side of that fire never had been or could have been Archie…Dean pressed his hand tight against his mouth to hold in the bitter laughter beating around in his chest like crows. It rose up in his throat, black and filled with little knives, sharp little feathers. Pa had told him he was a good man, that the way he lived his life would bring honor to the memories of his parents. Well, Pa was dead, and Dean wasn't all that good and his parents and brother, hell, they were rotting somewhere in the hills and they didn't give a good god damn what he was doing now.
Sam Winchester was under his roof, a whore and a liar, who claimed he wanted to do good. Another man who said one thing and acted another. Sam might have talked his uncle up, Sam might have some reason to want what he wanted but Dean didn't care why anymore. Hell, Sam had told Dean plain as day he was no good man….
Maybe he should get what Sam was giving out, it wasn't like he wasn't used to paying for what he wanted….
Dean bit his lip, hard enough to startle a gasp out of himself and was flooded with a black sense of shame. Right now, Pa would be sore ashamed of him, right to the bone. Would kick his ass from one end of the place to the other. He'd ask him who Dean thought he was, how dare he figure himself fit to judge when there was only one Judge to measure the worth of a man. Dean rubbed his face hard and his mind went back to that alley. He saw the face of that scabby saddle bum, the vicious glee he'd took in what he was doing, he saw Sam again, his eyes gone on some point between here and hell and Dean groaned…there was something he'd seen that he'd dismissed, out of anger, out of…jealousy, put the right word on it. He pinched his lip and he wondered, had Sam known he was crying?
It was the shade of Archie that'd pushed the evil to the front of his mind, Archie, stalking through his head, laughing at him. Telling him that the Sam he'd come to care for didn't give a shit about him neither, less than Archie had…but Dean pushed that thought deep under, and let Pa's teaching come through.
Whatever had happened to Sam while he was coming up, he hadn't had a Pa to back him up, to love him and teach him right—and still, whatever crime Sam fell to, his heart was in the right place. Dean thought about that, about the pale, wet, face pressed into the rough gray boards of the stable. The face of an angel, lost and broken, Dean thought….
Thoughts like that grew and grew until they drove him out of bed, and he had to get up, and go to the dresser under his window. He opened it and took out that package he'd slept with for days after Archie'd left. He dropped on the bed and unwrapped the package. Laid the wooden pieces of the model Colt out. He locked the pieces together, and sighted down the wooden barrel.
That was a mighty nice rifle Sam had, the boy was familiar with guns. Dean thought about the knife Sam wanted made. He thought about his own knife, and how a body needed to come in close to be sure of a kill…a rifle could take down a target from a good distance…a rifle or a revolver.
Dean had no doubt Sam was a pretty good shot—he had that look in his eye. He'd have to ask him…as soon as he could figure out how to ask him without dying of embarrassment, or knocking his sorry, stupid ass out. He pushed the wooden Colt around, finger sweeping the barrel around in a circle. He'd ask Sam about his idea. It was a pretty good one, he thought. And maybe…maybe that fucking Archie would have done more for him besides poison his heart.
There was no sleeping until he'd talked to Sam, so he wrapped his blanket around him and padded down the hall. It made him smile a bit, feeling like sneak sock-footing about in his own house. He stopped outside of Sam's door and knocked…no answer. "Sam? Sam, you sleeping?" he asked and contemplated the patent stupidity of that question. He was still feeling the edge of that gnawing bite of jealousy, and woven through with the want and the bone deep weariness, he knew it was making him senseless. Probably explained the creeping feeling that something big and maybe perilous was waking up inside him…pixilated, that's what was wrong with him.
"Sam," he called louder and beat his palm against the closed door. Still no answer. Dean took a deep breath, pushed open the door.
"Sam?"
The room was neat; the bedding pulled down and folded neatly at the foot of the bed. So neat that the room had the look of never-been-used. Dean mouth went dry, and he was overcome with a feeling of loss. It swept through him, knocked him down with the shock. He hadn't had the slightest idea he'd miss Sam like that. He'd had no idea that he'd wanted him close like that.
He jammed his feet into boots and took the stairs three at a time and burst out of the empty kitchen into the moonlit yard. He ran into the barn like he was running for his life and fetched up hard against the work bench, wild eyed and breathing like a bellows.
Sam leaped up out of the straw in one of the stalls, rifle in his hand and his eyes wide—scared, but determined and certainly prepared for trouble and Dean saw it was only because Sam was damn good at what he did that he was still alive.
"Sam--" he gasped "—don't shoot me. I got something to ask you--tell you. Ask you." Dean blushed deep red. He doubted any grown man could feel as ridiculous as he did now. He was reasonably sure Sam wasn't about to plug him—nervous laughter spilled out of him.
Sam looked at him, blinked rapidly and put the rifle down. His expression broke down from tense with fear to a resigned kind of expectation—and then a strange little smile, he said, "All right. You don’t have to ask. Just tell me."
Before Dean could blink or draw breath, Sam was in front of him, shoved him hard against the table--there's some more bruises right there he thought wildly before Sam pulled his dick free of his night shirt. The blanket dropped to the ground, his ears buzzed, thrummed, and he was in Sam's mouth. Sam's hands were pinning him against the table before another second ticked away--before he had the breath to argue.
Dean's elbows hit the table with a double bang, his heart slammed like a captive dove against his breastbone. He bit down to trap the shout that wanted to break free behind his teeth—not sure whether to stop Sam or keep him going.
Sam took that decision straight out of his hands.
Samuel
His smile was…it was enough to make Sam hurt. It was bright as the moon, warm as the sun. He looked away from the green threatening to drown him, eyes worse than a water woman's, more painful than a vampire eying you, right in those few seconds it searched your soul before it found what it needed to pull you to it….. Sam's lungs stopped for a second, before flaring up like a bellows. The second he took to breathe was all he needed. He turned a small smile on Dean, because he knew a big smile made people flinch from him. He dredged up that expression men liked, and pasted it on his mouth.
"All right. You don’t have to ask. Just tell me." He climbed out of the straw and walked right over to Dean, no need to play at shy or at wanting it; this thing was already signed and underlined. Sam dropped to his knees and pulled away the blanket wrapped around Dean--it was kind of funny, the way he looked in just a night shirt and work boots. "Don’t worry," he said. "I'm pretty good at this, I been told."
The night shirt was pushed up over Dean's hips fast, like he'd learned to do, to avoid a smack or worse sometimes….
He was mildly surprised Dean was soft, most of them were hard all ready, but maybe the way Sam looked, or what he'd seen that evening was a little hard to get past, for Dean. Usually fellows on the trail weren't too picky. He ignored Dean stuttering and yammering something—used to that too. Sam opened his mouth, worked his tongue into the hood covering the crown of his dick--worked it around, teased the wet slit until Dean's dick was practically jumping in his mouth.
Dean filled out and grew long on his tongue and hissed like he'd fallen in the fire. He wasn't moving, though and Sam felt a quick stab of fear. He pressed his hands against the back of Dean's thighs, pulled off to say, "Move—ain't it good enough?" He moved Dean himself when the man just stood staring at him. Sam made him move until Dean picked it up himself, and then his dick was in Sam's throat, he fucked him like he meant it, and Sam struggled to breathe and suck and not scrape him and make sure he came. It took what seemed like hours. Dean grabbed a handful of his hair—brought tears to Sam's eyes, but he was busy swallowing and praying he wasn't going to choke. Dean didn’t seem the type to kick a fellow, but he'd learned you can't always go by a book's cover.
Sam leaned back on his heels and made a big production of swallowing, and wiping his face. Dean was leaning against the work table, bits and pieces of metal work knocked all over; he was breathing like a rode hard horse, blinking and twitching. He locked eyes on Sam like he expected Sam to rear back and strike at him. Reached out to Sam and Sam took a step back. His voice was wrecked when he spoke but Dean had been a kind of hard on him. Not as bad as some, but it had been a while. "So," he rasped, "going back to sleep…unless you want…?"
Dean made some kind of movement, kind of pointed at Sam's belt and Sam frowned. Dean sure hadn't seemed like the kind who liked to use a belt, and shit, he was still aching...Sam said, "I need to ride tomorrow…" He took in Dean's expression and quickly said, "I guess I could walk."
"*No*, I meant…what about you?"
Sam nodded, dropped his pants. He was hard—he always got hard but it wasn't that often he had to take care of it in front of someone else, and he had liked Dean so it made it a little worse but…hell, he'd certainly had worse. He almost jumped through the roof when Dean laid his hand on him, it startled Sam so, he couldn't move.
"Tell me how you like it," Dean asked and he started jerking him, his hand moving up and down, free one going for his balls until Sam stopped him.
"I—this is fine." Sam stood like a pole-axed steer and let Dean work him to coming and then he just stood staring down at him, trying to figure out what had happened. Why Dean had done—what he did.
Dean wiped his hand on the blanket, gazing all the while at Sam, still frozen with his pants pleated up around his ankles. "Won't you come on back to the house, Sam? I don’t know why you're out here in the barn when you got a room for you. Barn's for animals." His words weren't exactly unkind, but his expression definitely said you idiot. And then he smiled and Sam finally felt his bones unlock, enough to pull his pants back up….
Dean wadded up the blanket, smoothed down his night shirt and gave a little dry cough. "Um. I'm gonna make some coffee; you come on in when you're ready. I wanna talk to you about something. Something big."
Dean pretty much ran away and at least that was something Sam understood. He stood watching the doorway, shaking, and shaking. What was wrong with that man? What did he want now—what in the hell did Dean want of him? Sam didn't like it—a man he couldn't figure out was a dangerous man…Sam whipped around and glared at a lump of suddenly active hay. "All a sudden I ain't gotta tie your ugly ass up? What, you planning on settling down here, you traitorous son of a--"
The dog heaved a great sigh and rolled to his back and farted. The dog was totally uninterested and in seconds he was snoring.
Sam growled, and thought about leaving his bag, but in the end, took it with him. Back to that room. Back to whatever Dean wanted.
Part 29
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:hard R
Word Count: 2400
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 warnings for sex containing dubious consent
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."
Dean lay in his bed that night, wore out from trying to leash the thoughts and images racing around in his head. Trying to make sense of what he'd seen, even as he shied away from it like a spooked horse….
The 'round about tumble of his thoughts lead to Jan and the long-ago kiss he'd had from him, that searing kiss that broke Dean wide open and left him like that for years, too open to stop Archie from crawling right into that hole, ripping the edges wider, digging it deeper and making the middle of him into a well--impossible to fill, too damn easy to empty. Archie left, left him empty. Then here out of the dark, this boy. All green fox eyes and full of fire. When Sam passed him Dean smelled it, the scent of hot ashes and burnt blood. The smell of Sam, it left a taste on his tongue, some midnight thing…but there was a taste of stars too, and a feeling that Sam knew a thing or two about the well echoing inside Dean.
Dean closed his eyes and saw that the man on the other side of that fire never had been or could have been Archie…Dean pressed his hand tight against his mouth to hold in the bitter laughter beating around in his chest like crows. It rose up in his throat, black and filled with little knives, sharp little feathers. Pa had told him he was a good man, that the way he lived his life would bring honor to the memories of his parents. Well, Pa was dead, and Dean wasn't all that good and his parents and brother, hell, they were rotting somewhere in the hills and they didn't give a good god damn what he was doing now.
Sam Winchester was under his roof, a whore and a liar, who claimed he wanted to do good. Another man who said one thing and acted another. Sam might have talked his uncle up, Sam might have some reason to want what he wanted but Dean didn't care why anymore. Hell, Sam had told Dean plain as day he was no good man….
Maybe he should get what Sam was giving out, it wasn't like he wasn't used to paying for what he wanted….
Dean bit his lip, hard enough to startle a gasp out of himself and was flooded with a black sense of shame. Right now, Pa would be sore ashamed of him, right to the bone. Would kick his ass from one end of the place to the other. He'd ask him who Dean thought he was, how dare he figure himself fit to judge when there was only one Judge to measure the worth of a man. Dean rubbed his face hard and his mind went back to that alley. He saw the face of that scabby saddle bum, the vicious glee he'd took in what he was doing, he saw Sam again, his eyes gone on some point between here and hell and Dean groaned…there was something he'd seen that he'd dismissed, out of anger, out of…jealousy, put the right word on it. He pinched his lip and he wondered, had Sam known he was crying?
It was the shade of Archie that'd pushed the evil to the front of his mind, Archie, stalking through his head, laughing at him. Telling him that the Sam he'd come to care for didn't give a shit about him neither, less than Archie had…but Dean pushed that thought deep under, and let Pa's teaching come through.
Whatever had happened to Sam while he was coming up, he hadn't had a Pa to back him up, to love him and teach him right—and still, whatever crime Sam fell to, his heart was in the right place. Dean thought about that, about the pale, wet, face pressed into the rough gray boards of the stable. The face of an angel, lost and broken, Dean thought….
Thoughts like that grew and grew until they drove him out of bed, and he had to get up, and go to the dresser under his window. He opened it and took out that package he'd slept with for days after Archie'd left. He dropped on the bed and unwrapped the package. Laid the wooden pieces of the model Colt out. He locked the pieces together, and sighted down the wooden barrel.
That was a mighty nice rifle Sam had, the boy was familiar with guns. Dean thought about the knife Sam wanted made. He thought about his own knife, and how a body needed to come in close to be sure of a kill…a rifle could take down a target from a good distance…a rifle or a revolver.
Dean had no doubt Sam was a pretty good shot—he had that look in his eye. He'd have to ask him…as soon as he could figure out how to ask him without dying of embarrassment, or knocking his sorry, stupid ass out. He pushed the wooden Colt around, finger sweeping the barrel around in a circle. He'd ask Sam about his idea. It was a pretty good one, he thought. And maybe…maybe that fucking Archie would have done more for him besides poison his heart.
There was no sleeping until he'd talked to Sam, so he wrapped his blanket around him and padded down the hall. It made him smile a bit, feeling like sneak sock-footing about in his own house. He stopped outside of Sam's door and knocked…no answer. "Sam? Sam, you sleeping?" he asked and contemplated the patent stupidity of that question. He was still feeling the edge of that gnawing bite of jealousy, and woven through with the want and the bone deep weariness, he knew it was making him senseless. Probably explained the creeping feeling that something big and maybe perilous was waking up inside him…pixilated, that's what was wrong with him.
"Sam," he called louder and beat his palm against the closed door. Still no answer. Dean took a deep breath, pushed open the door.
"Sam?"
The room was neat; the bedding pulled down and folded neatly at the foot of the bed. So neat that the room had the look of never-been-used. Dean mouth went dry, and he was overcome with a feeling of loss. It swept through him, knocked him down with the shock. He hadn't had the slightest idea he'd miss Sam like that. He'd had no idea that he'd wanted him close like that.
He jammed his feet into boots and took the stairs three at a time and burst out of the empty kitchen into the moonlit yard. He ran into the barn like he was running for his life and fetched up hard against the work bench, wild eyed and breathing like a bellows.
Sam leaped up out of the straw in one of the stalls, rifle in his hand and his eyes wide—scared, but determined and certainly prepared for trouble and Dean saw it was only because Sam was damn good at what he did that he was still alive.
"Sam--" he gasped "—don't shoot me. I got something to ask you--tell you. Ask you." Dean blushed deep red. He doubted any grown man could feel as ridiculous as he did now. He was reasonably sure Sam wasn't about to plug him—nervous laughter spilled out of him.
Sam looked at him, blinked rapidly and put the rifle down. His expression broke down from tense with fear to a resigned kind of expectation—and then a strange little smile, he said, "All right. You don’t have to ask. Just tell me."
Before Dean could blink or draw breath, Sam was in front of him, shoved him hard against the table--there's some more bruises right there he thought wildly before Sam pulled his dick free of his night shirt. The blanket dropped to the ground, his ears buzzed, thrummed, and he was in Sam's mouth. Sam's hands were pinning him against the table before another second ticked away--before he had the breath to argue.
Dean's elbows hit the table with a double bang, his heart slammed like a captive dove against his breastbone. He bit down to trap the shout that wanted to break free behind his teeth—not sure whether to stop Sam or keep him going.
Sam took that decision straight out of his hands.
His smile was…it was enough to make Sam hurt. It was bright as the moon, warm as the sun. He looked away from the green threatening to drown him, eyes worse than a water woman's, more painful than a vampire eying you, right in those few seconds it searched your soul before it found what it needed to pull you to it….. Sam's lungs stopped for a second, before flaring up like a bellows. The second he took to breathe was all he needed. He turned a small smile on Dean, because he knew a big smile made people flinch from him. He dredged up that expression men liked, and pasted it on his mouth.
"All right. You don’t have to ask. Just tell me." He climbed out of the straw and walked right over to Dean, no need to play at shy or at wanting it; this thing was already signed and underlined. Sam dropped to his knees and pulled away the blanket wrapped around Dean--it was kind of funny, the way he looked in just a night shirt and work boots. "Don’t worry," he said. "I'm pretty good at this, I been told."
The night shirt was pushed up over Dean's hips fast, like he'd learned to do, to avoid a smack or worse sometimes….
He was mildly surprised Dean was soft, most of them were hard all ready, but maybe the way Sam looked, or what he'd seen that evening was a little hard to get past, for Dean. Usually fellows on the trail weren't too picky. He ignored Dean stuttering and yammering something—used to that too. Sam opened his mouth, worked his tongue into the hood covering the crown of his dick--worked it around, teased the wet slit until Dean's dick was practically jumping in his mouth.
Dean filled out and grew long on his tongue and hissed like he'd fallen in the fire. He wasn't moving, though and Sam felt a quick stab of fear. He pressed his hands against the back of Dean's thighs, pulled off to say, "Move—ain't it good enough?" He moved Dean himself when the man just stood staring at him. Sam made him move until Dean picked it up himself, and then his dick was in Sam's throat, he fucked him like he meant it, and Sam struggled to breathe and suck and not scrape him and make sure he came. It took what seemed like hours. Dean grabbed a handful of his hair—brought tears to Sam's eyes, but he was busy swallowing and praying he wasn't going to choke. Dean didn’t seem the type to kick a fellow, but he'd learned you can't always go by a book's cover.
Sam leaned back on his heels and made a big production of swallowing, and wiping his face. Dean was leaning against the work table, bits and pieces of metal work knocked all over; he was breathing like a rode hard horse, blinking and twitching. He locked eyes on Sam like he expected Sam to rear back and strike at him. Reached out to Sam and Sam took a step back. His voice was wrecked when he spoke but Dean had been a kind of hard on him. Not as bad as some, but it had been a while. "So," he rasped, "going back to sleep…unless you want…?"
Dean made some kind of movement, kind of pointed at Sam's belt and Sam frowned. Dean sure hadn't seemed like the kind who liked to use a belt, and shit, he was still aching...Sam said, "I need to ride tomorrow…" He took in Dean's expression and quickly said, "I guess I could walk."
"*No*, I meant…what about you?"
Sam nodded, dropped his pants. He was hard—he always got hard but it wasn't that often he had to take care of it in front of someone else, and he had liked Dean so it made it a little worse but…hell, he'd certainly had worse. He almost jumped through the roof when Dean laid his hand on him, it startled Sam so, he couldn't move.
"Tell me how you like it," Dean asked and he started jerking him, his hand moving up and down, free one going for his balls until Sam stopped him.
"I—this is fine." Sam stood like a pole-axed steer and let Dean work him to coming and then he just stood staring down at him, trying to figure out what had happened. Why Dean had done—what he did.
Dean wiped his hand on the blanket, gazing all the while at Sam, still frozen with his pants pleated up around his ankles. "Won't you come on back to the house, Sam? I don’t know why you're out here in the barn when you got a room for you. Barn's for animals." His words weren't exactly unkind, but his expression definitely said you idiot. And then he smiled and Sam finally felt his bones unlock, enough to pull his pants back up….
Dean wadded up the blanket, smoothed down his night shirt and gave a little dry cough. "Um. I'm gonna make some coffee; you come on in when you're ready. I wanna talk to you about something. Something big."
Dean pretty much ran away and at least that was something Sam understood. He stood watching the doorway, shaking, and shaking. What was wrong with that man? What did he want now—what in the hell did Dean want of him? Sam didn't like it—a man he couldn't figure out was a dangerous man…Sam whipped around and glared at a lump of suddenly active hay. "All a sudden I ain't gotta tie your ugly ass up? What, you planning on settling down here, you traitorous son of a--"
The dog heaved a great sigh and rolled to his back and farted. The dog was totally uninterested and in seconds he was snoring.
Sam growled, and thought about leaving his bag, but in the end, took it with him. Back to that room. Back to whatever Dean wanted.
Part 29
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
5/15/10 02:59 am (UTC)I swear, you're as bad as Kripke. Can you not give these boys one moment of gentleness?
*sniffles*
Damn.
(no subject)
5/15/10 03:09 am (UTC)Dean's going to help fix it. He knows better than Sam what's possible. Sam--he just has no clue.
And really, I'm not even anywhere near as bad as Kripke!! That man is an evil sonofabitch who promised a happy healing ending AND DID NOT DELIVER!!!!
(no subject)
5/15/10 03:14 am (UTC)He never promised any such thing. In fact, if this had been the finale of Show, i think he'd have had Dean leap and push them all into the pit.
But omg, please please, gimme some happy here, Miss Rose!
*big sad eyes*
(no subject)
5/15/10 03:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/15/10 04:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/15/10 02:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/15/10 04:15 pm (UTC)Thank you, thank you. In the next section--I'm killing everyone! Moo-hahaha!
No, not really...kidding!
(no subject)
5/17/10 08:44 pm (UTC)Oh boys. You both have so much to learn, but I'm trusting that Dean will show Sam the way. And I absolutely adore the dog. Hee!
(no subject)
5/17/10 08:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/23/10 04:54 am (UTC)Looking forward to the next bit. =]
(no subject)
7/14/10 04:21 pm (UTC)Dean's section was so lovely, the prose, I mean. The well metaphor just blows my mind (heh. blows), and how excited he is at making the Colt and the knife -- gorgeous work!
Well, I assume he's the one going to make THE Colt and THE knife. Sorry if I'm confused. *scratches head*
But Sam's part was just. . . rough. God, my chest *aches* from reading what that boy's thinking. He's so used to being treated like worse than dirt, that some reciprocation during "sex" simply. . . knocks him off his metaphorical feet. *squishes Sam* Man, I really hope this story has a happy-ish ending for these two, with, you know, them together? *crosses fingers*
Also, GO DOG! Ha! There's a nice commentary on the barn's goings-on from *his* perspective! XD
*scampers off to read next section*