SpN: Non Timebo Mala part 29
6/16/10 01:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 5236
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 (het and M/M, incest, rape.)
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--"
Dean
Dean took a shaky breath, threw the blanket at the bed and stared around him like he'd never seen the place before. His hand rested briefly over his mouth before he scrubbed it roughly down his chin and cursed under his breath. That…was not supposed to happen, he thought. That was all wrong, what had happened. Dean heaved in another deep breath, waited for his hands to stop shaking. Hell, he didn't even know what that *was*—Sam's idea of payment, or maybe some kind of punishment? What the hell had been done to that boy to make him think….
Dean waved his arms wildly and asked the room, "Why me? What the hell did I do?"
He stomped back out to the kitchen, paced a bit, too restless to sit yet. He could make coffee—or he could drink. Right now, a good shot or two sounded better than coffee. He reached over the stove to Pa's hiding place. He moved the tins of flour and salt out of the way, moved the can of lard to one side and there it was—a bottle of whiskey, what was left of the last bottle he shared with Pa when they both felt the need for talking—or just sitting quiet together.
He took two glasses out of the cupboard, sat them on opposite ends of the table and poured a bit in each one. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it and prepared to wait. Rolled the glass between his palms, sipped a bit. The boy was going to come--stay, or he wasn't. Dean bit his lip and hoped, hoped so hard it hurt that Sam hadn't left.
Few minutes later Sam's foot steps knocked against the porch floor. He opened the door and the charms nailed to it clicked together, sounding loud as handclaps in the still air of the evening. Dean looked up, breathed in short and sharp. He felt as if the day had just started, that what had happened earlier took place years ago--until Sam sighed, and then it felt like it'd never stopped.
"Hey." He looked at Dean kind of sideways, body half-turned and ready to run. He blinked and shifted, and was the very opposite of the rough, hard-bitten man who'd taken control out of his hands, easy as snatching a sucker from a baby.
Dean figured he'd play it cool. "Well than. Come on in." Sam's head jerked up at the cool tone of Dean's voice and Dean saw right away he'd made a mistake.
Sam sat himself down and smirked when he saw the whiskey. "Well, well, this is my red-letter day, ain't it?"
Dean blew out a sharp burst of air and pushed on. "Sam. We both got caught up in something that was. I mean to say, I came out to the barn looking for you, yeah, but not for that reason. Can't say I didn't...um, like it. I did. I'd have liked it more, though, if I knew why you did that, the way you did?"
Sam's face shifted through a few expressions—none of them happy. Dean marveled at how dark and ridged the man's brow could get, and set down his glass. Thought maybe he shouldn't drink much more—not with Sam looking like he was about to explode.
Sam snarled, "You don’t have to worry about getting me gone, if you don’t want me. I get it. I don’t care one way or the other." He gulped half the whiskey in his glass and winced at the burn, made ready to stand but Dean reached across the table and grabbed his hand. Sam went stock-still.
"That's not—" Dean took a breath, and began again. "Look, I came out there to ask you something—well, I came out there to make sure you hadn't run off on me." Sam looked up in surprise at that. Dean let Sam's hand go. "I got an idea hit me kind of sudden tonight, and I wanna propose something to you, Sam Winchester. I'm thinking, this knife you want—it's all wrong."
"What? What the hell do you mean, wrong? Me and Uncle Robert, we worked it out. It's a possible thing. It ain't the first time it's been done, you know that." Sam's voice dropped lower, got rough-edged with anger. Dean swallowed. Sorry thing he was, it made him a little warm under the collar…or there-abouts….
"You're misunderstanding me again Sam, and I can't say that's a damn surprise. What I mean to say is a knife is good but a gun…there's no reason it can't be a gun, is there?"
Sam scowled, ready to argue, and Dean made himself ready to give it right back, but then….
"Hunh." Sam's eyebrows rose. He looked…surprised, interested. "I'll be damned. I think you might have something. Shit, I think I like the idea of a gun."
"See there?" Dean tapped Sam's hand and smiled. "Knew you were a smart fellow. Now I got something to show you," he said and Sam froze again, jerked his hand away from Dean's. When Dean realized that what he'd said could be taken to mean something other than what he'd intended, Dean blushed himself—shook his head. "Oh not that, Sam, nothing like that at all. Though truthfully, I don’t think I've ever been so…turned around. You don’t know what you do to me, son."
"Think I do," Sam muttered and Dean huffed an uncertain laugh.
"Yeah? Well, you scared the life out of me. I'm not…not used to such a fierce start on things."
Sam sneered. "You liked it well enough."
"Gotta say, release wrung out of you isn't quite the same as having an enjoyable time. I'm a man—putting my prick in something hot and wet, well. Don't take a scholar to figure what's gonna happen….eh. I've had nicer times."
Pale from hairline to jaw line, Sam grunted like he'd been gut-punched, tried to jump up but Dean caught his sleeve and held him. "Listen to me. I know about being forced into doing—things. I don’t want to be the one who…Sam. My whole life I've been doing what I have to, not what I want to. Part of that means going to women who sell themselves 'cause they don’t ask and don’t care. Some of them women I know don’t exactly enjoy men except as a means to an end. I know that…that men can be put in that same situation. I'm not trying to offend but. Are you pushed to acts outside your nature by—"
Sam slapped the empty glass down on the table with a bang. One side of his mouth twisted up into an ugly kind of half-smile—the laugh he barked out was sharp enough to cut. "Well, that was a polite way of paintin' me a whore *and* asking if I'm queer. I do what I want because I like it. Not for money. I'm not stupid—I'll take money when it comes to me but that ain't the object."
"Okay." Dean blinked—choked over what was left in his glass and hissed. "So. No need to sneak around the subject, I guess."
"Good. We understand each other."
"I guess we do," Dean said and a slow grin broke out over his face and Sam flinched, blinked.
"What?"
"This is…" Dean shook himself. "Whew. Not the most important thing we could be talking about right now. Look here." He uncovered the wooden model Colt Archie'd left him with, pushed it towards Sam. "We can make this the way you wanted to make the knife. You'll have your weapon, one like nothing else."
Sam took up the wooden model. "Well, fuck, don’t that beat all. Dean, you're a man full of good ideas." Sam ran his fingers over it, sighted along the barrel he'd pointed towards the door, his face turned towards it but it was plain to Dean his mind was a million miles away….
Dean snorted and Sam started, grinned when he looked at Dean. It was like being kicked in the chest, he was that shocked. Dean would have sworn it was impossible for Sam to smile. His eyes lit up, too, and a sort of…cautious happiness spread over Sam's face. The change it wrought was startling in the extreme. Sam was…he was.
"I think. I think this could work just fine, Dean. 'Cause I gotta admit, anything that ups my chances of survivin' this thing, I feel pretty good about. Was this something you'd been thinking about, going into gunsmithing? Did you make this?"
"No and no, Sam. It--it was a gift. Of sorts. Just got reminded lately that I had this. Drink up. Tomorrow we start on something…wonderful." He held the glass of whiskey out and Sam stared at his own for a second or two, before he tapped it against Dean's.
After a quiet moment Dean said, "Now, what we're going to need are the machines that will do what I can't. We have to start from scratch with this. And that means we're gonna have to go to Osage to order what we need, and that can take a few weeks."
"Oh. Okay, that's…that's a good thing. I've got somebody in Osage I wouldn't mind dropping in on—she's a real good friend."
Dean's smile jerked—felt like Sam had driven a hook under his ribs. He'd thought…he'd been pretty sure that Sam had meant he was like Dean. What hope he'd had curled up hard and sharp in his chest.
Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean. "I think she might be fine with you visiting—if she don't take an instant dislike to you. She's kinda picky about who I--I'm friends with. That old woman's worse than a broody hen, sometimes. And damn quick with a wooden spoon too, but I expect you'll find that out."
Oh. That kind of friend. The hook eased and Dean relaxed. "Ladies all like me, son," he smirked. "All right. It'll take a few days to get things in order. I gotta make arrangements for Gabe, and get someone to watch over the forge." He stroked his chin. "If I can find some way to bribe Waller to come out here…."
Sam said, "From the looks of it, you might bring him out with the offer of this whiskey you got here."
Dean laughed, "You probably meant that as an insult son, but that’s the way it'll work." He stood, and clapped Sam between the shoulder blades. "Sleep now, we got some work tomorrow. And sleep in your room, not the barn."
"My room…." There was a hint of surprise in the man's voice, a touch of something that made Dean's chest warm.
"Yeah, your room, if you want it to be."
Sam stood, and looked at Dean for a long moment before nodding. He headed for the stairs without a word, leaving Dean at the table, watching Sam's back.
* * * *
The next few days left no time for thinking about anything except readying the forge for the work they'd have to do. It was decided that they could prepare the metal in advance, make the raw material into bars. From them Dean would make the gun parts, when they had what tools they'd need. Before that, changes had to be made to Tobias's shop, from the floors to the walls to the forge itself.
The sheet of symbols was unrolled and pinned to the work bench. Dean busied himself building the fire, and glancing over to the bench from time to time, watching Sam mix up the paint they'd use.
Dean was raking more coal into the hearth when Sam came to him with brushes and the finished paint. "If you could help me paint the main sigil on the floor when you're done there…and I'll need to paint these symbols on you, before we make the bars."
Dean nodded. "All right." Dean stopped; bit his lip as he thought. "You know Sam, maybe we should do a cleansing before we start—you ever done that before?"
"Sure, we have—my dad and me, we've done it for weak spirit hauntings, or to make an area ready for a spell—oh! 'Course. That's just what we need to do here; you're right, Dean, and smart of you for thinking of it."
Dean shrugged. "I just had a feeling that it'd be helpful. Though for the life of me I couldn't tell you where I heard of it." He smiled, and Sam kind of smiled back.
"Uncle always said your pa was a very learned man; no doubt you heard it from him at one time or 'nother."
"Might be," Dean said, and then sighed, long and loud. "Well, best get started now; we've got a hell of a lot of work in front of us."
* * * *
The work went faster than he'd expected, a pleasant surprise, that. Sam told damn interesting stories about hunts he and his dad had done, and the dog found the very idea of cleaning vastly entertaining, and had helped by tracking the salt meant to be swept into the shop's corners all over and chasing the brooms and whatever crawlies they unseated. Dean had been more than happy to leave the spider killing to Sam, who turned everything Dean thought he knew about the rangy, rawhide-tough hunter on its head by revealing himself to be more of a spider shooer than a spider killer….
It wasn’t too long before the forge was completely swept out, and then with brushes made from sage and cedar, the windows and thresholds washed with salt water. As they washed, the rising and falling murmur of Latin made a counterpoint to the soft scrape of the brushes. Dean felt a bit like he did the rare times he'd been in an actual church…the sound of Sam's soft voice surrounded him, lulled him into a sense of peace and contentment…" Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen." The soft tone faded slowly and dean came back to himself. Sam drew what was left of the ragged sheaf of sage and cedar twigs through his palm. "Ready to go on to the next step?"
After they shooed the dog out to the porch, they painted the larger symbol on the floor, and Sam was careful to include all of Dean's corrections. They left it to dry, and sat outside on the bench, sharing a cigarette and talking about nothing special, Sam rubbing the dog's flat head and chewed up ears until it moaned from the pure joy of it. Dean admitted to himself that he was a touch jealous of that dog. Imagining Sam doing that to him brought a snicker out of him and an odd look from Sam. Dean shrugged, and passed him the butt.
* * * *
They were done—the shop was clean, the necessary sigils sketched on the floor, at points on the walls, and over the doorway. Dean was leaning against the work bench taking a breather. He ran a quick check list in his mind—what he'd need to prepare the metal bars, what he'd need for their trip into Osage, all the while watching the dust motes that danced in the warped light that poured through the windows, He startled aware at a hesitant sound and turned to find Sam standing behind him, a red-tipped brush in one hand and a small pot in the other.
"I've got to…" He gestured with the brush and Dean laughed softly.
"All right then, Mr. Winchester. Where are we putting this paint?" he asked and started in on rolling up his sleeves.
Sam turned red. "All over?"
"Wha…are you asking me or telling me? And how much all over are we talking about?"
Sam scowled. "Your arms. Your chest. And don’t worry, I ain't gonna touch you more than I have to."
Dean didn't respond. He took his shirt off, and held his arms out and said, "Do what you need to."
Sam dipped the paintbrush into the pot and took a deep breath. "Don’t squirm," he said and Dean thought that was going to be the least of his worries. It proved to be the case. The sight of Sam, brow furrowed in concentration, and every once in a while the tip of his pink tongue sliding out to peek from the corner of his mouth, his soft warm breaths washing over his skin. It was distracting, is what it was, and not in a way guaranteed to keep him still.
Dean watched the intricate patterns march up his arms, and across his shoulders, link in the middle over his breast bone and held his breath, trying not to, as Sam had demanded, squirm. He almost gave it up when the brush looped over his nipples. They pebbled as quick as if he'd jumped in icy water—he let out a hiss. He definitely wasn't freezing, oh no. Heat gathered quick as a flash flood, rushed through his veins the same way. His breathing hitched, faltered when the brush swept directly over his nipples again. His breath and Sam's fell into a matching rhythm. "Don't move," Sam muttered, "we're almost finished," and Dean bit his lip and wished that his prick wouldn't jump at Sam's touch, useless wish, he was hard as stone and every feathery touch of the brush, Sam's fingers on his skin, made him moan deep in his throat. Being touched like that, the sole focus of this man; it was almost too much to bear.
Sam's fingers brushed over the bulge straining against the loose fabric of Dean's trousers. He didn't speak, didn't look up, but Dean knew Sam felt it when he shuddered, heard the whine he couldn't quite swallow. Relief loosened his joints when Sam moved away. He had no desire to talk or address this thing at all….
Sam stepped back, looked at Dean critically, the way a painter might look at a finished canvas and Dean might have thought that all he'd been was Sam's canvas, a tool to be used, if Sam wasn't pretty much in the same state that Dean was. Dean groaned quietly when Sam moved away, breathing hard, hand resting on the front of his trousers. Dean tried to think of some action that didn't involve knocking Winchester to the floor and—and—
"You ready, Dean?"
Dean had to admire the way that Sam could speak so clear, and so steady because Dean was pure terrified to open his mouth, certain he'd embarrass himself by whining like a little girl. He licked his lips and croaked, "Yeah, I'm ready, Sammy."
Sammy? Where in the hell had that come from? Dean shook his head. One thing he had no doubt of--he'd ever met anyone less likely to be a Sammy in all his life, and judging by the thunderous expression on Sam's face, he thought that too.
* * * *
They'd come to the final part of their preparations. This would be nearly the last step, the making of the metal.
Sam broke the dried herbs he'd brought into pieces, and rubbed them between his palms until they became a gritty powder. "… contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium…" he spoke the words over the powder, soft as breathing, and threw the herbs into the coals. Sam was quiet for a few minutes as he ground chips of dried cinnamon to a fine, fragrant dust, and tossed that into the flames as well. Larger bits caught fire and crackled, flames flared blue before dying down and the smell of the herbs filled the air. Dean found it very pleasant. He smiled over at Sam and Sam ducked his head, quickly murmuring more Latin, in which Dean caught Dais, and Gratia, but not much more…Sam threw cinnamon into the fire, and Dean had a quick flash of Tobe making sweet potatoes, his mouth watered at the imagined taste of molasses and cinnamon and butter….
Pa. He missed him like a limb gone.
"Dean, the metal…."
Nodding, he came back to himself. Flakes of silver and flakes of amber went into the metal, the heat made rivers of sweat roll down his arms, his chest, and he had, over and over, the sensation of having done this before, something like it, something that tugged at the edges of his mind, nibbled and niggled at his memory but nothing came clearly.
Sam watched him like Dean was crafting a body part for him. Stayed out of his way but hovered as close as he could, watching the metal go from red, to orange to yellow to white with a fascination that worried Dean a little. He seemed obsessed by the fire and every time Dean looked up, he was hit by the echoes of the dreams he'd had as a boy. Sam looked at him like he was suffering some sort of change of his own. Sweat rolled down his temples, and he felt like he was looking in at himself from a height—not completely separate but the odd sensation of being an echo in his own body lingered even after the melt was complete.
At the end of that evening they had several bars of metal gleaming on the bench, waiting to be made into something that was magical, something that was going to deliver to Sam Winchester what he wanted most in the world.
After Dean washed and took himself to bed, he kept seeing Sam's face, and hearing his voice and feeling….that single touch, that drift of fingertips over his hardness…Dean groaned quietly to himself and gave thought to taking business into his own hands. The hinges creaking on his door stopped him flat. He peered out into the dark, barely catching a shadow lined silver by the moonlight.
Sam was in the doorway, wearing not much more than a blanket from what Dean could see and sure as hell that was not a good idea. The memory of that night in the barn, when Sam had gone down on him, hit him right between the eyes. He twitched right down to his toes and eased his knees up slowly, casually, making a tent of the covers. But Sam didn't even look like he was looking at Dean, he just stood there, hunched over a bit, like he was trying to appear smaller—he sure looked younger than the twenty or so Dean made him to be. He looked lost, scared—and angry. Always that edge of anger wrapped around him like a cloak, even when his eyes gave him completely away, and it broke Dean's heart and made him wish that they'd had Sam here with them from little, to protect him from the things that had driven him into that dark place he lived in.
"Can I come in?" Sam asked, and turned his face away.
Dean weighed the possibility of disaster against the sight of Sam curling further into himself and backing out of the doorway—Sam was always expecting to be turned away. It made Dean sad—and opened something inside of him he wasn't sure of. Dean licked his lips and said, "Come on," and his voice broke.
Sam glanced up in surprise. He shuffled over to Dean's bedside and stood there. "Your room is nice."
"You can hardly see a thing, it's dark in here."
Sam jerked his head towards the window. "Moonlight. I can see pretty good by it. You got a lot of books, too," he said, turning his head from side to side. "Like Uncle Robert. I read a lot when I stay with him — when I'm not studying or ferrying stuff around for him." Sam's voice went smaller, softer. "I miss him. I miss his house. Got my own room there, nice as this one. Bright. Sunny."
"You know you got one here, too." Dean said it soft, only loud enough to let Sam know he was listening, but not so loud as to derail his train of thought. Sam went on. "Dad too. He might not have been the kind of father yours was but he kept me alive. Did his best to keep me safe. When he couldn't, wasn't his fault all. That was all mine." Dean could see even in the faint light of the moon Sam's eyes were wet, shimmered with tears he'd probably cut his arm off before claiming. "Robert, Dad, Missouri, Caleb…the only people in all the world who are going to miss me when I—"
"First off, you ain't goin' anywhere, hear? That thing isn't going to get its claws in you, and you ain't going to miss and you forgot *me*, Sam Winchester. I'll miss you."
Sam stared at Dean a bit, before shaking his head. "Not going to miss me, Dean. When I ride out of here, you'll hardly ever think of me again."
"You—sit down here, you idiot. Here, next to me." He scooted over, and Sam perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. "This is how it's going to go. We—not you, we—are going to track that sonofabitch down. Then, you're going to fill its no good hide with holy lead, crack it wide open and send its filth and disease back to Hell. And then, we're going to rejoice in the justice you get for your family. And after that, we'll see what comes next. What you ain't allowed is just walk offa me like you don’t plan to come back." He glared at Sam. Put everything he felt into it. Don't you leave me.
"Shit—" Sam dropped his blanket and swarmed right over Dean, buck-naked as Dean had suspected he was. In one desperate lunge, he tried to pull Dean's blanket away and get his night shirt up too, like he had that night—
"Wait up there, Sam!"
"Don’t tell me you don’t want it, Dean," he growled, teeth pressed hot and wet against Dean's thigh, worrying a moan out of him. "Your mouth might lie but your body doesn't."
And just to betray him, his prick jerked hard and left a wet trail against Sam's cheek. "Sam—!"
"You been thinking about it," he smirked and straddled Dean. "You can't stop thinking about it. You want to shove your prick inside me, don’t you? Or in my mouth or…" Sam was long, and lean, and muscled, soft dark hair dusting his skin, surrounding a prick so pretty it made Dean's mouth water. Dean burned red with embarrassment—he heard his breath panting out in excited little bursts. He was hard, so hard his prick pressed tight against his stomach. Sam stroked his own and Dean gasped, a little dizzy from too much air, from the sight Sam made.
Sam scooted down and opened his mouth and Dean grabbed him by a handful of hair and yanked him off.
"Yowch! I mean—" Sam closed his eyes and stilled. Dean waited for him to open them again, and after a bit Sam peeked through lowered lids. "You…you gonna hit me or what?"
"No! I just. You think I'm mad? Sam…I want this to be different. From before."
"Oh," Sam said, "okay." He turned, straddling Dean in reverse, reaching between his legs for Dean. Dean dropped back against the pillow. Sam was going to kill him.
"Please come up here with me, you damn fool." Dean patted the bed next to him, and Sam whipped around, crawled up to him, suspicion pouring off him but not asking why, just…doing what Dean wanted. It was kind of heady, this grudging obedience. It thrilled him—and worried him, too. He pulled Sam down to him, eager to cut off his troubling thoughts.
"What? What do you want—" and Sam gasped in surprise when Dean's lips touched his. He was a rock, a statue, for the long minutes Dean tried to get him to respond, licking at the tight seam of his lips, pressing softly against them until finally Sam's mouth softened a bit and he whimpered almost silently. Dean smiled to himself, increased the pressure that much more, until Sam's mouth was soft and open under his, his tongue shyly flicked back at Dean's, and then more boldly sliding against his, bolder, rougher, until Sam moaned like he was losing everything and he sank into Dean—too fast, too hard and too wet but desperate, making noise that had Dean seriously worried that he might come just from Sam's desperate, terrible, kisses…and then Sam shuddered all over and groaned, pulled back from Dean, spit gleaming on his chin, his lips red and swollen from messy, savage kisses. He shivered again, reached out and dug his fingers into Dean's shoulder so hard, Dean expected bruises. Sam jerked, curled over himself and came, hot, thick fluid sluicing over his skin and Dean's nightshirt. He looked startled, shattered…as he slowly stopped shuddering, apologized again and again, begging to make Dean feel so good, he could do it, Dean could do anything he wanted….
"Wait, wait—" Dean ripped his shirt over his head, dropped it to the bed. Touched himself, barely touched himself, before he was following Sam, prick jerking in his grip and spilling over the both of them, adding to the mess. He came harder than the last time with Archie. It felt—right. It felt good. He wrapped a hand around Sam's neck and pulled him back to his mouth. "Shut up, Sam," he mumbled. I ain't got nothing' left in me, not yet. Get under the covers, fool and give me that nightshirt, so's I can clean this mess up."
Sam balled up the shirt and handed it to him. He still looked wary, still a little dumbstruck as he let Dean clean them both off best he could. After a long silence Sam said, "That was the second kiss I ever had."
"You serious? You never kissed nobody—"
"I don't ever like thinking about that first one and no one after that ever wanted to kiss an ugly piece of shit like me."
Dean stared at him—felt a wave of heat sweep him. "The hell you say? Ugly? You're…you're something special Sam, ugly ain't hardly the word I'd use for you. You're." He shook his head. "Man, you're one hell of a long way from ugly."
Sam closed his eyes. "Please don’t. This was…this was good. Real good. Don't make fun of me now."
"Oh Sam, I'm not, I swear." He pulled Sam closer, breaking through his resistance. "You stay here with me, please?"
"All right."
Dean expected Sam to lay sleepless, as stiff as he was. It was like cuddling up to a bundle of sticks and glass, but the boy dropped off in seconds, soft snores filled the air and Dean was the one that sat up most of the night, petting him, just watching him sleep and knowing he'd lost every bit of his heart and most of his common sense over the prickly, snappish fellow drooling on his chest. "Why me?" he murmured and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Sam sighed deeply in his sleep and shoved his head under Dean's chin.
Part 30
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 5236
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 (het and M/M, incest, rape.)
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--"
Dean took a shaky breath, threw the blanket at the bed and stared around him like he'd never seen the place before. His hand rested briefly over his mouth before he scrubbed it roughly down his chin and cursed under his breath. That…was not supposed to happen, he thought. That was all wrong, what had happened. Dean heaved in another deep breath, waited for his hands to stop shaking. Hell, he didn't even know what that *was*—Sam's idea of payment, or maybe some kind of punishment? What the hell had been done to that boy to make him think….
Dean waved his arms wildly and asked the room, "Why me? What the hell did I do?"
He stomped back out to the kitchen, paced a bit, too restless to sit yet. He could make coffee—or he could drink. Right now, a good shot or two sounded better than coffee. He reached over the stove to Pa's hiding place. He moved the tins of flour and salt out of the way, moved the can of lard to one side and there it was—a bottle of whiskey, what was left of the last bottle he shared with Pa when they both felt the need for talking—or just sitting quiet together.
He took two glasses out of the cupboard, sat them on opposite ends of the table and poured a bit in each one. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it and prepared to wait. Rolled the glass between his palms, sipped a bit. The boy was going to come--stay, or he wasn't. Dean bit his lip and hoped, hoped so hard it hurt that Sam hadn't left.
Few minutes later Sam's foot steps knocked against the porch floor. He opened the door and the charms nailed to it clicked together, sounding loud as handclaps in the still air of the evening. Dean looked up, breathed in short and sharp. He felt as if the day had just started, that what had happened earlier took place years ago--until Sam sighed, and then it felt like it'd never stopped.
"Hey." He looked at Dean kind of sideways, body half-turned and ready to run. He blinked and shifted, and was the very opposite of the rough, hard-bitten man who'd taken control out of his hands, easy as snatching a sucker from a baby.
Dean figured he'd play it cool. "Well than. Come on in." Sam's head jerked up at the cool tone of Dean's voice and Dean saw right away he'd made a mistake.
Sam sat himself down and smirked when he saw the whiskey. "Well, well, this is my red-letter day, ain't it?"
Dean blew out a sharp burst of air and pushed on. "Sam. We both got caught up in something that was. I mean to say, I came out to the barn looking for you, yeah, but not for that reason. Can't say I didn't...um, like it. I did. I'd have liked it more, though, if I knew why you did that, the way you did?"
Sam's face shifted through a few expressions—none of them happy. Dean marveled at how dark and ridged the man's brow could get, and set down his glass. Thought maybe he shouldn't drink much more—not with Sam looking like he was about to explode.
Sam snarled, "You don’t have to worry about getting me gone, if you don’t want me. I get it. I don’t care one way or the other." He gulped half the whiskey in his glass and winced at the burn, made ready to stand but Dean reached across the table and grabbed his hand. Sam went stock-still.
"That's not—" Dean took a breath, and began again. "Look, I came out there to ask you something—well, I came out there to make sure you hadn't run off on me." Sam looked up in surprise at that. Dean let Sam's hand go. "I got an idea hit me kind of sudden tonight, and I wanna propose something to you, Sam Winchester. I'm thinking, this knife you want—it's all wrong."
"What? What the hell do you mean, wrong? Me and Uncle Robert, we worked it out. It's a possible thing. It ain't the first time it's been done, you know that." Sam's voice dropped lower, got rough-edged with anger. Dean swallowed. Sorry thing he was, it made him a little warm under the collar…or there-abouts….
"You're misunderstanding me again Sam, and I can't say that's a damn surprise. What I mean to say is a knife is good but a gun…there's no reason it can't be a gun, is there?"
Sam scowled, ready to argue, and Dean made himself ready to give it right back, but then….
"Hunh." Sam's eyebrows rose. He looked…surprised, interested. "I'll be damned. I think you might have something. Shit, I think I like the idea of a gun."
"See there?" Dean tapped Sam's hand and smiled. "Knew you were a smart fellow. Now I got something to show you," he said and Sam froze again, jerked his hand away from Dean's. When Dean realized that what he'd said could be taken to mean something other than what he'd intended, Dean blushed himself—shook his head. "Oh not that, Sam, nothing like that at all. Though truthfully, I don’t think I've ever been so…turned around. You don’t know what you do to me, son."
"Think I do," Sam muttered and Dean huffed an uncertain laugh.
"Yeah? Well, you scared the life out of me. I'm not…not used to such a fierce start on things."
Sam sneered. "You liked it well enough."
"Gotta say, release wrung out of you isn't quite the same as having an enjoyable time. I'm a man—putting my prick in something hot and wet, well. Don't take a scholar to figure what's gonna happen….eh. I've had nicer times."
Pale from hairline to jaw line, Sam grunted like he'd been gut-punched, tried to jump up but Dean caught his sleeve and held him. "Listen to me. I know about being forced into doing—things. I don’t want to be the one who…Sam. My whole life I've been doing what I have to, not what I want to. Part of that means going to women who sell themselves 'cause they don’t ask and don’t care. Some of them women I know don’t exactly enjoy men except as a means to an end. I know that…that men can be put in that same situation. I'm not trying to offend but. Are you pushed to acts outside your nature by—"
Sam slapped the empty glass down on the table with a bang. One side of his mouth twisted up into an ugly kind of half-smile—the laugh he barked out was sharp enough to cut. "Well, that was a polite way of paintin' me a whore *and* asking if I'm queer. I do what I want because I like it. Not for money. I'm not stupid—I'll take money when it comes to me but that ain't the object."
"Okay." Dean blinked—choked over what was left in his glass and hissed. "So. No need to sneak around the subject, I guess."
"Good. We understand each other."
"I guess we do," Dean said and a slow grin broke out over his face and Sam flinched, blinked.
"What?"
"This is…" Dean shook himself. "Whew. Not the most important thing we could be talking about right now. Look here." He uncovered the wooden model Colt Archie'd left him with, pushed it towards Sam. "We can make this the way you wanted to make the knife. You'll have your weapon, one like nothing else."
Sam took up the wooden model. "Well, fuck, don’t that beat all. Dean, you're a man full of good ideas." Sam ran his fingers over it, sighted along the barrel he'd pointed towards the door, his face turned towards it but it was plain to Dean his mind was a million miles away….
Dean snorted and Sam started, grinned when he looked at Dean. It was like being kicked in the chest, he was that shocked. Dean would have sworn it was impossible for Sam to smile. His eyes lit up, too, and a sort of…cautious happiness spread over Sam's face. The change it wrought was startling in the extreme. Sam was…he was.
"I think. I think this could work just fine, Dean. 'Cause I gotta admit, anything that ups my chances of survivin' this thing, I feel pretty good about. Was this something you'd been thinking about, going into gunsmithing? Did you make this?"
"No and no, Sam. It--it was a gift. Of sorts. Just got reminded lately that I had this. Drink up. Tomorrow we start on something…wonderful." He held the glass of whiskey out and Sam stared at his own for a second or two, before he tapped it against Dean's.
After a quiet moment Dean said, "Now, what we're going to need are the machines that will do what I can't. We have to start from scratch with this. And that means we're gonna have to go to Osage to order what we need, and that can take a few weeks."
"Oh. Okay, that's…that's a good thing. I've got somebody in Osage I wouldn't mind dropping in on—she's a real good friend."
Dean's smile jerked—felt like Sam had driven a hook under his ribs. He'd thought…he'd been pretty sure that Sam had meant he was like Dean. What hope he'd had curled up hard and sharp in his chest.
Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean. "I think she might be fine with you visiting—if she don't take an instant dislike to you. She's kinda picky about who I--I'm friends with. That old woman's worse than a broody hen, sometimes. And damn quick with a wooden spoon too, but I expect you'll find that out."
Oh. That kind of friend. The hook eased and Dean relaxed. "Ladies all like me, son," he smirked. "All right. It'll take a few days to get things in order. I gotta make arrangements for Gabe, and get someone to watch over the forge." He stroked his chin. "If I can find some way to bribe Waller to come out here…."
Sam said, "From the looks of it, you might bring him out with the offer of this whiskey you got here."
Dean laughed, "You probably meant that as an insult son, but that’s the way it'll work." He stood, and clapped Sam between the shoulder blades. "Sleep now, we got some work tomorrow. And sleep in your room, not the barn."
"My room…." There was a hint of surprise in the man's voice, a touch of something that made Dean's chest warm.
"Yeah, your room, if you want it to be."
Sam stood, and looked at Dean for a long moment before nodding. He headed for the stairs without a word, leaving Dean at the table, watching Sam's back.
The next few days left no time for thinking about anything except readying the forge for the work they'd have to do. It was decided that they could prepare the metal in advance, make the raw material into bars. From them Dean would make the gun parts, when they had what tools they'd need. Before that, changes had to be made to Tobias's shop, from the floors to the walls to the forge itself.
The sheet of symbols was unrolled and pinned to the work bench. Dean busied himself building the fire, and glancing over to the bench from time to time, watching Sam mix up the paint they'd use.
Dean was raking more coal into the hearth when Sam came to him with brushes and the finished paint. "If you could help me paint the main sigil on the floor when you're done there…and I'll need to paint these symbols on you, before we make the bars."
Dean nodded. "All right." Dean stopped; bit his lip as he thought. "You know Sam, maybe we should do a cleansing before we start—you ever done that before?"
"Sure, we have—my dad and me, we've done it for weak spirit hauntings, or to make an area ready for a spell—oh! 'Course. That's just what we need to do here; you're right, Dean, and smart of you for thinking of it."
Dean shrugged. "I just had a feeling that it'd be helpful. Though for the life of me I couldn't tell you where I heard of it." He smiled, and Sam kind of smiled back.
"Uncle always said your pa was a very learned man; no doubt you heard it from him at one time or 'nother."
"Might be," Dean said, and then sighed, long and loud. "Well, best get started now; we've got a hell of a lot of work in front of us."
The work went faster than he'd expected, a pleasant surprise, that. Sam told damn interesting stories about hunts he and his dad had done, and the dog found the very idea of cleaning vastly entertaining, and had helped by tracking the salt meant to be swept into the shop's corners all over and chasing the brooms and whatever crawlies they unseated. Dean had been more than happy to leave the spider killing to Sam, who turned everything Dean thought he knew about the rangy, rawhide-tough hunter on its head by revealing himself to be more of a spider shooer than a spider killer….
It wasn’t too long before the forge was completely swept out, and then with brushes made from sage and cedar, the windows and thresholds washed with salt water. As they washed, the rising and falling murmur of Latin made a counterpoint to the soft scrape of the brushes. Dean felt a bit like he did the rare times he'd been in an actual church…the sound of Sam's soft voice surrounded him, lulled him into a sense of peace and contentment…" Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen." The soft tone faded slowly and dean came back to himself. Sam drew what was left of the ragged sheaf of sage and cedar twigs through his palm. "Ready to go on to the next step?"
After they shooed the dog out to the porch, they painted the larger symbol on the floor, and Sam was careful to include all of Dean's corrections. They left it to dry, and sat outside on the bench, sharing a cigarette and talking about nothing special, Sam rubbing the dog's flat head and chewed up ears until it moaned from the pure joy of it. Dean admitted to himself that he was a touch jealous of that dog. Imagining Sam doing that to him brought a snicker out of him and an odd look from Sam. Dean shrugged, and passed him the butt.
They were done—the shop was clean, the necessary sigils sketched on the floor, at points on the walls, and over the doorway. Dean was leaning against the work bench taking a breather. He ran a quick check list in his mind—what he'd need to prepare the metal bars, what he'd need for their trip into Osage, all the while watching the dust motes that danced in the warped light that poured through the windows, He startled aware at a hesitant sound and turned to find Sam standing behind him, a red-tipped brush in one hand and a small pot in the other.
"I've got to…" He gestured with the brush and Dean laughed softly.
"All right then, Mr. Winchester. Where are we putting this paint?" he asked and started in on rolling up his sleeves.
Sam turned red. "All over?"
"Wha…are you asking me or telling me? And how much all over are we talking about?"
Sam scowled. "Your arms. Your chest. And don’t worry, I ain't gonna touch you more than I have to."
Dean didn't respond. He took his shirt off, and held his arms out and said, "Do what you need to."
Sam dipped the paintbrush into the pot and took a deep breath. "Don’t squirm," he said and Dean thought that was going to be the least of his worries. It proved to be the case. The sight of Sam, brow furrowed in concentration, and every once in a while the tip of his pink tongue sliding out to peek from the corner of his mouth, his soft warm breaths washing over his skin. It was distracting, is what it was, and not in a way guaranteed to keep him still.
Dean watched the intricate patterns march up his arms, and across his shoulders, link in the middle over his breast bone and held his breath, trying not to, as Sam had demanded, squirm. He almost gave it up when the brush looped over his nipples. They pebbled as quick as if he'd jumped in icy water—he let out a hiss. He definitely wasn't freezing, oh no. Heat gathered quick as a flash flood, rushed through his veins the same way. His breathing hitched, faltered when the brush swept directly over his nipples again. His breath and Sam's fell into a matching rhythm. "Don't move," Sam muttered, "we're almost finished," and Dean bit his lip and wished that his prick wouldn't jump at Sam's touch, useless wish, he was hard as stone and every feathery touch of the brush, Sam's fingers on his skin, made him moan deep in his throat. Being touched like that, the sole focus of this man; it was almost too much to bear.
Sam's fingers brushed over the bulge straining against the loose fabric of Dean's trousers. He didn't speak, didn't look up, but Dean knew Sam felt it when he shuddered, heard the whine he couldn't quite swallow. Relief loosened his joints when Sam moved away. He had no desire to talk or address this thing at all….
Sam stepped back, looked at Dean critically, the way a painter might look at a finished canvas and Dean might have thought that all he'd been was Sam's canvas, a tool to be used, if Sam wasn't pretty much in the same state that Dean was. Dean groaned quietly when Sam moved away, breathing hard, hand resting on the front of his trousers. Dean tried to think of some action that didn't involve knocking Winchester to the floor and—and—
"You ready, Dean?"
Dean had to admire the way that Sam could speak so clear, and so steady because Dean was pure terrified to open his mouth, certain he'd embarrass himself by whining like a little girl. He licked his lips and croaked, "Yeah, I'm ready, Sammy."
Sammy? Where in the hell had that come from? Dean shook his head. One thing he had no doubt of--he'd ever met anyone less likely to be a Sammy in all his life, and judging by the thunderous expression on Sam's face, he thought that too.
They'd come to the final part of their preparations. This would be nearly the last step, the making of the metal.
Sam broke the dried herbs he'd brought into pieces, and rubbed them between his palms until they became a gritty powder. "… contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium…" he spoke the words over the powder, soft as breathing, and threw the herbs into the coals. Sam was quiet for a few minutes as he ground chips of dried cinnamon to a fine, fragrant dust, and tossed that into the flames as well. Larger bits caught fire and crackled, flames flared blue before dying down and the smell of the herbs filled the air. Dean found it very pleasant. He smiled over at Sam and Sam ducked his head, quickly murmuring more Latin, in which Dean caught Dais, and Gratia, but not much more…Sam threw cinnamon into the fire, and Dean had a quick flash of Tobe making sweet potatoes, his mouth watered at the imagined taste of molasses and cinnamon and butter….
Pa. He missed him like a limb gone.
"Dean, the metal…."
Nodding, he came back to himself. Flakes of silver and flakes of amber went into the metal, the heat made rivers of sweat roll down his arms, his chest, and he had, over and over, the sensation of having done this before, something like it, something that tugged at the edges of his mind, nibbled and niggled at his memory but nothing came clearly.
Sam watched him like Dean was crafting a body part for him. Stayed out of his way but hovered as close as he could, watching the metal go from red, to orange to yellow to white with a fascination that worried Dean a little. He seemed obsessed by the fire and every time Dean looked up, he was hit by the echoes of the dreams he'd had as a boy. Sam looked at him like he was suffering some sort of change of his own. Sweat rolled down his temples, and he felt like he was looking in at himself from a height—not completely separate but the odd sensation of being an echo in his own body lingered even after the melt was complete.
At the end of that evening they had several bars of metal gleaming on the bench, waiting to be made into something that was magical, something that was going to deliver to Sam Winchester what he wanted most in the world.
After Dean washed and took himself to bed, he kept seeing Sam's face, and hearing his voice and feeling….that single touch, that drift of fingertips over his hardness…Dean groaned quietly to himself and gave thought to taking business into his own hands. The hinges creaking on his door stopped him flat. He peered out into the dark, barely catching a shadow lined silver by the moonlight.
Sam was in the doorway, wearing not much more than a blanket from what Dean could see and sure as hell that was not a good idea. The memory of that night in the barn, when Sam had gone down on him, hit him right between the eyes. He twitched right down to his toes and eased his knees up slowly, casually, making a tent of the covers. But Sam didn't even look like he was looking at Dean, he just stood there, hunched over a bit, like he was trying to appear smaller—he sure looked younger than the twenty or so Dean made him to be. He looked lost, scared—and angry. Always that edge of anger wrapped around him like a cloak, even when his eyes gave him completely away, and it broke Dean's heart and made him wish that they'd had Sam here with them from little, to protect him from the things that had driven him into that dark place he lived in.
"Can I come in?" Sam asked, and turned his face away.
Dean weighed the possibility of disaster against the sight of Sam curling further into himself and backing out of the doorway—Sam was always expecting to be turned away. It made Dean sad—and opened something inside of him he wasn't sure of. Dean licked his lips and said, "Come on," and his voice broke.
Sam glanced up in surprise. He shuffled over to Dean's bedside and stood there. "Your room is nice."
"You can hardly see a thing, it's dark in here."
Sam jerked his head towards the window. "Moonlight. I can see pretty good by it. You got a lot of books, too," he said, turning his head from side to side. "Like Uncle Robert. I read a lot when I stay with him — when I'm not studying or ferrying stuff around for him." Sam's voice went smaller, softer. "I miss him. I miss his house. Got my own room there, nice as this one. Bright. Sunny."
"You know you got one here, too." Dean said it soft, only loud enough to let Sam know he was listening, but not so loud as to derail his train of thought. Sam went on. "Dad too. He might not have been the kind of father yours was but he kept me alive. Did his best to keep me safe. When he couldn't, wasn't his fault all. That was all mine." Dean could see even in the faint light of the moon Sam's eyes were wet, shimmered with tears he'd probably cut his arm off before claiming. "Robert, Dad, Missouri, Caleb…the only people in all the world who are going to miss me when I—"
"First off, you ain't goin' anywhere, hear? That thing isn't going to get its claws in you, and you ain't going to miss and you forgot *me*, Sam Winchester. I'll miss you."
Sam stared at Dean a bit, before shaking his head. "Not going to miss me, Dean. When I ride out of here, you'll hardly ever think of me again."
"You—sit down here, you idiot. Here, next to me." He scooted over, and Sam perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. "This is how it's going to go. We—not you, we—are going to track that sonofabitch down. Then, you're going to fill its no good hide with holy lead, crack it wide open and send its filth and disease back to Hell. And then, we're going to rejoice in the justice you get for your family. And after that, we'll see what comes next. What you ain't allowed is just walk offa me like you don’t plan to come back." He glared at Sam. Put everything he felt into it. Don't you leave me.
"Shit—" Sam dropped his blanket and swarmed right over Dean, buck-naked as Dean had suspected he was. In one desperate lunge, he tried to pull Dean's blanket away and get his night shirt up too, like he had that night—
"Wait up there, Sam!"
"Don’t tell me you don’t want it, Dean," he growled, teeth pressed hot and wet against Dean's thigh, worrying a moan out of him. "Your mouth might lie but your body doesn't."
And just to betray him, his prick jerked hard and left a wet trail against Sam's cheek. "Sam—!"
"You been thinking about it," he smirked and straddled Dean. "You can't stop thinking about it. You want to shove your prick inside me, don’t you? Or in my mouth or…" Sam was long, and lean, and muscled, soft dark hair dusting his skin, surrounding a prick so pretty it made Dean's mouth water. Dean burned red with embarrassment—he heard his breath panting out in excited little bursts. He was hard, so hard his prick pressed tight against his stomach. Sam stroked his own and Dean gasped, a little dizzy from too much air, from the sight Sam made.
Sam scooted down and opened his mouth and Dean grabbed him by a handful of hair and yanked him off.
"Yowch! I mean—" Sam closed his eyes and stilled. Dean waited for him to open them again, and after a bit Sam peeked through lowered lids. "You…you gonna hit me or what?"
"No! I just. You think I'm mad? Sam…I want this to be different. From before."
"Oh," Sam said, "okay." He turned, straddling Dean in reverse, reaching between his legs for Dean. Dean dropped back against the pillow. Sam was going to kill him.
"Please come up here with me, you damn fool." Dean patted the bed next to him, and Sam whipped around, crawled up to him, suspicion pouring off him but not asking why, just…doing what Dean wanted. It was kind of heady, this grudging obedience. It thrilled him—and worried him, too. He pulled Sam down to him, eager to cut off his troubling thoughts.
"What? What do you want—" and Sam gasped in surprise when Dean's lips touched his. He was a rock, a statue, for the long minutes Dean tried to get him to respond, licking at the tight seam of his lips, pressing softly against them until finally Sam's mouth softened a bit and he whimpered almost silently. Dean smiled to himself, increased the pressure that much more, until Sam's mouth was soft and open under his, his tongue shyly flicked back at Dean's, and then more boldly sliding against his, bolder, rougher, until Sam moaned like he was losing everything and he sank into Dean—too fast, too hard and too wet but desperate, making noise that had Dean seriously worried that he might come just from Sam's desperate, terrible, kisses…and then Sam shuddered all over and groaned, pulled back from Dean, spit gleaming on his chin, his lips red and swollen from messy, savage kisses. He shivered again, reached out and dug his fingers into Dean's shoulder so hard, Dean expected bruises. Sam jerked, curled over himself and came, hot, thick fluid sluicing over his skin and Dean's nightshirt. He looked startled, shattered…as he slowly stopped shuddering, apologized again and again, begging to make Dean feel so good, he could do it, Dean could do anything he wanted….
"Wait, wait—" Dean ripped his shirt over his head, dropped it to the bed. Touched himself, barely touched himself, before he was following Sam, prick jerking in his grip and spilling over the both of them, adding to the mess. He came harder than the last time with Archie. It felt—right. It felt good. He wrapped a hand around Sam's neck and pulled him back to his mouth. "Shut up, Sam," he mumbled. I ain't got nothing' left in me, not yet. Get under the covers, fool and give me that nightshirt, so's I can clean this mess up."
Sam balled up the shirt and handed it to him. He still looked wary, still a little dumbstruck as he let Dean clean them both off best he could. After a long silence Sam said, "That was the second kiss I ever had."
"You serious? You never kissed nobody—"
"I don't ever like thinking about that first one and no one after that ever wanted to kiss an ugly piece of shit like me."
Dean stared at him—felt a wave of heat sweep him. "The hell you say? Ugly? You're…you're something special Sam, ugly ain't hardly the word I'd use for you. You're." He shook his head. "Man, you're one hell of a long way from ugly."
Sam closed his eyes. "Please don’t. This was…this was good. Real good. Don't make fun of me now."
"Oh Sam, I'm not, I swear." He pulled Sam closer, breaking through his resistance. "You stay here with me, please?"
"All right."
Dean expected Sam to lay sleepless, as stiff as he was. It was like cuddling up to a bundle of sticks and glass, but the boy dropped off in seconds, soft snores filled the air and Dean was the one that sat up most of the night, petting him, just watching him sleep and knowing he'd lost every bit of his heart and most of his common sense over the prickly, snappish fellow drooling on his chest. "Why me?" he murmured and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Sam sighed deeply in his sleep and shoved his head under Dean's chin.
Part 30
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(no subject)
6/16/10 05:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/16/10 05:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/16/10 03:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/16/10 09:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/16/10 04:09 pm (UTC)*sniffle*
I love the ritual of the forge, the cleansing and the herbs, the bars of blessed iron. Very cool.
And the slow tension of the sigils being painted on Dean...niiiiiice.
:) Love it!
(no subject)
6/16/10 09:51 pm (UTC)I *wish* ;)
(no subject)
6/16/10 06:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/16/10 09:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/17/10 03:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/17/10 03:56 am (UTC)Thank you so much!! I'm hoping the next part doesn't take quite as long as this did! :)
(no subject)
6/17/10 02:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/18/10 03:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/19/10 05:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/20/10 05:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/23/10 01:04 am (UTC)Dean might not fix Sam all the way, but he'll defintely do his best to make it better!
(no subject)
6/20/10 04:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/23/10 01:04 am (UTC)Hey, thanks for reading, lovey!
(no subject)
6/20/10 10:35 pm (UTC)"Sorry thing he was, it made him a little warm under the collar…or there-abouts…."
Lines like that? Are why I love this story. LOVE!
(no subject)
6/23/10 01:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/9/10 10:32 am (UTC)[URL=http://www.radikal.ru][IMG]http://i072.radikal.ru/1006/92/a39164ed78cb.jpg[/IMG][/URL]
(no subject)
7/9/10 03:54 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for sharing that--I kind of want it too, now! :)
(no subject)
7/9/10 10:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/9/10 03:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
7/14/10 04:55 pm (UTC)I am so proud of Dean here. He really tried and succeeded at chipping away a little of Sammy's (hee!) ginormous wall. And can I just say that that middle section of Dean making the metal into bars is. . . fucking amazing and leave it at that? Because it *is* fucking amazing! Seriously. That is-- that is just your wonderful, fucking amazing skills right there. God, woman, you. Are. GOOD.
*kneels before roxy*
Crap. I had so much else I wanted to say cos I love this story and this section was super awesome, but now I've forgotten like a tool. :/ You made me forget my praise, hon! Praise, praise, praise! There. :)
Can't wait for more! Hee! Also: I get to meet the author of this, my beloved SpN story. Mwhahaha.