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roxyTitle: Non Timebo Mala part 35 plus epilogue/complete
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:7391
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.
So, we leave some things unexplained, and hint broadly at the future, but mostly, we get kind of shmoopy. This was an interesting story to write. I'm very fond of writing the characters in wildly different settings and then trying to figure out how to keep them "them". It's a lot of fun, sprinkled with a bit of frustration and some OY, what was I thinking? Love you, Reading Club, thank you for keeping me going!
They were walking the fence, taking time to inspect the place for winter damage now that winter had completely given way to spring. Their walk took them up to Tobe's grave, where Dean stopped to make sure the wrought iron fence and marker had made it through the winter snow and the thaw all right.
Dean was stooped over, collecting fallen branches off of Tobe's grave. He rose and tossed them over the fence, and turned to Sam. "So. When are you leaving?" he asked and Sam started, knowing the guilty look spreading over his face was half the answer to Dean's question. Sam stuttered, desperate to say something and not knowing what to say. Dean held a hand up to stop him.
"Look, Sam…I don't know what I've done. You don't let me know…but I'm not about to hold you here when you don't want to be here."
Sam saw that the man was hurting in the tight set of Dean's jaw, the glare that narrowed his eyes, darkened them, all because of him. Sam knew that just by standing here he was hurting Dean. He could only think of one way to make it right. Dean turned to him, his lips pressed into a white line. Sam felt like he was breaking down the center. He licked suddenly dry lips and his voice came out papery and faint, like autumn leaves.
"I'll…I'll get my things together."
Dean nodded and turned back towards the house, the branches dropping from his fingers as he walked away.
"Dean," Sam called, and Dean turned about to face him. "I will be back. I swear. I…I do." Sam winced. "I will be back."
"Sure," Dean said, and smiled, "'Course you will. See you in the fall, right?" He walked away without looking back and Sam thought, that of all the kinds of pain he'd felt in his life, nothing had ever made him hurt quite like this.
Leaving was like moving through a nightmare, all of him focused on one foot following the other, just standing upright and not begging Dean to make him stay. He was packed so quickly it filled him with sadness, so little he'd brought with him, so little to take with him…just like John.
Dean had food packed up for him, and herbs he'd picked from Tobe's herbs chest, wrapped in wool and boxed. For his uncle, Dean had said, because the bastard wouldn't hurt Sam back the way he was hurting him. Even leaving him, Dean was trying to take care of Sam, make it easy for him and Sam ground tears back into his eyes over and over again. When Dean bent to tuck his gifts into the saddle bag, Sam saw that a new hex bag hung from his neck. Dean caught his glance and wrapped his hand around the bag. "Doubt it has any of the power that Arapaho medicine bag did, but…" he shrugged.
Sam made a noise meant to be…nothing at all really, what could he say? He set the pack on Pal, and swung himself into the saddle. Leaned forward a bit, hung his arm down and called for the dog. "Hey, Bonehead! Come on!"
The dog raced across the yard and leaped up, catching his teeth in Sam's shirt sleeve—this time thankfully not taking any skin in his grip.
"Bonehead?" Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Thought they didn't need names, your animals."
"Don't. It's just…everything wants a name, values it. Something I didn't realize until here lately." A feeling something like shame skittered across Sam's heart.
"Yeah?" Dean reached out and slid his hand over the dog's flat head, around to scratch under his chin. "Bonehead, hunh? Well, that suits you just fine, don't it?" The dog craned his neck to reach for Dean's face and licked his cheek; his tail beat a fast tattoo against Sam's hand. Dean smiled at last, a real smile, though not quite the sort that crinkled his eyes and showed all his teeth. He aimed that small smile at Sam and said, "Bonehead's a good name for some others I could mention."
Sam laughed out loud, pleased all out of proportion to what was said, because faint as it was, Dean had given him a smile, teased him like he used to.
"You take care," Dean went on. Dropped his eyes from Sam and muttered, "You should know...if you want it, there's always room at my fire for you, Sam Winchester."
"Dean…Dean…" Sam leaned over and caught Dean's chin in his hand. Tilted his face up. Not waiting for yes or no, he pressed his lips to Dean's. He shivered at the way Dean opened for him immediately, slid his tongue along Sam's with a tiny sound at the back of his throat—made Sam's gut clench pleasantly. Sam let the kiss go on longer than he probably should but it was so hard to let him go…my brother.
Sam blinked and sat back abruptly, but Dean just swiped his thumb over his wet, slick bottom lip and gave Sam a long, considering look. Sam stared back, caught and held by that dark, green, gaze.
"All right," Dean said at last, breaking the spell. "Get out of here. Go do what you boys do." He walked away and Sam was already sick to death of seeing Dean's back…Dean waved without looking behind him. "I'll see you when I see you."
"Okay, then," Sam breathed, and turned Pal towards the mountains. "And not a word out of you," he told the dog. Bonehead settled in and growled a little. Sam knew pretty well what he thought of leaving the comfort of the Kane hearth for the road again, and kept his hands clear of the dog's teeth.
It wouldn't be long before he could make his way back, Sam promised himself. He just needed some time to think.
In Osage, he stopped to pay a visit to Missouri. She was on the tiny porch where last Dean and he had sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing a cup of coffee. She was waiting for him like she'd known he was coming, wringing her hands something awful, her face a picture of sorrow.
He walked right up to her and let her fold him into her arms. He bent over her, holding on like she was an anchor. He gasped with his struggle not to cry, but she knew, and stroked his hair, rubbed his back. He asked her, "Why didn't you say anything?" why didn’t you warn me, why did you let it go, why…
Missouri didn't even flinch, she made no excuse. "Because you're never going to be happy in this world alone. Because you need someone to keep you safe and…" She stopped and pulled away from him. Her hands were over her eyes, and she shuddered. "I'm sorry. I truly am. More than you can know. Tell him the truth…don't tell him. You got to make that choice on your own."
Sam laughed, a shaky, wet laugh that seemed to cut right into her. "My choice, hunh? Hell, I don’t think I ever had any kind of choice. My road was carved out for me since before I was even a spark, right?" He struggled to breathe, but it felt like his breath was trapped in his chest, all balled up and covered in spikes and trying to come right through his ribs….
"Come on in boy. You and that dog of yours, wherever he's lurkin', you need rest and good food. Come in, now."
"Bonehead, you mean."
Missouri cocked an eyebrow at him and said, "Well, you heard your boy, get in here, Bonehead." The dog slinked out from behind Sam, head low and tail whipping back and forth. "So…" she cut Sam a look that he ignored.
"I hope you got eggs…I could really go for eggs," he said.
"Um-hm," she murmured, and Sam didn't need to have her Sight to know what she was thinking, looking him up and down like a lost, bedraggled sheep come home.
****
They had a big dinner, leftovers from the House's evening meal. Winnie waited on them both, maybe being a bit more attentive to Sam and 'Souri scolded her for being foolish and chased her off after dessert. Without the kitchen girl's chatter, the silence grew and grew. Sam knew Missouri was just waiting for him to speak what was on his mind aloud. He was toying with a dish of apple slump, dragging a fork around and around in it 'til finally, he dropped the fork. He told her, "I'm not giving him up. Not telling him the truth."
She looked at him for a long time, before standing and shuffling to the stove. It startled Sam, how old she suddenly seemed to be. She came back with the coffee pot, and poured it into two mugs. She took her time about fixing the coffee, Sam's with lots of sugar and cream, the way he liked it…she dropped a teaspoon into her own mug and stirred it for too long before she said, "I got everyone who was family to me taken away. Lost my man. Children. I don’t know where they are. No way to find out." She stopped stirring, laid the spoon down and stared right into Sam's eyes. "Do what you want that makes you happy. This…this ain't nobody's business but yours. Take some damn happiness," she barked and Sam jumped.
"Yes ma'am," he said, and she laughed, first just a little snort that grew into more, and louder, 'til she was bent over the table, holding her middle and her forehead nearly resting on the tabletop. Sam jumped to his feet, unsure if he should go to her or let her ride out whatever took her, but she lifted her head and waved him away. Missouri wiped away the tears Sam wasn't surprised to see.
"I love you, Samuel," she said.
"Yes ma'am 'Souri, I love you too," he told her.
They didn't speak about it again that visit--or any visit after that, ever, and Sam was just fine with that.
Robert Singer's place glowed in the sunlight, looked even whiter against the black backdrop of the pines. Sam was tired—non-stop traveling'd just about wore them all out and they were way past due for settling down for a spell. Worn down he might be, but the second he caught sight of that good old house, his heart warmed. The white clapboards and green shutters caught the sun like diamonds, with a light pure and clean, just like always but….
The dog leapt down, and Sam slid off Pal to the ground after him. The warmth inside him ebbed. This time, coming to this place felt a little less like coming home and more like visiting, Sam mulled the feeling over. Wasn't bad. It was just…seeing it made him realize his real home was far from here now.
Sam shook off the melancholy and strolled up onto Robert's front porch, let the faint shiver he felt stepping over the Solomon's Seal flow right over him and away—it was what it was. Like always, he ghosted his fingers over the pentagram carved into the post, let them slide lower to the wobbly, unevenly carved one set into the post by a thirteen year old hand, wielding a hunting knife a little too big for it. He knocked on the door and listened for Robert's footfall, turned a little to the side because the minute that man opened the door, Bonehead was going to barrel through like a musket shot.
Sure enough, when Robert cracked open the door, the dog flew through it and straight up the stairs. Robert stared after it and muttered, "Christos," and shook his head.
Sam laughed, "Uncle, what was that?"
"Christos," Robert said. "Greek for the savior."
"I see. Short and sweet—I like it. Useful. Well, Uncle, hope you don’t mind me busting in all off season like this—"
"Come on in here, ya damn fool." Robert reached out, grabbed a handful of shirt and pulled Sam in, engulfed him in a beeswax and sage scented hug. "I just put the coffee on and got a cake coolin'—you must have the shine, knowin' when to come like you do." The hug tightened, and Sam felt himself relax a huge measure. He loved 'Souri, loved her to death, but Uncle Robert was his safe place, for sure…had always been.
****
Sam was comfortable ensconced on the little velvet doo-dad of a sofa in Robert's library. Stuffed to the brim with good food and enjoying a bit of brandy Uncle had decided the occasion called for, he sighed and leaned back. He took slow, appreciative sips of the rich liquor and rubbed the velvet nap the wrong way, wondering what the story was behind the odd little sofa. Seemed a strange thing for an old bachelor fella to have….
Robert sat at his desk, with Bonehead on his lap, idly rubbed the dog behind his ears and grinned when he sighed happily, as if no one ever in the history of creation had rubbed his ears so fine. "Well…you gonna tell me what you did? You wrote that the Blacksmith's son helped you—tell me that story. Not to mention there's sign all over said you had the victory over that boss demon. Tell me what transpired there, too. That's a story I'd relish hearing."
"I know I didn't give much information in my letters, but we thought it best that way…he made me a weapon, the finest thing you can imagine. He was smart, and so brave, and stood right by me, way past what he had to, Uncle. He had a heart like a lion, and iron in his blood." Sam stared at the floor, blinking hard. "He was…amazing."
When he looked up, Uncle was staring at him, with understanding and a softness about his eyes rarely there. "I see," he said. "I'm glad you found…a right hand man worthy of you," he said. "But than again, Tobias was a hell of a good man, learned, a true gentleman. He raised his boy right; I hear it in your voice."
Sam blinked a sudden fog from his eyes and swallowed hard. "Yes sir. I…I…."
Robert broke in gently, "Could I see what he made? If you don’t mind."
Sam smiled and reached into the bag placed between his feet on the floor. "Here you go." He handed a chamois wrapped bundle across to Robert.
Robert coaxed Bonehead to the floor and took the thing, unwrapped it. His eyebrows rose. "Well, weren't expecting that," he said, and unrolled the Colt from its covering. "God damn, son, that's a beautiful thing." Awe coloring his voice and with careful, reverent fingers, he turned it from side to side. "Non Timebo Mala, will fear no evil." He nodded." Beautiful work, that boy is more than a blacksmith, he's an artist."
Sam grinned. "Oh yes sir. He's really clever with his hands, Uncle. He's wonderful."
"I bet he is," Robert mumbled and Sam felt the heat flare up in his cheeks. "So. You took it down with this, hunh? Amazing. Never thought them old spells would be that powerful, or that a sacred weapon could be something from modern times. Dang, I'm still pole-axed them spells were good enough ta…" the extra bullets rolled out of their bit of velvet wrapping, and landed on the rug at Robert's feet. He bent, picked them up, and frowned at them. "Feel…a bit off," he said and stared at Sam. "Any reason why that'd be, son?"
Sam sucked in his lower lip, and shook his head, and hoped Robert would leave off his questions. Robert sighed and handed the bullets to Sam. "You wanna keep these with you—don't let no one else get a hold of them hear? No one."
He ignored the guilt Sam knew was blazing on his face and went back to examining the gun and now, his expression was vastly different than it had been. It was judging, measuring…"You did it, Samuel. God knows I never doubted. You Winchesters, once you set your mind to a thing, hell nor high water will hold you back."
"It's never over," Sam said. "There's always another head to take the place of the one sheared off. I just got my piece, s'all."
Robert hmmed at that, carefully rewrapped the gun and gave it back to Sam. He opened a drawer, took out cigarette papers and tobacco and made a great production of rolling a couple. He handed Sam one, lit his own and then Sam's, all in a contemplative silence that Sam was no way going to break in on. At length, Robert said, "Ya ever heard of a wanting lock?"
Sam frowned, and cut his eyes away from Robert. "No-oo, I…I can't say I recall…."
Robert laughed a bit. "No surprise, and no failing there--it's a vanishingly rare thing. But with a wanting lock spell, anything can be a key. The lock just needs to meet the thing it wants, and—" Robert snapped his fingers,"--it opens. Or locks forever." He opened a case sat on his desk top, and unrolled a sheaf of paper in front of Sam. "Sam, what you and your daddy uncovered that last year was a coven, fixin' on opening a gate straight into hell. That summoning back then cracked the veil between worlds, let that thing open—a most unnatural thing. We need to slam it back shut. And we can do it. We're going to build a gate house right over that hole and lock it up tight. And just to make sure that nothing evil will get to it—" He spread the roll flat.
Sam squinted at it. "That's a pentagram…with a block at each point. And that means….?"
Robert laughed outright. "Not blocks, boy, those are churches."
"Churches…how the hell big is this pentagram supposed to be?"
"Hundred square miles, Samuel, hundred square milesa devil's trap. When I say we, I mean a group of us. There's me and some chosen Hunters, there's five pastors, and a mysterious benefactor with damn deep pockets, thank God. Those lines are railroad track. Iron. Miles and miles of iron. A circle of track to nowhere but to hold somethin' in, and to keep things out….."
Sam gaped at Robert. "That's—that's pure crazy, Uncle. Pure crazy."
Robert nodded. "Yup. Now tell me it ain't goin' to work."
Sam started to speak—swallowed, started to speak—and grinned. He shrugged. "Crazy enough to maybe work."
Robert looked at the map. "One thing son. We been searching for just the right thing to make a key with. Something with power, and an aversion to true evil…"
Sam handed over the Colt without a second thought. "You keep it safe. You need it now; it's done all it can for me."
Robert nodded. "Thank you, Samuel. Thank you. You're going to stay, aren't you? Help us with this?"
"Uncle, I wish I could. I might be back, can't say for sure. But…I got business to take care of."
Robert stared at him, his eyes narrowed as he did and Sam felt like he was being picked apart like a bright specimen of something. Robert said, "All right then. Man's gotta follow his heart." He leaned back in his chair and as Sam went to leave the room, said, "You be sure to give the blacksmith's boy my best, you hear?"
Sam froze—and chuckled. "Yes sir, I will do that."
The night before he left Robert's, he slid quiet as a mouse into the library, and snuck the packet of bullets into his desk drawer. Sam felt he didn’t need them anymore, and though he knew why Robert wanted him to hold on to them--he knew the man suspected what he'd done—Sam felt they'd be as safe with Robert Singer as they'd be in his own pocket. And who knew…there might come a day when Uncle would need them.
Sam headed out with every intention of going back the way he'd come—but someone needed help here, and someone needed help there, and before he knew it he was in Texas, where word came through the grapevine that some ghastly creatures called pishtacos had some way or another worked their way up from South America. Sounded like horrible nasty things, set up and terrorizing a small county, and he was asked to help a local group of Hunters out. He just couldn't walk away from that. Besides, Sam was sure it wouldn't take more than a month, two at the longest….
Sam's birthday that year he spent in Texas, banged up and sick as a dog, taken care of by the Hunters who'd ridden with him. The next birthday Sam was running messages for Robert Singer between the five pastors—it was important work, and needed to be done by someone who understood just how important...there was so much to do, and so few people to do it….
Sam was past twenty before he saw Dean again….
Dean
A month after Sam left, Dean went into Bristol for the express purpose of visiting his friend. He showed in her doorway, dressed, shaved, cologned and paid up for an entire night.
Dotty let him in with a smile, "Oh now, look at you, I been wondering where you been, sugar—Dean! For heaven's sake, what's wrong?"
Dean tried to keep his smile straight but it wobbled away under her concern. "Dotty…I did it again. I'm so stupid, why am I so stupid?" His head fell against her shoulder and he let out all the poison inside him—the anger, the hurt, the anguish, let all the mourning out that he'd held deep inside. He was weak by the time the tears dried up, and he realized that Dotty had been stroking his head like a sick kitten since he'd fell into her.
"Oh honey, the man was a trail rider, you knew he'd be gone again one day…I told you, didn’t I? You poor lamb."
Dean let himself be led to the bed and let himself be stripped. He didn't have the strength to stop her and couldn't see a reason why. Sometimes, this was all there was to comfort a hurt soul.
She pushed him down to the bed and rubbed his arms, his legs, worked kinks out of his back with oil and her strong hands, driving warmth into him, loosening up muscles so tight he'd forgotten what they'd felt like otherwise. It helped—he'd felt like a block of ice inside and out since Sam had left. It felt so good he almost cried. She peppered his face with little kisses and promised him again that some day he'd find the right girl for him. She stroked his prick the same careful way she'd stroked the hair from his face.
Dean sighed and fell back into her hands. Dotty didn't understand a god damn bit about him—and it didn't matter. What mattered was she cared for him, wanted him to be happy and right at that moment, that was all Dean wanted. At least someone on God's earth wanted him to be happy. He shivered under her touch, and kissed her back, lazy and loose. He kept his eyes tight shut, and pretended that her hand wasn't too small or too soft, and that her mouth was perfect, wide and wet….
Dotty worked him right to the edge, almost past it, all the while silent as a stone, as if she knew he wasn't in the room with her…she slipped the lambskin on him and rode him until he came, though he'd had to drag up images of Sam to get it done and that had been a special kind of pain. She leaned down and kissed his cheeks and lips before climbing off. "Sweet thing," she whispered and went to the bowl to wash herself and the condom. He heard her curse, and tried to sit up, but mourning so hard and finally having release took all the strength out of him.
"What's wrong?" he managed, slurring the words in his exhaustion.
"Nothin' sweet pea, tain't nothin' at all. Let me make us some tea. Oh, I got some of Cook's special tea cakes—kinda stole 'em earlier. Good thing too, I know how much you like them." She grinned, all pink lipped, and cheeky good humor--Dean felt a wave of deepest affection roll over him and for not the first time, wished he was capable of loving her the way she should be. He prayed some day that she'd be luckier than him—find someone who would.
"Here's our tea," she set a tray between them on the bed, "and the cakes. Now, you go on 'n'tell me everything, or nothin' if you want. We can talk 'bout the forge, or what'er new lambs or calves or what not got borned, or the latest fashion from back East. Your choice, sugar."
Dean took the tea from her. "Well…he…he. Ah, I got a lot of new orders. From a few places 'round Green River way. For andirons, and book rests and candle stands—dozens! There's a lot of new churches being built and they want me for that kind of work—can you imagine?"
"Oh my…that sounds real interesting, darlin'. You gonna be awful busy, hunh…."
****
Dean hurried into the post office, not admitting that his heart thumped hard in his chest, hoping, just like he always hoped….
The postman smiled when he came in. "Hey there, Mr. Dean. Mail came in Tuesday, and you got a letter."
Dean tried to hold back his grin, took the letter with thanks. His heart sank just a bit when he saw it wasn't from the Hunter, but it was almost as nice—there was a letter from Dotty.
Dear Dean, it read, I wanted to send you this to let you know that I am doing just fine. We settled in Lawrence. We got a little boy, healthy and whole. Daniel dotes on him like the boy is a little prince. That man does have his strange ways that is a fact, with a lot of strange ideas but there is no mean bone in his body and he treats me like a wife wishes to be treated and treats my son like his own. So don’t worry. I just wanted to let you know my dearest friend that I am doing well and in fact I am quite happy. All my love to you from your friend, Dotty.
Dean blinked. Well that was a startling bit of news, Dotty having a baby…and seemed it wasn't her husband's. He shook his head. Well, he hoped the very best for her. What with all that work that came in around then, that last time he'd been with her was the last time he'd seen her—save the time she'd come to the forge. It was nice of her to have stopped on her way out of town, let him know she was headed to Kansas with a farmer who'd taken a shine to her, who didn't care what she'd done for a living. "A girl don't get an opportunity like this often," she'd said. "I'd be a fool not to go for it."
Dean hadn't been sure he agreed but she looked pleased so he was pleased for her. It was good, thinking of Dotty in her own home, with a baby and a man who doted on her. It was good to think that some people were happy….
He crumbled the letter and shoved it in his pocket. Enough of feeling sorry for himself. He had work to be done, and his animals counted on him—he had enough to keep him busy. He couldn't complain about his life at all. Not at all.
epilogue
A Christmas went by, and then another, and Dean was celebrating with a hot toddy…and another hot toddy. He'd taken it into his head to cut boughs of pine to bring into the house, and headed out to the far edge of the place, where pine trees crowded the property line. He thought it'd be just the thing—him and Pa used to do it on and off over the holidays--the smell was nice, freshened the air. He could hear Raphael moving about the stall, caught the horse's curious snort as he passed the barn. Poor Raph, Dean thought, he sure was lonely now that Gabe had passed on. Dean missed Gabe as well…the old horse had been the last connection to his old life, now it was all gone.
He made his way back to the porch with an armful of fresh pine branches. He knocked the faint dusting of snow off of them; it'd been a light winter for snow so far. Something he'd been grateful for—with luck it would carry on like this until spring. Dean was about to step inside to the warmth of the house when some odd sound stopped him. His head came up, and he concentrated—he'd thought he heard barking in the distance, but that wasn't likely. No one was coming out this way, not now... the boughs fell from his hand.
A tall figure stood at the end of the yard, standing right inside the gate—not quite on one side or the other. "Well, you gonna keep standin' there?" Dean called out, feeling like he was in a dream until suddenly, Sam's hand was on his cheek. How was it possible that he was even taller than before, broader…he'd thought Sam was a man before but now he knew, that Sam before had been a boy, this was the man.
"Dean. You sure? I don't have to, I can go…."
"Sam…oh my God…Sam…."
Sam seemed to take Dean's shocked exclamation as permission. Long arms wrapped him up and pulled him in, tight. Dean couldn't speak or move, or hardly breathe. He shook like a leaf in a storm. "Sammy…I'm dreaming, I'm going to wake up alone, you're not real—"
"No, no. No dreams, God, no dreams. I am here."
Dean was pulled in a million different ways—he wanted to feed Sam, wanted to beat his ass, wanted to check him over for hurts, wanted to ask him where he'd been, what he'd done. But they ended up tearing up the stairs, fighting each other like wild things to get their clothes off, kicking boots away, ripping belts loose, and tearing buttons free. Dean grabbed Sam's long hair and yanked him close by it, Sam grinned, heat flared in his eyes, hotter each time Dean tightened his hand. Dean wrapped his free hand around Sam's throat and hissed, "Still mine, Sam, are you—"
Sam's eyes rolled back and his whole body gave like he was made of taffy--almost dropped in Dean's grip. He moaned, "Yes, yes, no one else, promised you." He fumbled through the shirt distance between them, until he found and closed his hand over Dean's prick and Dean fought not to come at the touch of that hot, dry, big hand, jerked in Sam's grip and begged him to, "Please Sam, use your mouth, dream of it, I—please."
Sam rolled his foreskin back and drilled the pointed tip of his tongue into the pink slit, sucked wet and sloppy around the head, thumbed the furled skin in his grip until Dean swore he was going to lose all sense and control. "Sam, I gotta move—"
"Do it, that's what I want. Hard, deep as you can."
Dean fisted a wide handful of hair to keep Sam's head in place, and fucked his mouth, snapped his hips and swore out loud, cursed himself for needing it so and Sam for leaving him. He was somewhere else—didn't care that tears ran down his face, or that his voice was cracking with what he felt—Dean let it all go, let loose of being left alone and hurt, of yearning terribly for Sam to come back. The only thing Sam needed to know was that he loved him and those words were ripped out of him right along with his release.
When he could drag in a breath again, he looked down to see Sam staring up at him, mouth red, swollen, wet lips still parted. Dean could see something shifting in Sam's eyes, he didn't know what. Sam kept gawping at him like he'd hung the damn moon and stars. "Stop it," Dean said. "Don't."
"Dean, you have no idea how much…" Sam's voice gave out; he leaned his head against Dean's bare hip. "I love you, too."
Sam's voice cracked on the words, throat fucked rough. It sounded painful, and Dean winced. "Sorry, Sam. Sorry."
Sam shook his head, said, "I like it. Like hearing me sound like this 'cause of you."
Dean shuddered in another breath and tried to kneel down, to give Sam the same release he'd given him but Sam shook his head. "Too late, son. You wound me up fierce," he teased, red-cheeked and laughing at himself.
Dean managed to steer them to the bed, blinked in surprise when Sam just barely fit. "You grew a bit, Sam. Filled out too…"
"Well, I was just seventeen when I first met you", he said. "Most fellows that age still got a bit of growing to do."
Dean gaped at Sam. "You were doing the things you did and you were still a boy?
"A boy." Sam smirked, an echo of that bitter twist of smile that used to make Dean ache. "You know, I started hunting evil things with my dad when I was twelve years old. I saw things you can't ever imagine--I don’t want you to know. By the time we met, I was as grown as I was going to get."
"But…you did…you were hurting so much, so torn up and...Did your dad make you hurt like that?"
"Shit, Dean, no—hell no. Not really," Sam said. "He just didn't understand. Listen, can we talk about this some other time? Come on; lie down by me, please."
Dean stared at the man in his bed, remembering that boy and wishing once again that somehow along the way someone like Pa had stumbled over a baby Sam. It would have all been so different for him….
Sam beckoned again and Dean sighed. "You always cloud my mind—you make me follow you 'round like I'm your damn dog," he grumbled, and climbed into bed with Sam.
Sam grinned and pulled him close. "No I don’t, you just want to."
They spent most of the time Sam was there in bed. Dean didn't ask, Sam didn't say but Dean knew Sam hadn't come home to stay. By the time the larkspur bloomed, Sam was gone again.
Dean had bought another horse and built onto the house, making the bedroom under the eaves bigger, the year Sam came and stayed longer than any other year. That year, Bonehead came first, limping and howling. The awful sound brought Dean running out into the night, barefoot and shirtless, tooth powder still in his mouth. He dashed across the yard, following Bonehead to the barn, where Sam was standing.
Sam blinked at him. His lips were skinned back from his teeth, and he was panting so loud, Dean had heard him from across the yard. He was bloodless, so pale in the moonlight he looked blue. Dean ran to him and Sam tried to meet him but only managed to sway on his feet--his grip on the barn doorway the only thing keeping him upright. Dean cursed him for being a god-damn, stubborn, thick headed, dumb sonofa bitch, hefted him to his shoulder, carried him into the house and right into bed.
The dog climbed into the bed with him and kept watch. Dean spent sleepless nights with the both of them, wetting Sam down with cool clothes, feeding him tea and every kind of herb that Tobe had taught him worked against fever and infection. Most of the time, Sam hadn't even known he was there, calling Dean's name, crying out for him, begging him to come find him. It broke Dean's heart and made him wish like hell he had the strength to make Sam give it all up and stay with him. One night, Sam had sat bolt upright, cheeks dotted with red, his eyes burning the way the dream eyes had in those nightmares of Dean's.
"Dean," Sam shouted. "Dean!" Dean was there instantly, not sure if Sam slept or was awake. "Dean, he said, and pawed at him, scrabbling for him."Find my brother…the fire. For you…" he dropped back to the bed, and shivered so hard the bed creaked and Dean forgot everything but the need to bring Sam's fever down….
He dipped pieces of sacking into half-melted snow and wrapped Sam in them, and prayed. "Get better, Sammy, get better. Need you."
Eventually, the poisoned slashes at his hip and across his chest healed. Dean made Sam promise he'd never take on a skinwalker alone again. Sam stayed until he could sit on horseback with no trouble and then, he was gone again.
There was a year Sam never showed at all, and Dean prayed harder than he had ever prayed, that Sam was alive, and safe. When he rode into the yard that next summer after, on a gray horse, Dean's legs gave out and he dropped to the ground. Bonehead swarmed over him, moaning and whining and almost as happy to see Dean as Sam was. Sam stood like an oak, staring at him, drinking him in. "Dean. Dean," he whispered, broken, hoarse. He never told Dean what happened and Dean didn't ask.
That year when he rode out, Bonehead was sitting on the porch steps with Dean, watching Sam leave. He couldn't make that jump anymore, couldn't take long days astride the saddle. He seemed pretty darn content to spend his days spread out on the porch, Dean thought, or freeloading and begging treats, chasing the barn cats and doing a better job at ratting then any of the half-dozen squinty-eyed toms lurking around the barnyard....
Nights he spent happily farting away under Dean's chair, or lying spread out in front of the fire, warming his pink belly and snoring. And farting. Dean kind of liked the company, and without Sam around felt like he had free rein to indulge the little beast. The dog sat at the table like people, slept in Dean's bed and generally got under foot, got on Dean's nerves. Made him happy.
"You know," he said one night as they sat side by side in the porch chairs and watched the sun set. "You and that boy of yours, you're two peas in a pod. Must be why we get along so good," Dean said, waved his hand in front of his face and wrinkled his nose at a sudden olfactory onslaught, "Yep, I don't miss him as much when you're around to remind me of'em."
The look in Bonehead's eyes clearly said that Dean was fooling no one.
There was this thing about Bonehead--he always knew when Sam was coming home, days before he actually showed in the yard. Bonehead would plant himself at the top of the yard, standing by the gate, and he'd stand there for however long it took before Sam finally showed. Dean liked those homecomings, liked when Sam would kneel and roughhouse with the dog, send the dog into fits of joyful ecstasy and then throw Dean a look from down on his knees, that promised him that later that evening, Dean was going to scream….
When Sam came home the year of his twenty-sixth birthday, Bonehead was lying next to Pa under the oak.
That year, something came loose inside Dean. It rattled terribly the whole time Sam was there, leaving him unsettled, jumpy. He struggled hard not to infect Sam with his doubts, not to burden him with his wants….
They were in bed, wrapped together as much as two people could be. Sam blinked lazily when Dean tapped him. "Hmmm?"
"I love you, but I don’t think I can do this anymore. I'm done, Sammy."
Sam came fully awake. He rolled to his side and stared at Dean, looking into his eyes. He nodded. "You're right," he said. "You shouldn't have to. I shouldn't have asked it of you all these years."
Sam had a hell of a way of saying good-bye, Dean thought. Still hurts, Sam, still hurts.Sam took him apart slowly, using everything he'd learned from Dean, did things to him that had Dean screaming, and that night Sam begged Dean to open up for him. Sam slid long, thick fingers into him, it felt…like fire being poured inside him, a good fire. He twitched at the feeling of being spread; his ass ached, better when Sam bore down with his fingers and spread them. Dean was babbling, begging Sam for more—grabbed Sam's wrist and tried to force him deeper. "Hold up, Blacksmith, you gonna hurt me and you both—let go, beloved, let go," he whispered in Dean's ear, so he did. He was floating on the sensations, like drifting on a summer river, round and round and round….
When Sam pushed inside of him, Dean swore every part of him was rearranging itself and carving Sam into his body and soul, so he would remember, right down to his blood, everything about Sam…his smell, the sounds he made, the helpless shudder of breath, the way his skin slid against Dean's wet and slick....
Dean had done what he could to help Sam, and now was the right time to let him go. He could send Sam out into the world, and know that someday, he'd find someone who'd ride with him, and they'd be happy. That's all he'd ever wanted for Sam, that he be happy, no matter what it took.
Dean knew Sam would be gone in the morning, and it made it hard for him to fall asleep. he had the sense that both of them lay there, breathing soft and even in the dark for a long, long time.
In the morning, Sam was in the kitchen, making breakfast. "So, I'm thinking...you might need some help in the forge, seein' how you're getting' on in years—"
"God damn it, Samuel Winchester, don’t you fucking lie to me. You stay today, than you stay for good. Right here next to me, fuck it all. I can't—I can't."
Sam was at his side, breakfast forgotten, head shoved up under Dean's chin like he was a little boy, how did he do that…his arm went around Dean's shoulders, drawing him in. "I am never. Never. Leaving you again. No matter what the hell comes at us or who tries to tear us apart--you take this to heart. I love you. I don’t care about anything anymore but that."
Dean locked his arms around Sam. He knew Sam was keeping something from him, whatever that thing was, it was half the reason Sam ran every year…something that had scared the hell out of the man. Dean felt that thing, whatever it was, shiver just at the edge of his eye sight, wanting to be revealed. Fuck it. They'd put the hammer to a Lord of Hell, they sure could handle any damn thing life threw at them—any damn thing at all. "I'm not afraid of what might come at us. You don’t be afraid either. You and me. That's all we need, y'hear?"
They sat down to breakfast, and started to make plans for the coming year.
Sam never left again, and Dean made sure he never regretted it. He did that for the rest of their lives.
Fin
09-28-2010
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:7391
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.
So, we leave some things unexplained, and hint broadly at the future, but mostly, we get kind of shmoopy. This was an interesting story to write. I'm very fond of writing the characters in wildly different settings and then trying to figure out how to keep them "them". It's a lot of fun, sprinkled with a bit of frustration and some OY, what was I thinking? Love you, Reading Club, thank you for keeping me going!
They were walking the fence, taking time to inspect the place for winter damage now that winter had completely given way to spring. Their walk took them up to Tobe's grave, where Dean stopped to make sure the wrought iron fence and marker had made it through the winter snow and the thaw all right.
Dean was stooped over, collecting fallen branches off of Tobe's grave. He rose and tossed them over the fence, and turned to Sam. "So. When are you leaving?" he asked and Sam started, knowing the guilty look spreading over his face was half the answer to Dean's question. Sam stuttered, desperate to say something and not knowing what to say. Dean held a hand up to stop him.
"Look, Sam…I don't know what I've done. You don't let me know…but I'm not about to hold you here when you don't want to be here."
Sam saw that the man was hurting in the tight set of Dean's jaw, the glare that narrowed his eyes, darkened them, all because of him. Sam knew that just by standing here he was hurting Dean. He could only think of one way to make it right. Dean turned to him, his lips pressed into a white line. Sam felt like he was breaking down the center. He licked suddenly dry lips and his voice came out papery and faint, like autumn leaves.
"I'll…I'll get my things together."
Dean nodded and turned back towards the house, the branches dropping from his fingers as he walked away.
"Dean," Sam called, and Dean turned about to face him. "I will be back. I swear. I…I do." Sam winced. "I will be back."
"Sure," Dean said, and smiled, "'Course you will. See you in the fall, right?" He walked away without looking back and Sam thought, that of all the kinds of pain he'd felt in his life, nothing had ever made him hurt quite like this.
Leaving was like moving through a nightmare, all of him focused on one foot following the other, just standing upright and not begging Dean to make him stay. He was packed so quickly it filled him with sadness, so little he'd brought with him, so little to take with him…just like John.
Dean had food packed up for him, and herbs he'd picked from Tobe's herbs chest, wrapped in wool and boxed. For his uncle, Dean had said, because the bastard wouldn't hurt Sam back the way he was hurting him. Even leaving him, Dean was trying to take care of Sam, make it easy for him and Sam ground tears back into his eyes over and over again. When Dean bent to tuck his gifts into the saddle bag, Sam saw that a new hex bag hung from his neck. Dean caught his glance and wrapped his hand around the bag. "Doubt it has any of the power that Arapaho medicine bag did, but…" he shrugged.
Sam made a noise meant to be…nothing at all really, what could he say? He set the pack on Pal, and swung himself into the saddle. Leaned forward a bit, hung his arm down and called for the dog. "Hey, Bonehead! Come on!"
The dog raced across the yard and leaped up, catching his teeth in Sam's shirt sleeve—this time thankfully not taking any skin in his grip.
"Bonehead?" Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Thought they didn't need names, your animals."
"Don't. It's just…everything wants a name, values it. Something I didn't realize until here lately." A feeling something like shame skittered across Sam's heart.
"Yeah?" Dean reached out and slid his hand over the dog's flat head, around to scratch under his chin. "Bonehead, hunh? Well, that suits you just fine, don't it?" The dog craned his neck to reach for Dean's face and licked his cheek; his tail beat a fast tattoo against Sam's hand. Dean smiled at last, a real smile, though not quite the sort that crinkled his eyes and showed all his teeth. He aimed that small smile at Sam and said, "Bonehead's a good name for some others I could mention."
Sam laughed out loud, pleased all out of proportion to what was said, because faint as it was, Dean had given him a smile, teased him like he used to.
"You take care," Dean went on. Dropped his eyes from Sam and muttered, "You should know...if you want it, there's always room at my fire for you, Sam Winchester."
"Dean…Dean…" Sam leaned over and caught Dean's chin in his hand. Tilted his face up. Not waiting for yes or no, he pressed his lips to Dean's. He shivered at the way Dean opened for him immediately, slid his tongue along Sam's with a tiny sound at the back of his throat—made Sam's gut clench pleasantly. Sam let the kiss go on longer than he probably should but it was so hard to let him go…my brother.
Sam blinked and sat back abruptly, but Dean just swiped his thumb over his wet, slick bottom lip and gave Sam a long, considering look. Sam stared back, caught and held by that dark, green, gaze.
"All right," Dean said at last, breaking the spell. "Get out of here. Go do what you boys do." He walked away and Sam was already sick to death of seeing Dean's back…Dean waved without looking behind him. "I'll see you when I see you."
"Okay, then," Sam breathed, and turned Pal towards the mountains. "And not a word out of you," he told the dog. Bonehead settled in and growled a little. Sam knew pretty well what he thought of leaving the comfort of the Kane hearth for the road again, and kept his hands clear of the dog's teeth.
It wouldn't be long before he could make his way back, Sam promised himself. He just needed some time to think.
In Osage, he stopped to pay a visit to Missouri. She was on the tiny porch where last Dean and he had sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing a cup of coffee. She was waiting for him like she'd known he was coming, wringing her hands something awful, her face a picture of sorrow.
He walked right up to her and let her fold him into her arms. He bent over her, holding on like she was an anchor. He gasped with his struggle not to cry, but she knew, and stroked his hair, rubbed his back. He asked her, "Why didn't you say anything?" why didn’t you warn me, why did you let it go, why…
Missouri didn't even flinch, she made no excuse. "Because you're never going to be happy in this world alone. Because you need someone to keep you safe and…" She stopped and pulled away from him. Her hands were over her eyes, and she shuddered. "I'm sorry. I truly am. More than you can know. Tell him the truth…don't tell him. You got to make that choice on your own."
Sam laughed, a shaky, wet laugh that seemed to cut right into her. "My choice, hunh? Hell, I don’t think I ever had any kind of choice. My road was carved out for me since before I was even a spark, right?" He struggled to breathe, but it felt like his breath was trapped in his chest, all balled up and covered in spikes and trying to come right through his ribs….
"Come on in boy. You and that dog of yours, wherever he's lurkin', you need rest and good food. Come in, now."
"Bonehead, you mean."
Missouri cocked an eyebrow at him and said, "Well, you heard your boy, get in here, Bonehead." The dog slinked out from behind Sam, head low and tail whipping back and forth. "So…" she cut Sam a look that he ignored.
"I hope you got eggs…I could really go for eggs," he said.
"Um-hm," she murmured, and Sam didn't need to have her Sight to know what she was thinking, looking him up and down like a lost, bedraggled sheep come home.
They had a big dinner, leftovers from the House's evening meal. Winnie waited on them both, maybe being a bit more attentive to Sam and 'Souri scolded her for being foolish and chased her off after dessert. Without the kitchen girl's chatter, the silence grew and grew. Sam knew Missouri was just waiting for him to speak what was on his mind aloud. He was toying with a dish of apple slump, dragging a fork around and around in it 'til finally, he dropped the fork. He told her, "I'm not giving him up. Not telling him the truth."
She looked at him for a long time, before standing and shuffling to the stove. It startled Sam, how old she suddenly seemed to be. She came back with the coffee pot, and poured it into two mugs. She took her time about fixing the coffee, Sam's with lots of sugar and cream, the way he liked it…she dropped a teaspoon into her own mug and stirred it for too long before she said, "I got everyone who was family to me taken away. Lost my man. Children. I don’t know where they are. No way to find out." She stopped stirring, laid the spoon down and stared right into Sam's eyes. "Do what you want that makes you happy. This…this ain't nobody's business but yours. Take some damn happiness," she barked and Sam jumped.
"Yes ma'am," he said, and she laughed, first just a little snort that grew into more, and louder, 'til she was bent over the table, holding her middle and her forehead nearly resting on the tabletop. Sam jumped to his feet, unsure if he should go to her or let her ride out whatever took her, but she lifted her head and waved him away. Missouri wiped away the tears Sam wasn't surprised to see.
"I love you, Samuel," she said.
"Yes ma'am 'Souri, I love you too," he told her.
They didn't speak about it again that visit--or any visit after that, ever, and Sam was just fine with that.
Robert Singer's place glowed in the sunlight, looked even whiter against the black backdrop of the pines. Sam was tired—non-stop traveling'd just about wore them all out and they were way past due for settling down for a spell. Worn down he might be, but the second he caught sight of that good old house, his heart warmed. The white clapboards and green shutters caught the sun like diamonds, with a light pure and clean, just like always but….
The dog leapt down, and Sam slid off Pal to the ground after him. The warmth inside him ebbed. This time, coming to this place felt a little less like coming home and more like visiting, Sam mulled the feeling over. Wasn't bad. It was just…seeing it made him realize his real home was far from here now.
Sam shook off the melancholy and strolled up onto Robert's front porch, let the faint shiver he felt stepping over the Solomon's Seal flow right over him and away—it was what it was. Like always, he ghosted his fingers over the pentagram carved into the post, let them slide lower to the wobbly, unevenly carved one set into the post by a thirteen year old hand, wielding a hunting knife a little too big for it. He knocked on the door and listened for Robert's footfall, turned a little to the side because the minute that man opened the door, Bonehead was going to barrel through like a musket shot.
Sure enough, when Robert cracked open the door, the dog flew through it and straight up the stairs. Robert stared after it and muttered, "Christos," and shook his head.
Sam laughed, "Uncle, what was that?"
"Christos," Robert said. "Greek for the savior."
"I see. Short and sweet—I like it. Useful. Well, Uncle, hope you don’t mind me busting in all off season like this—"
"Come on in here, ya damn fool." Robert reached out, grabbed a handful of shirt and pulled Sam in, engulfed him in a beeswax and sage scented hug. "I just put the coffee on and got a cake coolin'—you must have the shine, knowin' when to come like you do." The hug tightened, and Sam felt himself relax a huge measure. He loved 'Souri, loved her to death, but Uncle Robert was his safe place, for sure…had always been.
Sam was comfortable ensconced on the little velvet doo-dad of a sofa in Robert's library. Stuffed to the brim with good food and enjoying a bit of brandy Uncle had decided the occasion called for, he sighed and leaned back. He took slow, appreciative sips of the rich liquor and rubbed the velvet nap the wrong way, wondering what the story was behind the odd little sofa. Seemed a strange thing for an old bachelor fella to have….
Robert sat at his desk, with Bonehead on his lap, idly rubbed the dog behind his ears and grinned when he sighed happily, as if no one ever in the history of creation had rubbed his ears so fine. "Well…you gonna tell me what you did? You wrote that the Blacksmith's son helped you—tell me that story. Not to mention there's sign all over said you had the victory over that boss demon. Tell me what transpired there, too. That's a story I'd relish hearing."
"I know I didn't give much information in my letters, but we thought it best that way…he made me a weapon, the finest thing you can imagine. He was smart, and so brave, and stood right by me, way past what he had to, Uncle. He had a heart like a lion, and iron in his blood." Sam stared at the floor, blinking hard. "He was…amazing."
When he looked up, Uncle was staring at him, with understanding and a softness about his eyes rarely there. "I see," he said. "I'm glad you found…a right hand man worthy of you," he said. "But than again, Tobias was a hell of a good man, learned, a true gentleman. He raised his boy right; I hear it in your voice."
Sam blinked a sudden fog from his eyes and swallowed hard. "Yes sir. I…I…."
Robert broke in gently, "Could I see what he made? If you don’t mind."
Sam smiled and reached into the bag placed between his feet on the floor. "Here you go." He handed a chamois wrapped bundle across to Robert.
Robert coaxed Bonehead to the floor and took the thing, unwrapped it. His eyebrows rose. "Well, weren't expecting that," he said, and unrolled the Colt from its covering. "God damn, son, that's a beautiful thing." Awe coloring his voice and with careful, reverent fingers, he turned it from side to side. "Non Timebo Mala, will fear no evil." He nodded." Beautiful work, that boy is more than a blacksmith, he's an artist."
Sam grinned. "Oh yes sir. He's really clever with his hands, Uncle. He's wonderful."
"I bet he is," Robert mumbled and Sam felt the heat flare up in his cheeks. "So. You took it down with this, hunh? Amazing. Never thought them old spells would be that powerful, or that a sacred weapon could be something from modern times. Dang, I'm still pole-axed them spells were good enough ta…" the extra bullets rolled out of their bit of velvet wrapping, and landed on the rug at Robert's feet. He bent, picked them up, and frowned at them. "Feel…a bit off," he said and stared at Sam. "Any reason why that'd be, son?"
Sam sucked in his lower lip, and shook his head, and hoped Robert would leave off his questions. Robert sighed and handed the bullets to Sam. "You wanna keep these with you—don't let no one else get a hold of them hear? No one."
He ignored the guilt Sam knew was blazing on his face and went back to examining the gun and now, his expression was vastly different than it had been. It was judging, measuring…"You did it, Samuel. God knows I never doubted. You Winchesters, once you set your mind to a thing, hell nor high water will hold you back."
"It's never over," Sam said. "There's always another head to take the place of the one sheared off. I just got my piece, s'all."
Robert hmmed at that, carefully rewrapped the gun and gave it back to Sam. He opened a drawer, took out cigarette papers and tobacco and made a great production of rolling a couple. He handed Sam one, lit his own and then Sam's, all in a contemplative silence that Sam was no way going to break in on. At length, Robert said, "Ya ever heard of a wanting lock?"
Sam frowned, and cut his eyes away from Robert. "No-oo, I…I can't say I recall…."
Robert laughed a bit. "No surprise, and no failing there--it's a vanishingly rare thing. But with a wanting lock spell, anything can be a key. The lock just needs to meet the thing it wants, and—" Robert snapped his fingers,"--it opens. Or locks forever." He opened a case sat on his desk top, and unrolled a sheaf of paper in front of Sam. "Sam, what you and your daddy uncovered that last year was a coven, fixin' on opening a gate straight into hell. That summoning back then cracked the veil between worlds, let that thing open—a most unnatural thing. We need to slam it back shut. And we can do it. We're going to build a gate house right over that hole and lock it up tight. And just to make sure that nothing evil will get to it—" He spread the roll flat.
Sam squinted at it. "That's a pentagram…with a block at each point. And that means….?"
Robert laughed outright. "Not blocks, boy, those are churches."
"Churches…how the hell big is this pentagram supposed to be?"
"Hundred square miles, Samuel, hundred square milesa devil's trap. When I say we, I mean a group of us. There's me and some chosen Hunters, there's five pastors, and a mysterious benefactor with damn deep pockets, thank God. Those lines are railroad track. Iron. Miles and miles of iron. A circle of track to nowhere but to hold somethin' in, and to keep things out….."
Sam gaped at Robert. "That's—that's pure crazy, Uncle. Pure crazy."
Robert nodded. "Yup. Now tell me it ain't goin' to work."
Sam started to speak—swallowed, started to speak—and grinned. He shrugged. "Crazy enough to maybe work."
Robert looked at the map. "One thing son. We been searching for just the right thing to make a key with. Something with power, and an aversion to true evil…"
Sam handed over the Colt without a second thought. "You keep it safe. You need it now; it's done all it can for me."
Robert nodded. "Thank you, Samuel. Thank you. You're going to stay, aren't you? Help us with this?"
"Uncle, I wish I could. I might be back, can't say for sure. But…I got business to take care of."
Robert stared at him, his eyes narrowed as he did and Sam felt like he was being picked apart like a bright specimen of something. Robert said, "All right then. Man's gotta follow his heart." He leaned back in his chair and as Sam went to leave the room, said, "You be sure to give the blacksmith's boy my best, you hear?"
Sam froze—and chuckled. "Yes sir, I will do that."
The night before he left Robert's, he slid quiet as a mouse into the library, and snuck the packet of bullets into his desk drawer. Sam felt he didn’t need them anymore, and though he knew why Robert wanted him to hold on to them--he knew the man suspected what he'd done—Sam felt they'd be as safe with Robert Singer as they'd be in his own pocket. And who knew…there might come a day when Uncle would need them.
Sam headed out with every intention of going back the way he'd come—but someone needed help here, and someone needed help there, and before he knew it he was in Texas, where word came through the grapevine that some ghastly creatures called pishtacos had some way or another worked their way up from South America. Sounded like horrible nasty things, set up and terrorizing a small county, and he was asked to help a local group of Hunters out. He just couldn't walk away from that. Besides, Sam was sure it wouldn't take more than a month, two at the longest….
Sam's birthday that year he spent in Texas, banged up and sick as a dog, taken care of by the Hunters who'd ridden with him. The next birthday Sam was running messages for Robert Singer between the five pastors—it was important work, and needed to be done by someone who understood just how important...there was so much to do, and so few people to do it….
Sam was past twenty before he saw Dean again….
A month after Sam left, Dean went into Bristol for the express purpose of visiting his friend. He showed in her doorway, dressed, shaved, cologned and paid up for an entire night.
Dotty let him in with a smile, "Oh now, look at you, I been wondering where you been, sugar—Dean! For heaven's sake, what's wrong?"
Dean tried to keep his smile straight but it wobbled away under her concern. "Dotty…I did it again. I'm so stupid, why am I so stupid?" His head fell against her shoulder and he let out all the poison inside him—the anger, the hurt, the anguish, let all the mourning out that he'd held deep inside. He was weak by the time the tears dried up, and he realized that Dotty had been stroking his head like a sick kitten since he'd fell into her.
"Oh honey, the man was a trail rider, you knew he'd be gone again one day…I told you, didn’t I? You poor lamb."
Dean let himself be led to the bed and let himself be stripped. He didn't have the strength to stop her and couldn't see a reason why. Sometimes, this was all there was to comfort a hurt soul.
She pushed him down to the bed and rubbed his arms, his legs, worked kinks out of his back with oil and her strong hands, driving warmth into him, loosening up muscles so tight he'd forgotten what they'd felt like otherwise. It helped—he'd felt like a block of ice inside and out since Sam had left. It felt so good he almost cried. She peppered his face with little kisses and promised him again that some day he'd find the right girl for him. She stroked his prick the same careful way she'd stroked the hair from his face.
Dean sighed and fell back into her hands. Dotty didn't understand a god damn bit about him—and it didn't matter. What mattered was she cared for him, wanted him to be happy and right at that moment, that was all Dean wanted. At least someone on God's earth wanted him to be happy. He shivered under her touch, and kissed her back, lazy and loose. He kept his eyes tight shut, and pretended that her hand wasn't too small or too soft, and that her mouth was perfect, wide and wet….
Dotty worked him right to the edge, almost past it, all the while silent as a stone, as if she knew he wasn't in the room with her…she slipped the lambskin on him and rode him until he came, though he'd had to drag up images of Sam to get it done and that had been a special kind of pain. She leaned down and kissed his cheeks and lips before climbing off. "Sweet thing," she whispered and went to the bowl to wash herself and the condom. He heard her curse, and tried to sit up, but mourning so hard and finally having release took all the strength out of him.
"What's wrong?" he managed, slurring the words in his exhaustion.
"Nothin' sweet pea, tain't nothin' at all. Let me make us some tea. Oh, I got some of Cook's special tea cakes—kinda stole 'em earlier. Good thing too, I know how much you like them." She grinned, all pink lipped, and cheeky good humor--Dean felt a wave of deepest affection roll over him and for not the first time, wished he was capable of loving her the way she should be. He prayed some day that she'd be luckier than him—find someone who would.
"Here's our tea," she set a tray between them on the bed, "and the cakes. Now, you go on 'n'tell me everything, or nothin' if you want. We can talk 'bout the forge, or what'er new lambs or calves or what not got borned, or the latest fashion from back East. Your choice, sugar."
Dean took the tea from her. "Well…he…he. Ah, I got a lot of new orders. From a few places 'round Green River way. For andirons, and book rests and candle stands—dozens! There's a lot of new churches being built and they want me for that kind of work—can you imagine?"
"Oh my…that sounds real interesting, darlin'. You gonna be awful busy, hunh…."
Dean hurried into the post office, not admitting that his heart thumped hard in his chest, hoping, just like he always hoped….
The postman smiled when he came in. "Hey there, Mr. Dean. Mail came in Tuesday, and you got a letter."
Dean tried to hold back his grin, took the letter with thanks. His heart sank just a bit when he saw it wasn't from the Hunter, but it was almost as nice—there was a letter from Dotty.
Dear Dean, it read, I wanted to send you this to let you know that I am doing just fine. We settled in Lawrence. We got a little boy, healthy and whole. Daniel dotes on him like the boy is a little prince. That man does have his strange ways that is a fact, with a lot of strange ideas but there is no mean bone in his body and he treats me like a wife wishes to be treated and treats my son like his own. So don’t worry. I just wanted to let you know my dearest friend that I am doing well and in fact I am quite happy. All my love to you from your friend, Dotty.
Dean blinked. Well that was a startling bit of news, Dotty having a baby…and seemed it wasn't her husband's. He shook his head. Well, he hoped the very best for her. What with all that work that came in around then, that last time he'd been with her was the last time he'd seen her—save the time she'd come to the forge. It was nice of her to have stopped on her way out of town, let him know she was headed to Kansas with a farmer who'd taken a shine to her, who didn't care what she'd done for a living. "A girl don't get an opportunity like this often," she'd said. "I'd be a fool not to go for it."
Dean hadn't been sure he agreed but she looked pleased so he was pleased for her. It was good, thinking of Dotty in her own home, with a baby and a man who doted on her. It was good to think that some people were happy….
He crumbled the letter and shoved it in his pocket. Enough of feeling sorry for himself. He had work to be done, and his animals counted on him—he had enough to keep him busy. He couldn't complain about his life at all. Not at all.
A Christmas went by, and then another, and Dean was celebrating with a hot toddy…and another hot toddy. He'd taken it into his head to cut boughs of pine to bring into the house, and headed out to the far edge of the place, where pine trees crowded the property line. He thought it'd be just the thing—him and Pa used to do it on and off over the holidays--the smell was nice, freshened the air. He could hear Raphael moving about the stall, caught the horse's curious snort as he passed the barn. Poor Raph, Dean thought, he sure was lonely now that Gabe had passed on. Dean missed Gabe as well…the old horse had been the last connection to his old life, now it was all gone.
He made his way back to the porch with an armful of fresh pine branches. He knocked the faint dusting of snow off of them; it'd been a light winter for snow so far. Something he'd been grateful for—with luck it would carry on like this until spring. Dean was about to step inside to the warmth of the house when some odd sound stopped him. His head came up, and he concentrated—he'd thought he heard barking in the distance, but that wasn't likely. No one was coming out this way, not now... the boughs fell from his hand.
A tall figure stood at the end of the yard, standing right inside the gate—not quite on one side or the other. "Well, you gonna keep standin' there?" Dean called out, feeling like he was in a dream until suddenly, Sam's hand was on his cheek. How was it possible that he was even taller than before, broader…he'd thought Sam was a man before but now he knew, that Sam before had been a boy, this was the man.
"Dean. You sure? I don't have to, I can go…."
"Sam…oh my God…Sam…."
Sam seemed to take Dean's shocked exclamation as permission. Long arms wrapped him up and pulled him in, tight. Dean couldn't speak or move, or hardly breathe. He shook like a leaf in a storm. "Sammy…I'm dreaming, I'm going to wake up alone, you're not real—"
"No, no. No dreams, God, no dreams. I am here."
Dean was pulled in a million different ways—he wanted to feed Sam, wanted to beat his ass, wanted to check him over for hurts, wanted to ask him where he'd been, what he'd done. But they ended up tearing up the stairs, fighting each other like wild things to get their clothes off, kicking boots away, ripping belts loose, and tearing buttons free. Dean grabbed Sam's long hair and yanked him close by it, Sam grinned, heat flared in his eyes, hotter each time Dean tightened his hand. Dean wrapped his free hand around Sam's throat and hissed, "Still mine, Sam, are you—"
Sam's eyes rolled back and his whole body gave like he was made of taffy--almost dropped in Dean's grip. He moaned, "Yes, yes, no one else, promised you." He fumbled through the shirt distance between them, until he found and closed his hand over Dean's prick and Dean fought not to come at the touch of that hot, dry, big hand, jerked in Sam's grip and begged him to, "Please Sam, use your mouth, dream of it, I—please."
Sam rolled his foreskin back and drilled the pointed tip of his tongue into the pink slit, sucked wet and sloppy around the head, thumbed the furled skin in his grip until Dean swore he was going to lose all sense and control. "Sam, I gotta move—"
"Do it, that's what I want. Hard, deep as you can."
Dean fisted a wide handful of hair to keep Sam's head in place, and fucked his mouth, snapped his hips and swore out loud, cursed himself for needing it so and Sam for leaving him. He was somewhere else—didn't care that tears ran down his face, or that his voice was cracking with what he felt—Dean let it all go, let loose of being left alone and hurt, of yearning terribly for Sam to come back. The only thing Sam needed to know was that he loved him and those words were ripped out of him right along with his release.
When he could drag in a breath again, he looked down to see Sam staring up at him, mouth red, swollen, wet lips still parted. Dean could see something shifting in Sam's eyes, he didn't know what. Sam kept gawping at him like he'd hung the damn moon and stars. "Stop it," Dean said. "Don't."
"Dean, you have no idea how much…" Sam's voice gave out; he leaned his head against Dean's bare hip. "I love you, too."
Sam's voice cracked on the words, throat fucked rough. It sounded painful, and Dean winced. "Sorry, Sam. Sorry."
Sam shook his head, said, "I like it. Like hearing me sound like this 'cause of you."
Dean shuddered in another breath and tried to kneel down, to give Sam the same release he'd given him but Sam shook his head. "Too late, son. You wound me up fierce," he teased, red-cheeked and laughing at himself.
Dean managed to steer them to the bed, blinked in surprise when Sam just barely fit. "You grew a bit, Sam. Filled out too…"
"Well, I was just seventeen when I first met you", he said. "Most fellows that age still got a bit of growing to do."
Dean gaped at Sam. "You were doing the things you did and you were still a boy?
"A boy." Sam smirked, an echo of that bitter twist of smile that used to make Dean ache. "You know, I started hunting evil things with my dad when I was twelve years old. I saw things you can't ever imagine--I don’t want you to know. By the time we met, I was as grown as I was going to get."
"But…you did…you were hurting so much, so torn up and...Did your dad make you hurt like that?"
"Shit, Dean, no—hell no. Not really," Sam said. "He just didn't understand. Listen, can we talk about this some other time? Come on; lie down by me, please."
Dean stared at the man in his bed, remembering that boy and wishing once again that somehow along the way someone like Pa had stumbled over a baby Sam. It would have all been so different for him….
Sam beckoned again and Dean sighed. "You always cloud my mind—you make me follow you 'round like I'm your damn dog," he grumbled, and climbed into bed with Sam.
Sam grinned and pulled him close. "No I don’t, you just want to."
They spent most of the time Sam was there in bed. Dean didn't ask, Sam didn't say but Dean knew Sam hadn't come home to stay. By the time the larkspur bloomed, Sam was gone again.
Dean had bought another horse and built onto the house, making the bedroom under the eaves bigger, the year Sam came and stayed longer than any other year. That year, Bonehead came first, limping and howling. The awful sound brought Dean running out into the night, barefoot and shirtless, tooth powder still in his mouth. He dashed across the yard, following Bonehead to the barn, where Sam was standing.
Sam blinked at him. His lips were skinned back from his teeth, and he was panting so loud, Dean had heard him from across the yard. He was bloodless, so pale in the moonlight he looked blue. Dean ran to him and Sam tried to meet him but only managed to sway on his feet--his grip on the barn doorway the only thing keeping him upright. Dean cursed him for being a god-damn, stubborn, thick headed, dumb sonofa bitch, hefted him to his shoulder, carried him into the house and right into bed.
The dog climbed into the bed with him and kept watch. Dean spent sleepless nights with the both of them, wetting Sam down with cool clothes, feeding him tea and every kind of herb that Tobe had taught him worked against fever and infection. Most of the time, Sam hadn't even known he was there, calling Dean's name, crying out for him, begging him to come find him. It broke Dean's heart and made him wish like hell he had the strength to make Sam give it all up and stay with him. One night, Sam had sat bolt upright, cheeks dotted with red, his eyes burning the way the dream eyes had in those nightmares of Dean's.
"Dean," Sam shouted. "Dean!" Dean was there instantly, not sure if Sam slept or was awake. "Dean, he said, and pawed at him, scrabbling for him."Find my brother…the fire. For you…" he dropped back to the bed, and shivered so hard the bed creaked and Dean forgot everything but the need to bring Sam's fever down….
He dipped pieces of sacking into half-melted snow and wrapped Sam in them, and prayed. "Get better, Sammy, get better. Need you."
Eventually, the poisoned slashes at his hip and across his chest healed. Dean made Sam promise he'd never take on a skinwalker alone again. Sam stayed until he could sit on horseback with no trouble and then, he was gone again.
There was a year Sam never showed at all, and Dean prayed harder than he had ever prayed, that Sam was alive, and safe. When he rode into the yard that next summer after, on a gray horse, Dean's legs gave out and he dropped to the ground. Bonehead swarmed over him, moaning and whining and almost as happy to see Dean as Sam was. Sam stood like an oak, staring at him, drinking him in. "Dean. Dean," he whispered, broken, hoarse. He never told Dean what happened and Dean didn't ask.
That year when he rode out, Bonehead was sitting on the porch steps with Dean, watching Sam leave. He couldn't make that jump anymore, couldn't take long days astride the saddle. He seemed pretty darn content to spend his days spread out on the porch, Dean thought, or freeloading and begging treats, chasing the barn cats and doing a better job at ratting then any of the half-dozen squinty-eyed toms lurking around the barnyard....
Nights he spent happily farting away under Dean's chair, or lying spread out in front of the fire, warming his pink belly and snoring. And farting. Dean kind of liked the company, and without Sam around felt like he had free rein to indulge the little beast. The dog sat at the table like people, slept in Dean's bed and generally got under foot, got on Dean's nerves. Made him happy.
"You know," he said one night as they sat side by side in the porch chairs and watched the sun set. "You and that boy of yours, you're two peas in a pod. Must be why we get along so good," Dean said, waved his hand in front of his face and wrinkled his nose at a sudden olfactory onslaught, "Yep, I don't miss him as much when you're around to remind me of'em."
The look in Bonehead's eyes clearly said that Dean was fooling no one.
There was this thing about Bonehead--he always knew when Sam was coming home, days before he actually showed in the yard. Bonehead would plant himself at the top of the yard, standing by the gate, and he'd stand there for however long it took before Sam finally showed. Dean liked those homecomings, liked when Sam would kneel and roughhouse with the dog, send the dog into fits of joyful ecstasy and then throw Dean a look from down on his knees, that promised him that later that evening, Dean was going to scream….
When Sam came home the year of his twenty-sixth birthday, Bonehead was lying next to Pa under the oak.
That year, something came loose inside Dean. It rattled terribly the whole time Sam was there, leaving him unsettled, jumpy. He struggled hard not to infect Sam with his doubts, not to burden him with his wants….
They were in bed, wrapped together as much as two people could be. Sam blinked lazily when Dean tapped him. "Hmmm?"
"I love you, but I don’t think I can do this anymore. I'm done, Sammy."
Sam came fully awake. He rolled to his side and stared at Dean, looking into his eyes. He nodded. "You're right," he said. "You shouldn't have to. I shouldn't have asked it of you all these years."
Sam had a hell of a way of saying good-bye, Dean thought. Still hurts, Sam, still hurts.Sam took him apart slowly, using everything he'd learned from Dean, did things to him that had Dean screaming, and that night Sam begged Dean to open up for him. Sam slid long, thick fingers into him, it felt…like fire being poured inside him, a good fire. He twitched at the feeling of being spread; his ass ached, better when Sam bore down with his fingers and spread them. Dean was babbling, begging Sam for more—grabbed Sam's wrist and tried to force him deeper. "Hold up, Blacksmith, you gonna hurt me and you both—let go, beloved, let go," he whispered in Dean's ear, so he did. He was floating on the sensations, like drifting on a summer river, round and round and round….
When Sam pushed inside of him, Dean swore every part of him was rearranging itself and carving Sam into his body and soul, so he would remember, right down to his blood, everything about Sam…his smell, the sounds he made, the helpless shudder of breath, the way his skin slid against Dean's wet and slick....
Dean had done what he could to help Sam, and now was the right time to let him go. He could send Sam out into the world, and know that someday, he'd find someone who'd ride with him, and they'd be happy. That's all he'd ever wanted for Sam, that he be happy, no matter what it took.
Dean knew Sam would be gone in the morning, and it made it hard for him to fall asleep. he had the sense that both of them lay there, breathing soft and even in the dark for a long, long time.
In the morning, Sam was in the kitchen, making breakfast. "So, I'm thinking...you might need some help in the forge, seein' how you're getting' on in years—"
"God damn it, Samuel Winchester, don’t you fucking lie to me. You stay today, than you stay for good. Right here next to me, fuck it all. I can't—I can't."
Sam was at his side, breakfast forgotten, head shoved up under Dean's chin like he was a little boy, how did he do that…his arm went around Dean's shoulders, drawing him in. "I am never. Never. Leaving you again. No matter what the hell comes at us or who tries to tear us apart--you take this to heart. I love you. I don’t care about anything anymore but that."
Dean locked his arms around Sam. He knew Sam was keeping something from him, whatever that thing was, it was half the reason Sam ran every year…something that had scared the hell out of the man. Dean felt that thing, whatever it was, shiver just at the edge of his eye sight, wanting to be revealed. Fuck it. They'd put the hammer to a Lord of Hell, they sure could handle any damn thing life threw at them—any damn thing at all. "I'm not afraid of what might come at us. You don’t be afraid either. You and me. That's all we need, y'hear?"
They sat down to breakfast, and started to make plans for the coming year.
Sam never left again, and Dean made sure he never regretted it. He did that for the rest of their lives.
Fin
09-28-2010
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