SpN: Non Timebo Mala part 33
9/21/10 12:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTo celebrate SpN Premiere Week! Fic! Hot and toasty fresh out of the oven! Well...maybe not so hot or toasty. And not quite fresh out the oven...*sigh*
Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:4994
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.)
A little rough, I know, but oy...couldn't wait anymore!
Missouri's words echoed in Sam's head, all the way back to Bristol, and he wasn’t sure how he felt, wasn’t sure how ‘Souri really felt about what was happening. Plus there was that strange… something nipping at the back of his mind, something that whispered Missouri held something from him…just what he couldn’t imagine. He did his best to hide his uneasiness from Dean, but he was pretty sure Dean picked up on it anyway, and how was that fair that someone he didn’t know from Adam could read his temper better than the only family he’d ever had could?.
* * * * *
The days grew steadily crisper…the oak that watched over the old blacksmith's grave eased from a dark emerald into to a flush of orange. Days shortened some and Sam got restless, his mind set on moving, a habit ingrained from when he was a little chap—autumn meant heading up the mountains before snow came. This was the time he turned towards Robert, towards nights of study and reading, helping the man catalog his collection of arcane books and objects.
It meant a comfortable solitude and quiet company when he needed it. Safety….
The forge on the other hand, was a world barely understood. Sam, used to the fairly solitary life of the road, found it was too much. The glare and roar of the fire--something he'd never loved, no matter how necessary--the hiss of steam and the strike of iron against iron, sharp and hard as a death knell. All that…sound, and heat, and the thick stench of smoke that parched his throat and made his stomach roll, that's what the forge was to him. Dean now, he strode through it like it was his kingdom, content and focused. At home. But for Sam, no matter that he could see the order, see the control Dean had over everything—the joy Dean took in creating--for Sam, it was chaos. He was used to being worthless in the normal world but this…made him feel worse than worthless. Made him feel like a wheel spinning off a wagon, rolling and rolling. Just sound and motion and doing no good....
Sam did his best, did what he could to be useful. He cooked for the both of them, plain meals but filling, and Dean seemed grateful for them, least ways he didn't complain. It wasn’t hard, and it wasn’t something Sam minded, cooking and cleaning up after them. He'd done it for his dad and himself for longer than he could remember. Hell, what few times that they'd actually settled in for a while, he'd been the one made sure whatever squat they'd had was livable. Deep down inside, in a place he seldom looked, was a tiny part of him that kind of liked it. Though wild horses wouldn't have dragged that admission out of him….
When he wasn't taking care of Dean, Sam took care of his own business. He made sure John's horse was protected, redoing sigils, replacing and re-braiding lost pendants into its mane. He mended his clothing and resoled his boots, made sure that hex bags were stocked afresh from the cabinets that Tobias Kane had kept. Knives were attended to, silver and iron keen as a spring breeze. Not even John Winchester would've found fault with a damn thing, on Sam's person, or in his war bag.
'Round about the dozenth time he'd cleaned and recleaned his rifle and John's old flintlock, he had to at last admit, there wasn't a single thing left to do….
He ended up standing on the shop's threshold, staring in and watching Dean at work.
Finally he sidled inside, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders up around his ears. "So. What can I do to help?"
* * * * *
Dean was obviously pleased that Sam had retained what he'd learned from melting the metal for the gun, and with his encouragement Sam built on that knowledge quickly. Dean complimented him on being a real help in the shop. Sam shrugged most compliments Dean gave him off—what he was learning wasn't going to be overmuch helpful when he rode out of Bristol for good. He knew all he needed to of metal work—he could mix silver and lead and tin and pour it into bullet molds, he could silver-coat steel or iron and put an edge on it and that was all he needed to know about the craft.
But then…then there'd be moments when Dean gave him a grateful smile, and Sam wouldn't be able to see a damn thing but that and it made him shake…made him worry for his future, and what meager plans he had.
He sighed and raked clinkers out of the fire pit, trying to avoid Dean's eyes. It was going to be a site rougher than he'd imagined to leave the man behind.
Came a day that the wagon he waited on arrived from Osage, and delivered the final parts of the puzzle. Finally, they'd make the weapon Sam had hoped for…a year after the death of John Winchester, Sam would finally have the means for revenge. His family, mother, father, brother, would finally have the justice they deserved. He had Dean Kane to thank for that…he owed Dean everything, just as he'd told him that night, there was the truth of it. The one man in the world who'd brought him his hearts desire. Sam squashed the tiny voice inside that whispered that maybe his hearts desire had changed, or maybe it'd grown some….
* * * * *
A day after they'd installed the lathe, after Dean had set up the molds they'd be using and after the bars were unwrapped, washed, and waiting on the work table, Dean asked Sam if he'd mind them shutting up shop for the day and riding out with him a bit—not for any particular reason, just…for fun.
Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. "Fun? Fun how?"
Dean pinked up. "Fun as in, you know, fun, like take our dinner out by the lake. Time off. A day for relaxation and introspection--what, I've got to draw a map for you?”
“Dinner by the lake? Whatever for? Where’s the fun in that, Kane? I ate too many damn meals sitting on the stony ground. There ain't no fun about it, Blacksmith. That's work.”
“Come on out with me, and we'll have dinner and maybe my hand down your pants, how's that? Sound like work to you?”
“Well,” Sam said grudgingly, “if that's what it takes to make you happy, all right then.” He jammed Dean's old hat on his head, headed for the door. “Come on all ready, what're you waiting for?”
“Divine guidance,” Dean snapped. “Prayin' for patience.”
“Pray for stamina,” Sam said, “you're gonna need it to pay me back for this.”
* * * * *
Sam wouldn't let on at all just how much he was enjoying the afternoon. Dean took him past a lake that lay like shimmering silk in the afternoon sun, into sweeping fields of gold and purple, swaying back and forth in a sweet breeze so that it looked like the ocean'd come all the way to Wyoming to see them. Dean seemed to pick up on his thoughts. He jerked his chin towards the fields.
"I imagine the ocean must move like that. Knew someone made their living on the sea. Sometimes…" a bitter smile twisted his lips and Sam didn't like it. Reminded him of himself. "I wish the sea had kept him. Sometimes, I'm almost glad he landed here for a while …" A flush burned over Dean's cheeks and down his neck, so red it looked painful, and he turned his face away. Sam could see that it cost him some to say even that much. That man the sea had thrown up—and something told Sam he was the one who'd given Dean the model gun--had been a source of a great lot of pain for Dean but also joy. Sam understood that feeling completely. His eyes roamed over Dean. Oh, for certain, he knew the feeling….
Feeling he owed Dean a confidence for a confidence, Sam fixed his regard on some distant point across the field of wildflowers. He said, “The only person ever important to me relied on me to stand at their back, and that turned out to be a bust." It was an unhappy truth, but he wanted Dean to be aware…prepared. "I don't think I can do that again. I'm okay to be on my own, thank you. In fact, all the friend I need is probably at this moment eating all the legs on yer furniture….”
The scowl Dean gifted him with might was well have been a grin. Sam sure took it that way. "You poke fun all you want boy. You go ahead and try to close yourself up in that tower of yours—but believe me, some day, I'm gonna find the chink in them walls—and woe to you when I do," Dean said. He continued in a low, rough tone. "'Cause the knight that gets behind the castle walls, takes everything inside for his own."
Dean's. Him belonging to Dean, owned by him…Sam shivered, took a moment to kind of roll all over the idea, like the dog with a good stink, letting the feel of it fill him, before reining in his wild and useless impulse. Sam smirked and said, “Believe there was promise of food. Hope you weren't lying to me.”
“Sit down, you. Damn saddle bums, all the same. Think with their stomachs when they're not thinking with their pricks.”
Sam just grinned and felt the day took a turn for the better when Dean took the top off a wicker hamper and laid out a feast on the old trade blanket he's tossed on the thick grass. There were a few pieces of the fried chicken he'd made that morning, complaining about Sam, who'd hung over his shoulder whining because they couldn’t eat it hot and fresh out the fat. There were biscuits and cheese, boiled eggs and a crock of pinto beans, and a wrapped basket of strawberries, fat and juicy, that Sam had his eye on.
Sam smiled as Dean loaded up a plate for him, felt good even knowing this was just a break on the rough road to his destiny. He knew that for some reason he’d been gifted with Dean for a short minute—probably the last good thing he'd ever know. The coming morning would bring more work and bring him another step closer to losing this, but today…today he was going to eat this good food, and get his fill of looking at one hell of a pretty man and later, he planned to make the blanket into a mess, if Dean was as willing as he seemed. Sam wiped his mouth and grinned right into Dean's eyes, saw an answering heat. This day was meant to be a gift, for sure.
* * * * *
Plates were empty, shoved to the side, the blanket a rucked up mess, like Sam'd planned. Dean was back against the ground, groaning and squirming, and Sam marveled that his hands almost fit around the man's waist. He mouthed the ridge of muscle running along the top of his thigh, sucked the taste of salt and soap into his mouth. He worried at Dean’s hip, nipped and tugged just a bit with his teeth, loving that Dean couldn’t hold back a gasp-snort-sigh every time he did that. Sam did it again and thought that it might just be possible Dean had the right of it—fucking was even more interesting when a body worked their way to it.
Dean was bucking up to meet Sam’s mouth now, moaning low in his throat like he was too shy to let it out. Sam smirked and jerked Dean’s pants down to his knees, pulled his thick, stiff prick out of the tangle of his underwear. Dean shuddered all over and groaned. "Careful you, that’s my prick you’re jerking around like that."
Sam soothed the pink trails his nails had scraped over Dean's skin with his tongue, worked his way to the base of Dean's prick and licked a wet stripe up the length. "Um-hmn. Believe that’s your prick I’m about to swallow down like candy," he said and did just that.
Dean quivered and went silent for a long moment before sighing out Sam's name. Felt the effort Dean took not to shove his prick right down Sam’s throat. He appreciated the kindness, but pushed against the back of Dean’s thighs and bobbed his head. Wasn’t necessary—this was something he’d learned pretty early on. Was something he was good at. Least ways he was pretty sure he was good at it. He ran his tongue through the slit, gathering all the lube that welled up there and Dean began a steady cursing that made Sam smile around the man's prick.
Good enough for Dean at any rate.
He wiggled his thumb between Dean’s cheeks and let it rest right over his hole, rubbed softly just a bit trying to open him, worked his throat around Dean. Dean jerked up, driving his prick right against the back of Sam’s throat. Sam put a little pressure against Dean and that puckered rosette relaxed in a heartbeat and the tip of Sam’s thumb slid easily inside, so quick and deep, it almost felt swallowed and that made Sam’s prick throb. He rocked his thumb in and out and it wasn’t long before Dean swelled even harder in his mouth. He pounded the ground with his fist, worked the fingers of his other hand deeper into Sam's hair, and pulled a little, muttering Sam's name. With a jerk, a low and filthy string of curses, Dean began to release. Sam moaned around his length and drank it down, rolling his tongue around it, and loving how Dean was totally, completely lost in what Sam was doing to him—for him. Sam shuddered all over and slowly let Dean's still hard prick slip out of his mouth, smearing spit and come over his chin. He slid a hand inside his pants and wrapped his fingers around himself—felt his prick harden and pulse. He was at it earnestly, wrapped up in his own search for release when Dean slapped his hand away. "Let me," he growled. "Only fair."
Sam loved it—he babbled and shuddered, he moaned and yelled and in general carried on like a fool but Dean was so good at it, that frightening concentration he brought to everything now focused on Sam, and his prick, and it was the best thing Sam had ever felt. He felt that release coming, felt it in the curl of his toes, in the clench of his stomach, the flutter quiver of muscles inside and out. The need to let go hit him hard, so hard he was almost afraid to give in to it. Heart hammering, wash after wash of heat swept him, the shuddering thrill of orgasm shivered through him—felt like it was being pulled out of him, surged out of him in a wave of hot and wet and Dean—Dean….
Sam walked quietly about the forge, lay lines of salt across the window sills, lay a line across the doorway even though he knew it wasn’t really necessary—the habits of a lifetime were hard to break.
That morning they’d melted the metal Dean had made, Sam standing in the background and Dean handling the work of the forge. He’d looked like an old Viking blacksmith, naked to the waist, his leather apron wet at the neck with sweat, wet at the waist as sweat ran down his chest to soak in the fabric at his waist. Sam had marveled that so fine a thing as Dean Kane could ever have been alone. The glow of the fire and molten metal had cast a red hue to Dean’s skin, made his green eyes burn like emeralds. He’d eaten up the dance of muscle along Dean’s back and ribs as he’d lifted the crucible from the flame and poured liquid metal into the molds they’d prepared. Sam had repeated the Latin he knew Dean had spoken over the crucible, he’d seen the sheer concentration on Dean’s face, been so entranced by it that he’d startled hard when flames shot up, sent a huge shadow that’d seemed to spread black arms across the ceiling of the forge. The shadow had grown larger, sent out long swirls of black along the beams and planks of the ceiling. Embers had glowed in the dark like stars before the shapes had broken up, whirled in the heat and thinned into gray wisps, to sweep across the ceiling and up the chimney.
All the while, Dean had been so concentrated on what he was doing Sam might as well not even have been there. His eyes had been a million miles away, there’d been an air about Dean that had kind of made Sam nervous—hell, had scared the shit out of him, if truth were told. The dog wouldn’t even come near the forge, he’d whined on the porch until Sam had called out for him to shut up. Dean seemed to have started at that—coming back to himself from a distance.
“You okay?” he’d asked Sam and Sam had laughed at that.
"I’m fine; it’s yourself I’m worried about," he'd said but Dean just shrugged Sam’s concern off with a quiet laugh.
"Nah, I’m fine, it’s just…sometimes you fall into a rhythm and everything else seems to fall away. Sorry, wasn’t ignoring you."
"No, it’s not that. Anyway, where’s them bullet molds? I want to be the one to make the bullets."
"Of course." Dean had offered to stay and help, but Sam had declined.
"No, I say we go in and eat and then relax a spell. We’ve done a lot today."
"Won’t argue none with that. I could use a meal and a shot of something stronger than coffee."
They’d done just that and with his fatigue and a shot or two under his belt Dean had tumbled off to sleep quick as can be, and now Sam made his way quietly to the forge. He let himself in, and the dog trotted in after. Sam felt his eyes on him as he lit lamps, turned them to shield their light from the house. The dog heaved a great sigh and threw himself down against the wall nearest the fire, and gave Sam a look.
"Hush, I know what I'm doing. This is just between me and you." Sam cleared a spot on the work bench, lit the fire and set his knife on the table, unpacked the bullet making kit John had left with him. The ladle slipped through his fingers. He caught it—the rough surface dragged across his palm, and just like that, a full blown memory of the last time John and he had made bullets, what they'd talked about, swept over him. He missed the man, terrible. Wished he could see this, Wished that John here with him, now that he was able and with the means to send that demon beyond hell, turn it back to the putrid dust it’d been made of.
The metal ran like water, glowing white in the crucible, and Sam slipped the point of his blade under the skin of his palm; let the drops run into the white hot liquid. He mixed the words of an old prayer with requests his prayer be heard in a language even older, he called on saints and those things which had been in the world even longer than the saints—it was for them he offered the blood. He wanted one thing—revenge—and the Old Ones knew just what that meant. Justice was fine and good, but he wasn't a good man like John had been. His motives were purely selfish. He was driven by one thing and one thing only. All he wanted was to see that thing suffer like his family suffered. He didn't just want it dead—he wanted it to hurt beyond the ability to bear. But since he saw no way to do that, than the bullet this gun would put into it would have to do.
He poured the liquid into the molds, just lead and tin and a bit of silver, a dusting of amber powder and a few drops of his blood but it was enough. It would be enough….
* * * * *
The bullets sat on the bench, gleaming in the lamplight. Sam took one up, still warm, rolled it in his palm. He got a feeling from the pieces of metal--almost as it they were aware, knew what they’d been made for. He took up his blade again, not bothering to clean it, and cut into the first bullet, 1 and into the second and third until the last lay in his palm—13, thirteen bullets, thirteen chances to kill a monster. He set it down on the bench top. Won’t need more than one, he promised himself.
That afternoon they stood facing each other over the bench the molds sat on. Dean's eyes locked with his, he took a deep breath and cracked the seal on the first mold. The exposed metal glimmered in the oiled sand, the pieces were…"Perfect," Dean breathed. "Knew it would work." He brushed sand off the pieces, held them to the light. Small rough spots caught the eye, and he muttered, "We'll smooth this out; they'll fit together like hand in glove…" he raised eyes to Sam and smiled."Here." He put what would be a revolver in Sam's hand. Sam shivered--something went through him at the touch of the metal.
He barely caught what Dean murmured then, "Rabbit run crossed your grave," he reached out and cradled Sam's hands in his own. "We'll make the barrel on the lathe. And attach your rosewood stock. It's going to be beautiful."
"It's beautiful now," Sam said. "Beautiful because it's made to do a job and it's going to do it."
"Hush, you mooncalf. I'm going to make it beautiful. Saw that pattern Pa put on my knife?" He ran his thumb over the gun parts. "Wanna put that ivy right here."
Sam tilted his head at it, trying to imagine it all in one piece, with that design curving around it. He licked his lips and hesitantly said, "Could you please put something else on it? Like words?"
"Sure. You want Dei Gratia like you got on your rifle? Suits the purpose it was made for."
Sam shook his head. "No. I'd like for you to put on it, Non Timebo Mala."
"Fear no evil?" Dean nodded. "Perfect. That's you Sam. You fear no evil."
Sam turned away. "Yeah…I'm not so certain about that Dean. But thank you for your faith in me." He grinned ruefully. "I 'spect you're the only one who has it."
Dean shook his head. "I can name off the bat people who trust you. And the dog trusts you, just like the black horse does. Don't think that don’t mean nothing because they're not people who can tell you so. It means a lot."
They worked together to drill the gun barrel and when it was ready to be joined to the rest of the gun, he engraved Non Timebo Mala along the length of it. And then, just like he'd eased together the parts of the wooden model to show Sam what the gun could look like, he assembled the parts of metal, gleaming slightly with their newness, unremarkable but for that, and it became something new in the world, something the world saw rarely—a true vessel of power. Dean gasped softly, surprise coloring his features. "It feels…different."
"Let me see," Sam said and took it from him. The minute he touched it, Sam knew. It sent a shock up his arm that he had no words to describe—it made the whole surface of his skin and right down deep inside him vibrate and buzz most unpleasantly, made his teeth feel like they were clicking and grinding together, made all the hairs all over him stand on end. It was less than a few seconds but seemed to go on forever and forever—and was all inside him, so swift and quiet that Dean was nattering on about some thing to do with weight and balance and noticing not at all that Sam had almost got knocked on his ass.
Dean noticed Sam was quiet, and palmed his shoulder. "Hello man. Where are you, hmm?"
"Oh. I…I was thinking. About…everything."
Dean nodded. "Sure. You got a lot to think about." He pulled Sam closer, and kissed him, soft mouth opening into warm, moist heat. Sam hummed with pleasure and fell into it. This kissing…he'd miss it terribly when he couldn't have it anymore. He shut his eyes tight, and turned into the kiss; let his tongue slide against Dean's, let Dean tease his lip between his teeth and scrape delicately over the tender flesh. He was left blinking like an owl when Dean suddenly pulled away.
"Come on—our house is waiting, nice and warm and the bed'll heat up right quick, I'm thinking."
Sam grinned and let himself be pulled along…our house, he'd said. Our house.
Snow danced in the air and whirled around the treetops, clung to the bare branches of the oak tree and spattered against the lone ironwork headstone under its shadow. Snow swirled through the yard, little pellets of ice spitting against Sam's cheeks and dripping down his collar. The two of them had taken one last trip into Bristol to stock up before the weather settled in and Sam had put a letter in the post to let Robert know he wouldn't be out until the spring. And that he planned to follow up on what Robert had sent. That he shouldn't worry because the Blacksmith's son was going to back him up, and that he was every bit as good as John Winchester had been. Sam hoped that Uncle Robert would get the letter before spring; he hated to have the old man worry about him….
Dean was locking up the shop as Sam came off the house's porch, caught sight of Sam and grinned and the thump-flip in the center of his chest that Sam had come to expect every time he saw Dean made his breath stumble.
"Hey. I'm about to go check on the boys, make sure they're okay." Dean squinted up at the sky. "Because I'm thinking we're not stepping out doors tonight. Snows gonna hit hard. You want me to take care of Pal, or you wanna do it?"
"Pal…Pal. Sure." Sam shook his head. Leave it to Dean to remember the name of the black horse after hearing it just the once. Sam tipped his head and watched the dog weave his way in and out of Dean's ankles like he was a god damn cat. That dog. Hell, he'd carted the little bastard around for a couple of years and never named him. He looked at the dog, and the dog looked back from his spot between Dean's feet, an expression on his face that Sam had no trouble reading. "Shut the hell up," Sam muttered, and aimed a lazy kick at him when he bolted past Sam, heading towards the barn.
"Leave him alone," Dean said. "He's smarter than his master, that's for sure."
"Master? I don’t know if you been payin' attention here, but master is the last thing I am to that sonofa bitch. He's sure as hell figures he's my equal." He squinted at the dog's tail-end. "Or my better." He looked up to catch Dean laughing quietly. In the moment, Dean looked so beautiful, it hurt. Made Sam think hard on the future and what he wanted out of whatever life he had left…Sam found himself looking towards the hills, restless and anxious and wanting to ride out now, before snow made passage impossible-take the risk he could outride the weather. He pulled the leather duster tighter around himself, startled when Dean's hand landed hard between his shoulder blades, slap of leather against leather.
Dean's hand was hard against him but his voice was soft, and sympathetic. "Hey, Sam. We're going to get that monster. Soon as we can ride out, we're going to get that baby-killing son of a bitch demon. But we need to wait. And I'm pretty sure that it'll stay put, just like us. By this time, it's probably lazy, having had the easy way—no one knowing what they're up against. Ain't met us yet." They walked side by side to the barn, footsteps squeaking in the snow that already gathered on the ground. "But now, we wait until it's safe, okay? Make do, right?
Sam smirked down at Dean. "Well, well. What you thinking about doin' to make the winter go by, Blacksmith?
"Boy, don’t you worry. There's plenty to keep us busy—and some of it don't even take place in bed."
Sam laughed, out loud, deep, hard enough that he felt the ache in his whole face and it was a good ache. Dean glowed with pleasure and it hit Sam out of the blue. Dean was pleased that he'd made Sam laugh. Dean got pleasure from Sam's pleasure. Hunh. That was…good to know. That good piece of information made him feel wrapped up and safe. Not even John had been able to make him feel the way Dean did, not John, not Robert Singer, not Caleb…for the first time, Sam wondered, just a tiny little flickering spark of wonder, if maybe he could talk Dean into coming with him when he left….
tbc
part 34
Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:4994
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.)
A little rough, I know, but oy...couldn't wait anymore!
Missouri's words echoed in Sam's head, all the way back to Bristol, and he wasn’t sure how he felt, wasn’t sure how ‘Souri really felt about what was happening. Plus there was that strange… something nipping at the back of his mind, something that whispered Missouri held something from him…just what he couldn’t imagine. He did his best to hide his uneasiness from Dean, but he was pretty sure Dean picked up on it anyway, and how was that fair that someone he didn’t know from Adam could read his temper better than the only family he’d ever had could?.
The days grew steadily crisper…the oak that watched over the old blacksmith's grave eased from a dark emerald into to a flush of orange. Days shortened some and Sam got restless, his mind set on moving, a habit ingrained from when he was a little chap—autumn meant heading up the mountains before snow came. This was the time he turned towards Robert, towards nights of study and reading, helping the man catalog his collection of arcane books and objects.
It meant a comfortable solitude and quiet company when he needed it. Safety….
The forge on the other hand, was a world barely understood. Sam, used to the fairly solitary life of the road, found it was too much. The glare and roar of the fire--something he'd never loved, no matter how necessary--the hiss of steam and the strike of iron against iron, sharp and hard as a death knell. All that…sound, and heat, and the thick stench of smoke that parched his throat and made his stomach roll, that's what the forge was to him. Dean now, he strode through it like it was his kingdom, content and focused. At home. But for Sam, no matter that he could see the order, see the control Dean had over everything—the joy Dean took in creating--for Sam, it was chaos. He was used to being worthless in the normal world but this…made him feel worse than worthless. Made him feel like a wheel spinning off a wagon, rolling and rolling. Just sound and motion and doing no good....
Sam did his best, did what he could to be useful. He cooked for the both of them, plain meals but filling, and Dean seemed grateful for them, least ways he didn't complain. It wasn’t hard, and it wasn’t something Sam minded, cooking and cleaning up after them. He'd done it for his dad and himself for longer than he could remember. Hell, what few times that they'd actually settled in for a while, he'd been the one made sure whatever squat they'd had was livable. Deep down inside, in a place he seldom looked, was a tiny part of him that kind of liked it. Though wild horses wouldn't have dragged that admission out of him….
When he wasn't taking care of Dean, Sam took care of his own business. He made sure John's horse was protected, redoing sigils, replacing and re-braiding lost pendants into its mane. He mended his clothing and resoled his boots, made sure that hex bags were stocked afresh from the cabinets that Tobias Kane had kept. Knives were attended to, silver and iron keen as a spring breeze. Not even John Winchester would've found fault with a damn thing, on Sam's person, or in his war bag.
'Round about the dozenth time he'd cleaned and recleaned his rifle and John's old flintlock, he had to at last admit, there wasn't a single thing left to do….
He ended up standing on the shop's threshold, staring in and watching Dean at work.
Finally he sidled inside, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders up around his ears. "So. What can I do to help?"
Dean was obviously pleased that Sam had retained what he'd learned from melting the metal for the gun, and with his encouragement Sam built on that knowledge quickly. Dean complimented him on being a real help in the shop. Sam shrugged most compliments Dean gave him off—what he was learning wasn't going to be overmuch helpful when he rode out of Bristol for good. He knew all he needed to of metal work—he could mix silver and lead and tin and pour it into bullet molds, he could silver-coat steel or iron and put an edge on it and that was all he needed to know about the craft.
But then…then there'd be moments when Dean gave him a grateful smile, and Sam wouldn't be able to see a damn thing but that and it made him shake…made him worry for his future, and what meager plans he had.
He sighed and raked clinkers out of the fire pit, trying to avoid Dean's eyes. It was going to be a site rougher than he'd imagined to leave the man behind.
Came a day that the wagon he waited on arrived from Osage, and delivered the final parts of the puzzle. Finally, they'd make the weapon Sam had hoped for…a year after the death of John Winchester, Sam would finally have the means for revenge. His family, mother, father, brother, would finally have the justice they deserved. He had Dean Kane to thank for that…he owed Dean everything, just as he'd told him that night, there was the truth of it. The one man in the world who'd brought him his hearts desire. Sam squashed the tiny voice inside that whispered that maybe his hearts desire had changed, or maybe it'd grown some….
A day after they'd installed the lathe, after Dean had set up the molds they'd be using and after the bars were unwrapped, washed, and waiting on the work table, Dean asked Sam if he'd mind them shutting up shop for the day and riding out with him a bit—not for any particular reason, just…for fun.
Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. "Fun? Fun how?"
Dean pinked up. "Fun as in, you know, fun, like take our dinner out by the lake. Time off. A day for relaxation and introspection--what, I've got to draw a map for you?”
“Dinner by the lake? Whatever for? Where’s the fun in that, Kane? I ate too many damn meals sitting on the stony ground. There ain't no fun about it, Blacksmith. That's work.”
“Come on out with me, and we'll have dinner and maybe my hand down your pants, how's that? Sound like work to you?”
“Well,” Sam said grudgingly, “if that's what it takes to make you happy, all right then.” He jammed Dean's old hat on his head, headed for the door. “Come on all ready, what're you waiting for?”
“Divine guidance,” Dean snapped. “Prayin' for patience.”
“Pray for stamina,” Sam said, “you're gonna need it to pay me back for this.”
Sam wouldn't let on at all just how much he was enjoying the afternoon. Dean took him past a lake that lay like shimmering silk in the afternoon sun, into sweeping fields of gold and purple, swaying back and forth in a sweet breeze so that it looked like the ocean'd come all the way to Wyoming to see them. Dean seemed to pick up on his thoughts. He jerked his chin towards the fields.
"I imagine the ocean must move like that. Knew someone made their living on the sea. Sometimes…" a bitter smile twisted his lips and Sam didn't like it. Reminded him of himself. "I wish the sea had kept him. Sometimes, I'm almost glad he landed here for a while …" A flush burned over Dean's cheeks and down his neck, so red it looked painful, and he turned his face away. Sam could see that it cost him some to say even that much. That man the sea had thrown up—and something told Sam he was the one who'd given Dean the model gun--had been a source of a great lot of pain for Dean but also joy. Sam understood that feeling completely. His eyes roamed over Dean. Oh, for certain, he knew the feeling….
Feeling he owed Dean a confidence for a confidence, Sam fixed his regard on some distant point across the field of wildflowers. He said, “The only person ever important to me relied on me to stand at their back, and that turned out to be a bust." It was an unhappy truth, but he wanted Dean to be aware…prepared. "I don't think I can do that again. I'm okay to be on my own, thank you. In fact, all the friend I need is probably at this moment eating all the legs on yer furniture….”
The scowl Dean gifted him with might was well have been a grin. Sam sure took it that way. "You poke fun all you want boy. You go ahead and try to close yourself up in that tower of yours—but believe me, some day, I'm gonna find the chink in them walls—and woe to you when I do," Dean said. He continued in a low, rough tone. "'Cause the knight that gets behind the castle walls, takes everything inside for his own."
Dean's. Him belonging to Dean, owned by him…Sam shivered, took a moment to kind of roll all over the idea, like the dog with a good stink, letting the feel of it fill him, before reining in his wild and useless impulse. Sam smirked and said, “Believe there was promise of food. Hope you weren't lying to me.”
“Sit down, you. Damn saddle bums, all the same. Think with their stomachs when they're not thinking with their pricks.”
Sam just grinned and felt the day took a turn for the better when Dean took the top off a wicker hamper and laid out a feast on the old trade blanket he's tossed on the thick grass. There were a few pieces of the fried chicken he'd made that morning, complaining about Sam, who'd hung over his shoulder whining because they couldn’t eat it hot and fresh out the fat. There were biscuits and cheese, boiled eggs and a crock of pinto beans, and a wrapped basket of strawberries, fat and juicy, that Sam had his eye on.
Sam smiled as Dean loaded up a plate for him, felt good even knowing this was just a break on the rough road to his destiny. He knew that for some reason he’d been gifted with Dean for a short minute—probably the last good thing he'd ever know. The coming morning would bring more work and bring him another step closer to losing this, but today…today he was going to eat this good food, and get his fill of looking at one hell of a pretty man and later, he planned to make the blanket into a mess, if Dean was as willing as he seemed. Sam wiped his mouth and grinned right into Dean's eyes, saw an answering heat. This day was meant to be a gift, for sure.
Plates were empty, shoved to the side, the blanket a rucked up mess, like Sam'd planned. Dean was back against the ground, groaning and squirming, and Sam marveled that his hands almost fit around the man's waist. He mouthed the ridge of muscle running along the top of his thigh, sucked the taste of salt and soap into his mouth. He worried at Dean’s hip, nipped and tugged just a bit with his teeth, loving that Dean couldn’t hold back a gasp-snort-sigh every time he did that. Sam did it again and thought that it might just be possible Dean had the right of it—fucking was even more interesting when a body worked their way to it.
Dean was bucking up to meet Sam’s mouth now, moaning low in his throat like he was too shy to let it out. Sam smirked and jerked Dean’s pants down to his knees, pulled his thick, stiff prick out of the tangle of his underwear. Dean shuddered all over and groaned. "Careful you, that’s my prick you’re jerking around like that."
Sam soothed the pink trails his nails had scraped over Dean's skin with his tongue, worked his way to the base of Dean's prick and licked a wet stripe up the length. "Um-hmn. Believe that’s your prick I’m about to swallow down like candy," he said and did just that.
Dean quivered and went silent for a long moment before sighing out Sam's name. Felt the effort Dean took not to shove his prick right down Sam’s throat. He appreciated the kindness, but pushed against the back of Dean’s thighs and bobbed his head. Wasn’t necessary—this was something he’d learned pretty early on. Was something he was good at. Least ways he was pretty sure he was good at it. He ran his tongue through the slit, gathering all the lube that welled up there and Dean began a steady cursing that made Sam smile around the man's prick.
Good enough for Dean at any rate.
He wiggled his thumb between Dean’s cheeks and let it rest right over his hole, rubbed softly just a bit trying to open him, worked his throat around Dean. Dean jerked up, driving his prick right against the back of Sam’s throat. Sam put a little pressure against Dean and that puckered rosette relaxed in a heartbeat and the tip of Sam’s thumb slid easily inside, so quick and deep, it almost felt swallowed and that made Sam’s prick throb. He rocked his thumb in and out and it wasn’t long before Dean swelled even harder in his mouth. He pounded the ground with his fist, worked the fingers of his other hand deeper into Sam's hair, and pulled a little, muttering Sam's name. With a jerk, a low and filthy string of curses, Dean began to release. Sam moaned around his length and drank it down, rolling his tongue around it, and loving how Dean was totally, completely lost in what Sam was doing to him—for him. Sam shuddered all over and slowly let Dean's still hard prick slip out of his mouth, smearing spit and come over his chin. He slid a hand inside his pants and wrapped his fingers around himself—felt his prick harden and pulse. He was at it earnestly, wrapped up in his own search for release when Dean slapped his hand away. "Let me," he growled. "Only fair."
Sam loved it—he babbled and shuddered, he moaned and yelled and in general carried on like a fool but Dean was so good at it, that frightening concentration he brought to everything now focused on Sam, and his prick, and it was the best thing Sam had ever felt. He felt that release coming, felt it in the curl of his toes, in the clench of his stomach, the flutter quiver of muscles inside and out. The need to let go hit him hard, so hard he was almost afraid to give in to it. Heart hammering, wash after wash of heat swept him, the shuddering thrill of orgasm shivered through him—felt like it was being pulled out of him, surged out of him in a wave of hot and wet and Dean—Dean….
Sam walked quietly about the forge, lay lines of salt across the window sills, lay a line across the doorway even though he knew it wasn’t really necessary—the habits of a lifetime were hard to break.
That morning they’d melted the metal Dean had made, Sam standing in the background and Dean handling the work of the forge. He’d looked like an old Viking blacksmith, naked to the waist, his leather apron wet at the neck with sweat, wet at the waist as sweat ran down his chest to soak in the fabric at his waist. Sam had marveled that so fine a thing as Dean Kane could ever have been alone. The glow of the fire and molten metal had cast a red hue to Dean’s skin, made his green eyes burn like emeralds. He’d eaten up the dance of muscle along Dean’s back and ribs as he’d lifted the crucible from the flame and poured liquid metal into the molds they’d prepared. Sam had repeated the Latin he knew Dean had spoken over the crucible, he’d seen the sheer concentration on Dean’s face, been so entranced by it that he’d startled hard when flames shot up, sent a huge shadow that’d seemed to spread black arms across the ceiling of the forge. The shadow had grown larger, sent out long swirls of black along the beams and planks of the ceiling. Embers had glowed in the dark like stars before the shapes had broken up, whirled in the heat and thinned into gray wisps, to sweep across the ceiling and up the chimney.
All the while, Dean had been so concentrated on what he was doing Sam might as well not even have been there. His eyes had been a million miles away, there’d been an air about Dean that had kind of made Sam nervous—hell, had scared the shit out of him, if truth were told. The dog wouldn’t even come near the forge, he’d whined on the porch until Sam had called out for him to shut up. Dean seemed to have started at that—coming back to himself from a distance.
“You okay?” he’d asked Sam and Sam had laughed at that.
"I’m fine; it’s yourself I’m worried about," he'd said but Dean just shrugged Sam’s concern off with a quiet laugh.
"Nah, I’m fine, it’s just…sometimes you fall into a rhythm and everything else seems to fall away. Sorry, wasn’t ignoring you."
"No, it’s not that. Anyway, where’s them bullet molds? I want to be the one to make the bullets."
"Of course." Dean had offered to stay and help, but Sam had declined.
"No, I say we go in and eat and then relax a spell. We’ve done a lot today."
"Won’t argue none with that. I could use a meal and a shot of something stronger than coffee."
They’d done just that and with his fatigue and a shot or two under his belt Dean had tumbled off to sleep quick as can be, and now Sam made his way quietly to the forge. He let himself in, and the dog trotted in after. Sam felt his eyes on him as he lit lamps, turned them to shield their light from the house. The dog heaved a great sigh and threw himself down against the wall nearest the fire, and gave Sam a look.
"Hush, I know what I'm doing. This is just between me and you." Sam cleared a spot on the work bench, lit the fire and set his knife on the table, unpacked the bullet making kit John had left with him. The ladle slipped through his fingers. He caught it—the rough surface dragged across his palm, and just like that, a full blown memory of the last time John and he had made bullets, what they'd talked about, swept over him. He missed the man, terrible. Wished he could see this, Wished that John here with him, now that he was able and with the means to send that demon beyond hell, turn it back to the putrid dust it’d been made of.
The metal ran like water, glowing white in the crucible, and Sam slipped the point of his blade under the skin of his palm; let the drops run into the white hot liquid. He mixed the words of an old prayer with requests his prayer be heard in a language even older, he called on saints and those things which had been in the world even longer than the saints—it was for them he offered the blood. He wanted one thing—revenge—and the Old Ones knew just what that meant. Justice was fine and good, but he wasn't a good man like John had been. His motives were purely selfish. He was driven by one thing and one thing only. All he wanted was to see that thing suffer like his family suffered. He didn't just want it dead—he wanted it to hurt beyond the ability to bear. But since he saw no way to do that, than the bullet this gun would put into it would have to do.
He poured the liquid into the molds, just lead and tin and a bit of silver, a dusting of amber powder and a few drops of his blood but it was enough. It would be enough….
The bullets sat on the bench, gleaming in the lamplight. Sam took one up, still warm, rolled it in his palm. He got a feeling from the pieces of metal--almost as it they were aware, knew what they’d been made for. He took up his blade again, not bothering to clean it, and cut into the first bullet, 1 and into the second and third until the last lay in his palm—13, thirteen bullets, thirteen chances to kill a monster. He set it down on the bench top. Won’t need more than one, he promised himself.
That afternoon they stood facing each other over the bench the molds sat on. Dean's eyes locked with his, he took a deep breath and cracked the seal on the first mold. The exposed metal glimmered in the oiled sand, the pieces were…"Perfect," Dean breathed. "Knew it would work." He brushed sand off the pieces, held them to the light. Small rough spots caught the eye, and he muttered, "We'll smooth this out; they'll fit together like hand in glove…" he raised eyes to Sam and smiled."Here." He put what would be a revolver in Sam's hand. Sam shivered--something went through him at the touch of the metal.
He barely caught what Dean murmured then, "Rabbit run crossed your grave," he reached out and cradled Sam's hands in his own. "We'll make the barrel on the lathe. And attach your rosewood stock. It's going to be beautiful."
"It's beautiful now," Sam said. "Beautiful because it's made to do a job and it's going to do it."
"Hush, you mooncalf. I'm going to make it beautiful. Saw that pattern Pa put on my knife?" He ran his thumb over the gun parts. "Wanna put that ivy right here."
Sam tilted his head at it, trying to imagine it all in one piece, with that design curving around it. He licked his lips and hesitantly said, "Could you please put something else on it? Like words?"
"Sure. You want Dei Gratia like you got on your rifle? Suits the purpose it was made for."
Sam shook his head. "No. I'd like for you to put on it, Non Timebo Mala."
"Fear no evil?" Dean nodded. "Perfect. That's you Sam. You fear no evil."
Sam turned away. "Yeah…I'm not so certain about that Dean. But thank you for your faith in me." He grinned ruefully. "I 'spect you're the only one who has it."
Dean shook his head. "I can name off the bat people who trust you. And the dog trusts you, just like the black horse does. Don't think that don’t mean nothing because they're not people who can tell you so. It means a lot."
They worked together to drill the gun barrel and when it was ready to be joined to the rest of the gun, he engraved Non Timebo Mala along the length of it. And then, just like he'd eased together the parts of the wooden model to show Sam what the gun could look like, he assembled the parts of metal, gleaming slightly with their newness, unremarkable but for that, and it became something new in the world, something the world saw rarely—a true vessel of power. Dean gasped softly, surprise coloring his features. "It feels…different."
"Let me see," Sam said and took it from him. The minute he touched it, Sam knew. It sent a shock up his arm that he had no words to describe—it made the whole surface of his skin and right down deep inside him vibrate and buzz most unpleasantly, made his teeth feel like they were clicking and grinding together, made all the hairs all over him stand on end. It was less than a few seconds but seemed to go on forever and forever—and was all inside him, so swift and quiet that Dean was nattering on about some thing to do with weight and balance and noticing not at all that Sam had almost got knocked on his ass.
Dean noticed Sam was quiet, and palmed his shoulder. "Hello man. Where are you, hmm?"
"Oh. I…I was thinking. About…everything."
Dean nodded. "Sure. You got a lot to think about." He pulled Sam closer, and kissed him, soft mouth opening into warm, moist heat. Sam hummed with pleasure and fell into it. This kissing…he'd miss it terribly when he couldn't have it anymore. He shut his eyes tight, and turned into the kiss; let his tongue slide against Dean's, let Dean tease his lip between his teeth and scrape delicately over the tender flesh. He was left blinking like an owl when Dean suddenly pulled away.
"Come on—our house is waiting, nice and warm and the bed'll heat up right quick, I'm thinking."
Sam grinned and let himself be pulled along…our house, he'd said. Our house.
Snow danced in the air and whirled around the treetops, clung to the bare branches of the oak tree and spattered against the lone ironwork headstone under its shadow. Snow swirled through the yard, little pellets of ice spitting against Sam's cheeks and dripping down his collar. The two of them had taken one last trip into Bristol to stock up before the weather settled in and Sam had put a letter in the post to let Robert know he wouldn't be out until the spring. And that he planned to follow up on what Robert had sent. That he shouldn't worry because the Blacksmith's son was going to back him up, and that he was every bit as good as John Winchester had been. Sam hoped that Uncle Robert would get the letter before spring; he hated to have the old man worry about him….
Dean was locking up the shop as Sam came off the house's porch, caught sight of Sam and grinned and the thump-flip in the center of his chest that Sam had come to expect every time he saw Dean made his breath stumble.
"Hey. I'm about to go check on the boys, make sure they're okay." Dean squinted up at the sky. "Because I'm thinking we're not stepping out doors tonight. Snows gonna hit hard. You want me to take care of Pal, or you wanna do it?"
"Pal…Pal. Sure." Sam shook his head. Leave it to Dean to remember the name of the black horse after hearing it just the once. Sam tipped his head and watched the dog weave his way in and out of Dean's ankles like he was a god damn cat. That dog. Hell, he'd carted the little bastard around for a couple of years and never named him. He looked at the dog, and the dog looked back from his spot between Dean's feet, an expression on his face that Sam had no trouble reading. "Shut the hell up," Sam muttered, and aimed a lazy kick at him when he bolted past Sam, heading towards the barn.
"Leave him alone," Dean said. "He's smarter than his master, that's for sure."
"Master? I don’t know if you been payin' attention here, but master is the last thing I am to that sonofa bitch. He's sure as hell figures he's my equal." He squinted at the dog's tail-end. "Or my better." He looked up to catch Dean laughing quietly. In the moment, Dean looked so beautiful, it hurt. Made Sam think hard on the future and what he wanted out of whatever life he had left…Sam found himself looking towards the hills, restless and anxious and wanting to ride out now, before snow made passage impossible-take the risk he could outride the weather. He pulled the leather duster tighter around himself, startled when Dean's hand landed hard between his shoulder blades, slap of leather against leather.
Dean's hand was hard against him but his voice was soft, and sympathetic. "Hey, Sam. We're going to get that monster. Soon as we can ride out, we're going to get that baby-killing son of a bitch demon. But we need to wait. And I'm pretty sure that it'll stay put, just like us. By this time, it's probably lazy, having had the easy way—no one knowing what they're up against. Ain't met us yet." They walked side by side to the barn, footsteps squeaking in the snow that already gathered on the ground. "But now, we wait until it's safe, okay? Make do, right?
Sam smirked down at Dean. "Well, well. What you thinking about doin' to make the winter go by, Blacksmith?
"Boy, don’t you worry. There's plenty to keep us busy—and some of it don't even take place in bed."
Sam laughed, out loud, deep, hard enough that he felt the ache in his whole face and it was a good ache. Dean glowed with pleasure and it hit Sam out of the blue. Dean was pleased that he'd made Sam laugh. Dean got pleasure from Sam's pleasure. Hunh. That was…good to know. That good piece of information made him feel wrapped up and safe. Not even John had been able to make him feel the way Dean did, not John, not Robert Singer, not Caleb…for the first time, Sam wondered, just a tiny little flickering spark of wonder, if maybe he could talk Dean into coming with him when he left….
tbc
part 34
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(no subject)
9/22/10 11:39 pm (UTC)Also: "and how was that fair that someone he didn’t know from Adam could read his temper better than the only family he’d ever had could?" Ooooohhhhh the irony!!!
I love this story so much I'd marry it.
(no subject)
9/23/10 01:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
9/23/10 02:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
9/25/10 03:37 am (UTC)*flails*
He breaks my heart.
*pets him*
Again, the forge-work is neat and a bit creepy and just *very* cool, and Sam's little bit of bullet-making was *very* creepy and just...wow, Sam. So not a good idea.
*shivers*