spn fic: Non Timebo Mala part 31
8/1/10 10:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 4432
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.)
Some semi-magical, fuzzy-wuzzy gun-making coming up soonish. But in this bit, there's just tears and bad, bad feelings. And iced tea.
Sam stared at Dean like he'd offered him a hand, or some vital organ…he turned his face way and snorted like he thought Dean was a fool but what Dean could see of the boy was a bright red and the dog was staring at him, and wagging his tail like Sam had done something clever. He fiddled with the narrow brimmed hat until it set comfortably on his head. His eyes glowed like it was Christmas morn…like Dean had handed him a treasure instead of a cast off bowler of Pa's gone soft with age.
It was hot as the dickens in the kitchen, the steam rose up and so did her hair, coming all undone and frizzing at the hairline…she tucked wild curls under her kerchief and blew out a quick breath. "Well, now." Hands on her hips, she surveyed her domain. The potatoes were peeled, rinsed, and chopped on the side board. Some hot milk, and butter and salt and there'd be mashed to go with the gravy cooking down on the big stove. She'd sent her helper, Winnie, to pull some greens from the garden. She was all skinny arms and knobby knees, a tall girl and still growing. She had an attitude that swung from sweet to sour in seconds but Winnie was smart enough to mind her manners around her. She was a hard worker and that Missouri appreciated. Her momma was one of the girls had a crib out past the stables, and Missouri had taken Winnie under her wing, figured to keep her eye on her. Wasn't the first time a tall, prickly sort had made themselves to home with her.
Winnie wandered in with a basket of greens, complaining about everything from the bugs to the heat to the foul-mouthed drovers currently in town. Missouri just let the girl's stream of complaints wash over her, and set her to washing the greens. "Ya'll can talk while you work, girl."
Wasn't long before the greens were cooking with some smoked hocks, chicken baking golden brown in one oven, bread in the other, and sweet rolls were keeping in the warmer drawer. It was time to set on the stoop a bit; maybe with a glass of tea…she smiled to herself. A quicksilver memory of how John Winchester used to love her tea flashed in her mind…and there it was again. Why was John on her mind like that? Last couple of days, seemed like he was all she could think of, him and his son. Poor little baby. She wondered how Sam was doing. She missed him—worried about him.
She was leaning against the porch rail, fanning herself with her apron, and that was how she caught sight of the tall lean figure at the top of the street. She couldn't help but smile, and her heart swelled to fill her chest. Was only one boy that tall she knew and if the height wouldn't have tipped her off, the stocky little fellow trotting behind him would have. Little Bas—Bone Head looked just as hearty and fine as his boy did.
The dog jerked his head up and seemed to fix her with his little beady eyes before he took off full tilt down the street towards her.
He was still thumping her knees and trying to twist in and out between her feet when Sam arrived a second later at her porch step. He looked good—well fed, well rested—there was an ease to him that she'd never seen before. Missouri eyed him up and down, taking stock of every little thing—and did a double take.
"Boy…whose hat is that?"
"Mine," he snapped, and flushed bright red, yanked the hat off his head and dropped his eyes in one motion. "I mean--how do Miss Missouri ma'am, been a good while since we've seen one another," he said, curling and almost crushing the brim of the dusty bowler hat in his giant hands.
"That there is an understatement, boy," Missouri snapped right back. "Now stop side steppin' me and tell me—whose hat is that?"
"Can't see why you're making such an all-fired fuss …it belongs to a, a friend, I guess." He set the hat back on his head, and offered her a weak little smile.
Sam Winchester, you're sore testing me-- Aloud she said, "Does it, now? It is a fine lookin' hat." Missouri took her time--she took in Sam's blush, the way he balled his hands in his pockets and stared at his toes. A feeling flicked through her—like quick-flowing water over rocks. She said, "This friend. He's the one going to make the dragon slayer for you?"
The boy perked right up, and thirteen year old Sam rose up, peeked out his eyes, proud and excited. "Yes ma'am! Started out thinkin' about a knife, but it's gonna be a gun, because Dean thinks that's the way to go." He said the name Dean like Dean was the final authority on anything and everything. The glow in his eyes brought a smile to her lips.
"Oh really? Well, that makes sense. Makes good sense. Now you get over here and give me a hug."
Sam jumped straight up the three steps, hit the porch boards and swept her up in a huge hug practically before she could blink. He laughed and it was like music to her ears. Sam's laughter was rare enough she had to give her whole self over to the enjoyment of it. Her eyes closed, tuned in to the pleasant rumble in his chest, the thump-thump of his heart. It bloomed sudden and whole in her mind--what else had changed for the boy.
Sam was in love.
Her Samuel was in love…an ice-cold ripple flowed down her spine. Her Sam was in love with the gun maker. A man.
She stepped back from Sam, pushed his arms off her. Pushed him out to arm's length and stared at him, searched him up, and down again.
A man.
Well, she had no idea what John Winchester would have said to that--heck fire, that poor man probably would have gone on his whole life and never noticed it of his son but--the idea didn't really come as that big a shock, not to her. She remembered how the boy had trotted after Caleb like a lost colt after its momma. She'd always thought it was more than the wish for a big brother that had entranced him so…and now the love she'd promised him he'd find, had found him, and it looked to be a good thing. She hoped it was.
"So. Now you're wearing the hat that belongs to your friend."
Sam gnawed at his lip and refused to meet her eyes. He muttered, "Yes ma'am. He loaned it, kind of. When I…lost the other one."
She fixed him with a look. "Hmm. Lost it, you say?" She liked this other boy already, if he managed to get that evil hat off her Sam. Well, seems you found a good friend. I'm glad for that."
"Oh yes. He's…he's really something." She smiled to herself as Sam forced a scowl and said, "'Course, he's also annoying as all get out, and a terrible know it all. He's barely tolerable company, but you'll find that out yourself."
She smiled at Sam, nodded, and ushered him into the kitchen. "I'm looking forward to it."
Sam
Sam drank the tea off in one long gulp and sighed. He'd missed Missouri's sweet tea. He poked the brim of Dean's bowler, perched where he'd set it on his knee, and smiled at her. He knew darn well she was about to explode with questions, but he figured he'd let Dean speak for himself. Shouldn't be much longer before he caught up with Sam. Sam had left him in the general store, poring over the catalog and making the all kind of noises, over various pieces of machinery, that most folks reserved for French postcards….
Missouri was setting dinner on the serving cart, and Sam helped 'Souri and her kitchen girl to load up the various dishes and serving utensils, and then sat in the kitchen to wait as the two of them went to serve the guests. Dean was just knocking at the door as she came back.
"Stop lollygaggin' in the doorway, you're letting in flies. I'm Missouri, but I'm sure you know that, just like I know who you are."
"Dean Kane, ma'am. Pleased to meet you."
Missouri quickly shut the door, her expression tightened. "You shouldn't call me ma'am. That's for white people."
"I treat folks with the respect they deserve, just like my pa, Mr. Kane, taught me. He was blacksmith up by Bristol, maybe you heard of him?"
Sam watched 'Souri's eyes go round with surprise; her hand flew to her heart. "Oh my Lord, of course I've heard of him. I was most sorry to hear of his passing. That was surely some sad news." She tilted her head back to meet Dean's eyes and said, "Mr. Kane and I were acquaintances. We had occasion to…help one another out, from time to time. I'm glad to finally meet you. You're a credit to him."
She turned to Sam. "By the way, boy, you know you got mail from Mr. Singer at the post office? Postmaster told me last time he was here..." She smirked a bit before going on. "He'd have brought it himself, but I told him that I'd send you when you got into town. Now, tell you what, you and Mr. Kane make yourself comfortable at the table, and I'll feed you and later on, you can take a bath—get rid of some of the trail dust…"
"That sounds like a perfect plan, 'Souri. And I can't wait to eat."
"Me either. Sam's told me a lot about your cooking, ma'am—all the way here he had me dreaming of it. Said your chicken was so fine it looked like it was breaded in gold dust and your biscuits were so light and fluffy, you had to catch 'em before they floated away."
"Hmm. I see you do take after Mr. Kane—he was a silver-tongued sort too."
Sam grinned at the startled laugh Dean let out at her description of his pa. Missouri winked at him, went to coax Dean to the table and froze solid. Her hand was on his arm and Sam could see her eyes fade out from the here and now…she came back with a gasp.
"What?" Sam leaned towards her, hands going out to her, afraid she was about to fall—she'd gone an unhealthy gray, and her brow was dripping wet. "Are you—did you see something?" Sam was instantly afraid she'd seen some harm to Dean, some part of his plan for revenge tangling back to hurt Dean. He couldn't stand that, couldn't live with it, if his desire brought harm to Dean.
"No, child, no. Just old joints actin' up, land's sake. Don’t everything have to be about the spirit world, you know." She was worrying her lip though, and casting looks from Dean to him, and back again…and then she let out a sigh, a sound like the air let out of the world. She patted Dean's arm, took his hand when he jumped—he'd been staring at 'Souri like she was about to fly apart right in front of him. He looked relieved when she squeezed it quick and let go. "Tell you what, ya'll wash up first, honey, and then come sit. You too, Sam. you'll feel better for it."
Sam nodded and drew Dean after him into the passway. They pulled the tub out and Sam filled it with water, and they stripped off their coats and shirts. They were both elbow deep in the water, kneeling at tubside when Dean leaned over and kissed him. It was fleeting, warm and sweet and Sam had to admit he was kind of getting used to the idea that touching could be so…soft. He felt heat rise up into his cheeks, and saw that Dean was pink as he was, and that his lips had gone a deep rose. Sam leaned closer, wanting to give Dean a kiss as sweet, but instead, caught Dean's bottom lip in his teeth, nipped quick before licking over it.
"You tryin' to eat me, Hunter?" Dean asked and Sam snorted.
"You wait until tonight, Blacksmith. I'm going to eat you right down, gonna suck you dry and leave you shaking and begging, you're gonna want to seat yourself deep as you can and make me shout—"
"Damn it boy. We're about to sit down to dinner with a woman who might as well be your momma. I can't go out there with a damn lodgepole in my pants," he said, his righteous indignation spoiled just a bit by the glitter in his eyes and the high color in his cheeks—something Sam wanted to see more of. Sam apologized anyway, but Dean elbowed him, hard enough to knock Sam sideways, and send a wave over the edge of the copper tub. That made him burst into laughter. He laughed even harder when Dean swole up, proud as a peacock, like making Sam laugh was such a clever thing to do.
Back in the kitchen, Sam doubted that either one of them were pulling the wool over Missouri's eyes, both of them damp and pink and grinning like cats, all elbows and knees and jostling each other to be the first to the table. She rolled her eyes and cuffed Sam as he walked past, scolded him to act his age, but the smile she gave him was at least a mite more natural than the one she'd pasted on her face since touching Dean…
It was late evening when Sam made his way out of the saloon. He'd been to the general store with Dean, picked up some staples to replace what him and Dean had used, left Dean there to finish up his catalog order while he went to the post office and collected Uncle Robert's letters. There were a few, and Sam couldn't wait to for free time to read them. If they ran true to course, they'd be a combination of information on possible jobs, Hunter gossip, and lessons…most of all, they'd bring a breath of home with them. Thinking of the only place he'd could call something like home made him feel a little sorry for himself, and the best medicine for melancholy was a good stiff drink or two, just a couple while he waited for Dean.
Somehow it'd come full dark while he was in the saloon, one or two drinks had turned into many and Dean…well, he must have gone straight on back to Missouri's without stopping, which was fine. The walk back wasn't very long and he knew it by heart, sober or drunk as a lord. Besides, he needed some time to himself. Felt like he was never alone these days, not anywhere, not even in his own head. Dean was everywhere, taking up all his space. Man needed some space to breathe—Dean too. Hell, the man was probably getting tired of seein' a Sam at his elbow all the time.
Sam leaned against the saloon wall and fumbled his way through rolling a cigarette. He was still trying to stuff tobacco into the curl of paper, thinking about heading for the street that would take him back to the House when a rough voice called out to him. "Hey, boy. Don’t I know you?"
Sam turned towards it, a smirk ready. There was alone--and there was alone. Looked like one of those drovers pushing through town, headed to them big ranches springing up out in the hills—probably had a pocket full of gold and lookin' to spend it. "Maybe. I believe I do know you."
The man tilted his head towards Sam. "Well, what say we renew our acquaintance?" He reached into his pocket and flipped a dollar between his fingers and grinned, and Sam nodded, jerked his head towards the dark alley between the rows of buildings.
"Dark back there and nobody'll notice us. Or least ways, they'll be too drunk to care, right?" he mumbled. The drover took the cigarette out of Sam's fingers and rolled it, tucked it between Sam's lips and lit it for him.
"Whatever you say, friend'. We're just tryin' to help each other out, ain't that so?"
* * * *
Sam was grinding his teeth, legs spread wide as possible, forehead braced against the clapboard, and his fingers digging into the back of his thighs. He felt the chill night air on his bare legs and ass, hot, wet breath in his ear, the man's fingers stabbing inside him. A rough nail caught at too tender flesh, sent ragged bursts of pain through him, and he had to fight that much harder to loosen his muscles. The drover fanned his fingers, spit between them, and worked it into Sam, twisting and turning, working them deeper, working him open, until Sam groaned out loud. "Come on, damn it," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Do it now."
"Shit, it's gonna get done, you bitch-mouthin' me or not," the man growled, but yielded to Sam, pulled him wide with his thumbs hooked into the rim of his hole and shoved his prick in. "Fuck--"
Stars burst under Sam's eyelids; they burned and sparked under his skin, grew sharp and bright in his ass, his gut. His mouth dropped open and he panted though the pain, forcing himself back on the man's prick. The drover moaned…"You are a bitch, ain't cha, just a bitch dog in heat, you—" he cursed and muttered filth against Sam's neck, sweat and spit working its way under his collar. "You like bein' treated like this, hunh?" The man chuckled—a dark, thick sound that reminded Sam of blood, and of smoke. He curled his hand around Sam's throat and squeezed, lightly at first and then tighter and tighter when Sam made no move to stop him….
A weak flutter of fear woke in Sam's belly; still he got hard, he pushed into the man's hand, pushed back on his prick even as a faint voice inside him warned it was a bad, bad thing, what he was doing. He didn't want to go back to the house with his neck all purpled…the fear of Missouri seeing became the fear of Dean knowing became the fear of Dean leaving. From deep in his guts, pouring right out of his skin, he felt sick. For the first time ever he thought there was a chance he might not walk away from this and for the first time ever, he wanted to.
Tiny pinwheels of light wheeled, flared bright in the dark as he tried to break away from the steadily tighter grip on his throat. He heard nothing but the slick slap of wet skin against skin, felt nothing but the sawing push of the man behind him and the growing burn in his chest.
He blinked. The world flickered. Air buzzed and burned as it shuddered into his lungs.
Dark. Light. Hands on him. Under him.
He was looking up at the sky and stars, real stars hung above him, the moon shone down on him...his eyesight blurred and the moon became Dean. Sam thought he was dreaming Dean, but he was there, solid, wide, tall and madder than hell.
Sam couldn't help but laugh, it was too much, the moon and Dean and the way Dean's freckles blazed across his nose and the way his eyes burned like witch fire--Sam laughed, right up until Dean punched him in the mouth.
He spit blood, ran his tongue around his mouth to check his teeth. He tasted copper, his ass was raw, his ear…his throat. Sam squinted, scrubbed at his eyes, not sure if he was dreaming or awake. He rolled to his knees and fumbled his pants back up his legs. There was a dollar glinting in the sand and Sam reached for it, but a boot came out of nowhere and kicked it away.
"Get up."
The voice was deep and ragged and cut him like knives but Sam did as it asked. He heard his dad growl, what the *fuck* where you thinking Sam? *Why* this?
Sam hung his head. He was fourteen and aching, sick as a dog and horrified at how he'd let his dad down, afraid to look him in the eye, not sure he could keep on breathing once he saw the disgust there…
Answer me!
He opened his mouth and a raw sob broke out and that was it. He'd humiliated himself past reason—given Dad no choice but to cut him loose. He waited for the sound of footsteps moving away. Instead a warm hand landed on his shoulder. "Sam?"
Not Dad…Dean. And in a way, that was even worse. Dean. You saw. Again.
Dean took him by his elbow. "Come on. Come with me."
Sam tried to pull away but Dean was having none of that. "I don't ever want to have to hit you again. But on my word, I will if you don’t stop acting the fool with me and do what I tell you. We gotta get way from this place, you hear?"
Sam looked own and saw the huddled bulk of the drover, and he gasped. "You killed him—"
"Don’t be a damn fool. Come on now. I'm never letting you out of my sight again. God is my witness."
Sam stumbled along, and Dean's words filled his head and echoed endlessly, pushed everything else right out. "Dean," he rasped.
"Shut up. Save your voice."
"No—I'm—sorry—"
"I got no right to have an apology from you. You don’t owe me one. Don't owe me a damn thing, Winchester."
Sam shook his head. "Do. Owe you…everything."
Dean stopped, turned to Sam, and all Sam could see was green fire. He was afraid, to look, to look away. The world fell away and there was nothing save Dean's eyes—all that rage, all that feeling, that expectation and it was locked on him, surrounding him, caging him. Lifting him. That green fire was pouring into him and filling him up. He was choking on it, he needed it. Wanted to die, knowing now what he'd been missing most of his life. He tried to hit Dean, push him away, but Dean clamped his fingers over Sam's shoulder and pressed until Sam felt bone would have to give way. His prick jumped, hot and half-hard. He swallowed down a groan and forced his eyes away.
Dean went on like he had no idea of the storm that wracked Sam, body and soul. "Well then, you owe me. And if that's the case, you don't ever let anyone else touch you. Ever, you hear me, Sam Winchester? You hear me?"
Sam nodded, eyes tracking back to Dean's. "Never. Swear."
"All right then. We're going back to Miss Missouri's and I'm going to put you to bed and in the morning, we're putting all this behind us."
"All right, Dean." Sam let Dean support him even though he didn’t need it. Just…Dean insisted, and it felt…he hardly knew what to call the feeling. He didn't want to put a name on it, was kind of frightened to. But…the feeling, it was like those kisses. He thought maybe he could grow to like it.
"If you don't stop what you're doing, it's going to kill you."
He'd sneaked back into 'Souri's kitchen from where him and Dean'd bunked down in the stables, left Dean snoring with the dog sacked out practically on his head. His smile faded and he sighed, watching the stiff line of her back as Missouri beat batter like it'd done something to personally offend her.
"I can take care of myself," he muttered, and she slammed the wooden spoon down, pale yellow spoon bread batter splattering the table and stone floor. Sam jumped at the sudden noise, dropped his head.
"Samuel, I'm goin' to say this one time. You let this boy take care of you or—or—" she turned to Sam, her eyes wet with furious tears. "I've held my tongue too long about this. It's my fault for letting your daddy shove what happened to you down, shove it away. You think because you were mishandled it makes you some kind of monster. It don't. You ain't the only one…"
"I got—it was—a demon, don't you get that? Did that awful--thing to me, poisoned me!"
"Sam, it didn't. Not even when that boss demon put his blood in you, that…it didn't change you, not in important ways. What ever is happening to you now, you're doing it to yourself. Stop punishing yourself. Because it's not just you hurtin', it's Dean too. Can't you stop, for him?"
Sam swallowed hard…he was pretty sure she'd divined his feelings for Dean. And it seemed she was willing to use those feelings if she had to. Dad had always said she was a tough little woman who made her own rules…"Yes. I already promised him. I won’t go back on my word. Not if I can help it."
She sighed, and the steel seemed to seep out of her. "Sam…" her head dropped, her hands folded over each other in her lap. Sam knew she was praying from her posture—he couldn't pick out her words. When she looked up at him again, her face was wet. "I just want you to be happy. Forgive me, please, forgive me—just want you to be happy—"
"Of course, of course—you ain't never hurt me, never would. You're my friend—closer—you're like family."
He reached out and grabbed her hands, and she cried silently, held their clasped hands to her cheek. "I don’t know, I don't know…" She rocked back in her chair, took a deep breath and dropped Sam's hand. That steel was back in her--she about slapped the tears away, angry at herself, he thought.
"You pay no heed to a crazy old woman. Now get yourself back to sleep and let me finish making my bread. Swan, I'm getting worse and worse the older I get…" She jumped up and fussed with her batter, scooped out lard to grease her pans and was determinedly normal, if a little savage about wrestling the batter into the greased pans. Sam, on impulse kissed her cheek.
"Thank you," he said. "And I meant what I said."
The smile she gave him was wobbly, but genuine. "I know you did, boy. Now you take yourself on out to the stables, I promise you're gonna have pleasant dreams this night."
part 32
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OCs, Sam/OCs, Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 4432
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.)
Some semi-magical, fuzzy-wuzzy gun-making coming up soonish. But in this bit, there's just tears and bad, bad feelings. And iced tea.
Sam stared at Dean like he'd offered him a hand, or some vital organ…he turned his face way and snorted like he thought Dean was a fool but what Dean could see of the boy was a bright red and the dog was staring at him, and wagging his tail like Sam had done something clever. He fiddled with the narrow brimmed hat until it set comfortably on his head. His eyes glowed like it was Christmas morn…like Dean had handed him a treasure instead of a cast off bowler of Pa's gone soft with age.
It was hot as the dickens in the kitchen, the steam rose up and so did her hair, coming all undone and frizzing at the hairline…she tucked wild curls under her kerchief and blew out a quick breath. "Well, now." Hands on her hips, she surveyed her domain. The potatoes were peeled, rinsed, and chopped on the side board. Some hot milk, and butter and salt and there'd be mashed to go with the gravy cooking down on the big stove. She'd sent her helper, Winnie, to pull some greens from the garden. She was all skinny arms and knobby knees, a tall girl and still growing. She had an attitude that swung from sweet to sour in seconds but Winnie was smart enough to mind her manners around her. She was a hard worker and that Missouri appreciated. Her momma was one of the girls had a crib out past the stables, and Missouri had taken Winnie under her wing, figured to keep her eye on her. Wasn't the first time a tall, prickly sort had made themselves to home with her.
Winnie wandered in with a basket of greens, complaining about everything from the bugs to the heat to the foul-mouthed drovers currently in town. Missouri just let the girl's stream of complaints wash over her, and set her to washing the greens. "Ya'll can talk while you work, girl."
Wasn't long before the greens were cooking with some smoked hocks, chicken baking golden brown in one oven, bread in the other, and sweet rolls were keeping in the warmer drawer. It was time to set on the stoop a bit; maybe with a glass of tea…she smiled to herself. A quicksilver memory of how John Winchester used to love her tea flashed in her mind…and there it was again. Why was John on her mind like that? Last couple of days, seemed like he was all she could think of, him and his son. Poor little baby. She wondered how Sam was doing. She missed him—worried about him.
She was leaning against the porch rail, fanning herself with her apron, and that was how she caught sight of the tall lean figure at the top of the street. She couldn't help but smile, and her heart swelled to fill her chest. Was only one boy that tall she knew and if the height wouldn't have tipped her off, the stocky little fellow trotting behind him would have. Little Bas—Bone Head looked just as hearty and fine as his boy did.
The dog jerked his head up and seemed to fix her with his little beady eyes before he took off full tilt down the street towards her.
He was still thumping her knees and trying to twist in and out between her feet when Sam arrived a second later at her porch step. He looked good—well fed, well rested—there was an ease to him that she'd never seen before. Missouri eyed him up and down, taking stock of every little thing—and did a double take.
"Boy…whose hat is that?"
"Mine," he snapped, and flushed bright red, yanked the hat off his head and dropped his eyes in one motion. "I mean--how do Miss Missouri ma'am, been a good while since we've seen one another," he said, curling and almost crushing the brim of the dusty bowler hat in his giant hands.
"That there is an understatement, boy," Missouri snapped right back. "Now stop side steppin' me and tell me—whose hat is that?"
"Can't see why you're making such an all-fired fuss …it belongs to a, a friend, I guess." He set the hat back on his head, and offered her a weak little smile.
Sam Winchester, you're sore testing me-- Aloud she said, "Does it, now? It is a fine lookin' hat." Missouri took her time--she took in Sam's blush, the way he balled his hands in his pockets and stared at his toes. A feeling flicked through her—like quick-flowing water over rocks. She said, "This friend. He's the one going to make the dragon slayer for you?"
The boy perked right up, and thirteen year old Sam rose up, peeked out his eyes, proud and excited. "Yes ma'am! Started out thinkin' about a knife, but it's gonna be a gun, because Dean thinks that's the way to go." He said the name Dean like Dean was the final authority on anything and everything. The glow in his eyes brought a smile to her lips.
"Oh really? Well, that makes sense. Makes good sense. Now you get over here and give me a hug."
Sam jumped straight up the three steps, hit the porch boards and swept her up in a huge hug practically before she could blink. He laughed and it was like music to her ears. Sam's laughter was rare enough she had to give her whole self over to the enjoyment of it. Her eyes closed, tuned in to the pleasant rumble in his chest, the thump-thump of his heart. It bloomed sudden and whole in her mind--what else had changed for the boy.
Sam was in love.
Her Samuel was in love…an ice-cold ripple flowed down her spine. Her Sam was in love with the gun maker. A man.
She stepped back from Sam, pushed his arms off her. Pushed him out to arm's length and stared at him, searched him up, and down again.
A man.
Well, she had no idea what John Winchester would have said to that--heck fire, that poor man probably would have gone on his whole life and never noticed it of his son but--the idea didn't really come as that big a shock, not to her. She remembered how the boy had trotted after Caleb like a lost colt after its momma. She'd always thought it was more than the wish for a big brother that had entranced him so…and now the love she'd promised him he'd find, had found him, and it looked to be a good thing. She hoped it was.
"So. Now you're wearing the hat that belongs to your friend."
Sam gnawed at his lip and refused to meet her eyes. He muttered, "Yes ma'am. He loaned it, kind of. When I…lost the other one."
She fixed him with a look. "Hmm. Lost it, you say?" She liked this other boy already, if he managed to get that evil hat off her Sam. Well, seems you found a good friend. I'm glad for that."
"Oh yes. He's…he's really something." She smiled to herself as Sam forced a scowl and said, "'Course, he's also annoying as all get out, and a terrible know it all. He's barely tolerable company, but you'll find that out yourself."
She smiled at Sam, nodded, and ushered him into the kitchen. "I'm looking forward to it."
Sam drank the tea off in one long gulp and sighed. He'd missed Missouri's sweet tea. He poked the brim of Dean's bowler, perched where he'd set it on his knee, and smiled at her. He knew darn well she was about to explode with questions, but he figured he'd let Dean speak for himself. Shouldn't be much longer before he caught up with Sam. Sam had left him in the general store, poring over the catalog and making the all kind of noises, over various pieces of machinery, that most folks reserved for French postcards….
Missouri was setting dinner on the serving cart, and Sam helped 'Souri and her kitchen girl to load up the various dishes and serving utensils, and then sat in the kitchen to wait as the two of them went to serve the guests. Dean was just knocking at the door as she came back.
"Stop lollygaggin' in the doorway, you're letting in flies. I'm Missouri, but I'm sure you know that, just like I know who you are."
"Dean Kane, ma'am. Pleased to meet you."
Missouri quickly shut the door, her expression tightened. "You shouldn't call me ma'am. That's for white people."
"I treat folks with the respect they deserve, just like my pa, Mr. Kane, taught me. He was blacksmith up by Bristol, maybe you heard of him?"
Sam watched 'Souri's eyes go round with surprise; her hand flew to her heart. "Oh my Lord, of course I've heard of him. I was most sorry to hear of his passing. That was surely some sad news." She tilted her head back to meet Dean's eyes and said, "Mr. Kane and I were acquaintances. We had occasion to…help one another out, from time to time. I'm glad to finally meet you. You're a credit to him."
She turned to Sam. "By the way, boy, you know you got mail from Mr. Singer at the post office? Postmaster told me last time he was here..." She smirked a bit before going on. "He'd have brought it himself, but I told him that I'd send you when you got into town. Now, tell you what, you and Mr. Kane make yourself comfortable at the table, and I'll feed you and later on, you can take a bath—get rid of some of the trail dust…"
"That sounds like a perfect plan, 'Souri. And I can't wait to eat."
"Me either. Sam's told me a lot about your cooking, ma'am—all the way here he had me dreaming of it. Said your chicken was so fine it looked like it was breaded in gold dust and your biscuits were so light and fluffy, you had to catch 'em before they floated away."
"Hmm. I see you do take after Mr. Kane—he was a silver-tongued sort too."
Sam grinned at the startled laugh Dean let out at her description of his pa. Missouri winked at him, went to coax Dean to the table and froze solid. Her hand was on his arm and Sam could see her eyes fade out from the here and now…she came back with a gasp.
"What?" Sam leaned towards her, hands going out to her, afraid she was about to fall—she'd gone an unhealthy gray, and her brow was dripping wet. "Are you—did you see something?" Sam was instantly afraid she'd seen some harm to Dean, some part of his plan for revenge tangling back to hurt Dean. He couldn't stand that, couldn't live with it, if his desire brought harm to Dean.
"No, child, no. Just old joints actin' up, land's sake. Don’t everything have to be about the spirit world, you know." She was worrying her lip though, and casting looks from Dean to him, and back again…and then she let out a sigh, a sound like the air let out of the world. She patted Dean's arm, took his hand when he jumped—he'd been staring at 'Souri like she was about to fly apart right in front of him. He looked relieved when she squeezed it quick and let go. "Tell you what, ya'll wash up first, honey, and then come sit. You too, Sam. you'll feel better for it."
Sam nodded and drew Dean after him into the passway. They pulled the tub out and Sam filled it with water, and they stripped off their coats and shirts. They were both elbow deep in the water, kneeling at tubside when Dean leaned over and kissed him. It was fleeting, warm and sweet and Sam had to admit he was kind of getting used to the idea that touching could be so…soft. He felt heat rise up into his cheeks, and saw that Dean was pink as he was, and that his lips had gone a deep rose. Sam leaned closer, wanting to give Dean a kiss as sweet, but instead, caught Dean's bottom lip in his teeth, nipped quick before licking over it.
"You tryin' to eat me, Hunter?" Dean asked and Sam snorted.
"You wait until tonight, Blacksmith. I'm going to eat you right down, gonna suck you dry and leave you shaking and begging, you're gonna want to seat yourself deep as you can and make me shout—"
"Damn it boy. We're about to sit down to dinner with a woman who might as well be your momma. I can't go out there with a damn lodgepole in my pants," he said, his righteous indignation spoiled just a bit by the glitter in his eyes and the high color in his cheeks—something Sam wanted to see more of. Sam apologized anyway, but Dean elbowed him, hard enough to knock Sam sideways, and send a wave over the edge of the copper tub. That made him burst into laughter. He laughed even harder when Dean swole up, proud as a peacock, like making Sam laugh was such a clever thing to do.
Back in the kitchen, Sam doubted that either one of them were pulling the wool over Missouri's eyes, both of them damp and pink and grinning like cats, all elbows and knees and jostling each other to be the first to the table. She rolled her eyes and cuffed Sam as he walked past, scolded him to act his age, but the smile she gave him was at least a mite more natural than the one she'd pasted on her face since touching Dean…
It was late evening when Sam made his way out of the saloon. He'd been to the general store with Dean, picked up some staples to replace what him and Dean had used, left Dean there to finish up his catalog order while he went to the post office and collected Uncle Robert's letters. There were a few, and Sam couldn't wait to for free time to read them. If they ran true to course, they'd be a combination of information on possible jobs, Hunter gossip, and lessons…most of all, they'd bring a breath of home with them. Thinking of the only place he'd could call something like home made him feel a little sorry for himself, and the best medicine for melancholy was a good stiff drink or two, just a couple while he waited for Dean.
Somehow it'd come full dark while he was in the saloon, one or two drinks had turned into many and Dean…well, he must have gone straight on back to Missouri's without stopping, which was fine. The walk back wasn't very long and he knew it by heart, sober or drunk as a lord. Besides, he needed some time to himself. Felt like he was never alone these days, not anywhere, not even in his own head. Dean was everywhere, taking up all his space. Man needed some space to breathe—Dean too. Hell, the man was probably getting tired of seein' a Sam at his elbow all the time.
Sam leaned against the saloon wall and fumbled his way through rolling a cigarette. He was still trying to stuff tobacco into the curl of paper, thinking about heading for the street that would take him back to the House when a rough voice called out to him. "Hey, boy. Don’t I know you?"
Sam turned towards it, a smirk ready. There was alone--and there was alone. Looked like one of those drovers pushing through town, headed to them big ranches springing up out in the hills—probably had a pocket full of gold and lookin' to spend it. "Maybe. I believe I do know you."
The man tilted his head towards Sam. "Well, what say we renew our acquaintance?" He reached into his pocket and flipped a dollar between his fingers and grinned, and Sam nodded, jerked his head towards the dark alley between the rows of buildings.
"Dark back there and nobody'll notice us. Or least ways, they'll be too drunk to care, right?" he mumbled. The drover took the cigarette out of Sam's fingers and rolled it, tucked it between Sam's lips and lit it for him.
"Whatever you say, friend'. We're just tryin' to help each other out, ain't that so?"
Sam was grinding his teeth, legs spread wide as possible, forehead braced against the clapboard, and his fingers digging into the back of his thighs. He felt the chill night air on his bare legs and ass, hot, wet breath in his ear, the man's fingers stabbing inside him. A rough nail caught at too tender flesh, sent ragged bursts of pain through him, and he had to fight that much harder to loosen his muscles. The drover fanned his fingers, spit between them, and worked it into Sam, twisting and turning, working them deeper, working him open, until Sam groaned out loud. "Come on, damn it," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Do it now."
"Shit, it's gonna get done, you bitch-mouthin' me or not," the man growled, but yielded to Sam, pulled him wide with his thumbs hooked into the rim of his hole and shoved his prick in. "Fuck--"
Stars burst under Sam's eyelids; they burned and sparked under his skin, grew sharp and bright in his ass, his gut. His mouth dropped open and he panted though the pain, forcing himself back on the man's prick. The drover moaned…"You are a bitch, ain't cha, just a bitch dog in heat, you—" he cursed and muttered filth against Sam's neck, sweat and spit working its way under his collar. "You like bein' treated like this, hunh?" The man chuckled—a dark, thick sound that reminded Sam of blood, and of smoke. He curled his hand around Sam's throat and squeezed, lightly at first and then tighter and tighter when Sam made no move to stop him….
A weak flutter of fear woke in Sam's belly; still he got hard, he pushed into the man's hand, pushed back on his prick even as a faint voice inside him warned it was a bad, bad thing, what he was doing. He didn't want to go back to the house with his neck all purpled…the fear of Missouri seeing became the fear of Dean knowing became the fear of Dean leaving. From deep in his guts, pouring right out of his skin, he felt sick. For the first time ever he thought there was a chance he might not walk away from this and for the first time ever, he wanted to.
Tiny pinwheels of light wheeled, flared bright in the dark as he tried to break away from the steadily tighter grip on his throat. He heard nothing but the slick slap of wet skin against skin, felt nothing but the sawing push of the man behind him and the growing burn in his chest.
He blinked. The world flickered. Air buzzed and burned as it shuddered into his lungs.
Dark. Light. Hands on him. Under him.
He was looking up at the sky and stars, real stars hung above him, the moon shone down on him...his eyesight blurred and the moon became Dean. Sam thought he was dreaming Dean, but he was there, solid, wide, tall and madder than hell.
Sam couldn't help but laugh, it was too much, the moon and Dean and the way Dean's freckles blazed across his nose and the way his eyes burned like witch fire--Sam laughed, right up until Dean punched him in the mouth.
He spit blood, ran his tongue around his mouth to check his teeth. He tasted copper, his ass was raw, his ear…his throat. Sam squinted, scrubbed at his eyes, not sure if he was dreaming or awake. He rolled to his knees and fumbled his pants back up his legs. There was a dollar glinting in the sand and Sam reached for it, but a boot came out of nowhere and kicked it away.
"Get up."
The voice was deep and ragged and cut him like knives but Sam did as it asked. He heard his dad growl, what the *fuck* where you thinking Sam? *Why* this?
Sam hung his head. He was fourteen and aching, sick as a dog and horrified at how he'd let his dad down, afraid to look him in the eye, not sure he could keep on breathing once he saw the disgust there…
Answer me!
He opened his mouth and a raw sob broke out and that was it. He'd humiliated himself past reason—given Dad no choice but to cut him loose. He waited for the sound of footsteps moving away. Instead a warm hand landed on his shoulder. "Sam?"
Not Dad…Dean. And in a way, that was even worse. Dean. You saw. Again.
Dean took him by his elbow. "Come on. Come with me."
Sam tried to pull away but Dean was having none of that. "I don't ever want to have to hit you again. But on my word, I will if you don’t stop acting the fool with me and do what I tell you. We gotta get way from this place, you hear?"
Sam looked own and saw the huddled bulk of the drover, and he gasped. "You killed him—"
"Don’t be a damn fool. Come on now. I'm never letting you out of my sight again. God is my witness."
Sam stumbled along, and Dean's words filled his head and echoed endlessly, pushed everything else right out. "Dean," he rasped.
"Shut up. Save your voice."
"No—I'm—sorry—"
"I got no right to have an apology from you. You don’t owe me one. Don't owe me a damn thing, Winchester."
Sam shook his head. "Do. Owe you…everything."
Dean stopped, turned to Sam, and all Sam could see was green fire. He was afraid, to look, to look away. The world fell away and there was nothing save Dean's eyes—all that rage, all that feeling, that expectation and it was locked on him, surrounding him, caging him. Lifting him. That green fire was pouring into him and filling him up. He was choking on it, he needed it. Wanted to die, knowing now what he'd been missing most of his life. He tried to hit Dean, push him away, but Dean clamped his fingers over Sam's shoulder and pressed until Sam felt bone would have to give way. His prick jumped, hot and half-hard. He swallowed down a groan and forced his eyes away.
Dean went on like he had no idea of the storm that wracked Sam, body and soul. "Well then, you owe me. And if that's the case, you don't ever let anyone else touch you. Ever, you hear me, Sam Winchester? You hear me?"
Sam nodded, eyes tracking back to Dean's. "Never. Swear."
"All right then. We're going back to Miss Missouri's and I'm going to put you to bed and in the morning, we're putting all this behind us."
"All right, Dean." Sam let Dean support him even though he didn’t need it. Just…Dean insisted, and it felt…he hardly knew what to call the feeling. He didn't want to put a name on it, was kind of frightened to. But…the feeling, it was like those kisses. He thought maybe he could grow to like it.
"If you don't stop what you're doing, it's going to kill you."
He'd sneaked back into 'Souri's kitchen from where him and Dean'd bunked down in the stables, left Dean snoring with the dog sacked out practically on his head. His smile faded and he sighed, watching the stiff line of her back as Missouri beat batter like it'd done something to personally offend her.
"I can take care of myself," he muttered, and she slammed the wooden spoon down, pale yellow spoon bread batter splattering the table and stone floor. Sam jumped at the sudden noise, dropped his head.
"Samuel, I'm goin' to say this one time. You let this boy take care of you or—or—" she turned to Sam, her eyes wet with furious tears. "I've held my tongue too long about this. It's my fault for letting your daddy shove what happened to you down, shove it away. You think because you were mishandled it makes you some kind of monster. It don't. You ain't the only one…"
"I got—it was—a demon, don't you get that? Did that awful--thing to me, poisoned me!"
"Sam, it didn't. Not even when that boss demon put his blood in you, that…it didn't change you, not in important ways. What ever is happening to you now, you're doing it to yourself. Stop punishing yourself. Because it's not just you hurtin', it's Dean too. Can't you stop, for him?"
Sam swallowed hard…he was pretty sure she'd divined his feelings for Dean. And it seemed she was willing to use those feelings if she had to. Dad had always said she was a tough little woman who made her own rules…"Yes. I already promised him. I won’t go back on my word. Not if I can help it."
She sighed, and the steel seemed to seep out of her. "Sam…" her head dropped, her hands folded over each other in her lap. Sam knew she was praying from her posture—he couldn't pick out her words. When she looked up at him again, her face was wet. "I just want you to be happy. Forgive me, please, forgive me—just want you to be happy—"
"Of course, of course—you ain't never hurt me, never would. You're my friend—closer—you're like family."
He reached out and grabbed her hands, and she cried silently, held their clasped hands to her cheek. "I don’t know, I don't know…" She rocked back in her chair, took a deep breath and dropped Sam's hand. That steel was back in her--she about slapped the tears away, angry at herself, he thought.
"You pay no heed to a crazy old woman. Now get yourself back to sleep and let me finish making my bread. Swan, I'm getting worse and worse the older I get…" She jumped up and fussed with her batter, scooped out lard to grease her pans and was determinedly normal, if a little savage about wrestling the batter into the greased pans. Sam, on impulse kissed her cheek.
"Thank you," he said. "And I meant what I said."
The smile she gave him was wobbly, but genuine. "I know you did, boy. Now you take yourself on out to the stables, I promise you're gonna have pleasant dreams this night."
part 32
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