it takes nasular fortitude...

SpN: Non Timebo Mala, 11/?

2009-12-01T03:51:14Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: R (hard R?)
Word Count: 2849
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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.

"I should have taken my chance earlier. God, I'll be thinking about you forever," Jan sighed. "You take care of yourself. Dean," he said and his lips traced Dean's cheek, his neck—a moment later, he ran out of the yard.

Dean felt sick with excitement, with dread. What happened? How was it that Jan had made him feel so much more than Anne had? What did it mean…and how could he stop it?

The streets were busy, an influx of strangers that made folks wonder at the strangeness of it. Bristol was a small town, small enough that if a new dog turned up, people talked for days. People had plenty to talk about now.

They weren't staying, the strangers. They drifted into, and out of, the town. Seemed like daily some new face was seen in the shops, a new group on the move through the streets. Seemed Bristol was sitting in the way to somewhere those strangers wanted to be, but no one had ever wanted to be anywhere Bristol was close to before now. They wandered about town, eyeing the lead grey skies and the wet flakes swirling down from time to time—a trial run for winter, nothing serious yet, but purpose was in it. They might not be from the area, but they were smart enough not to want to be stuck in Bristol for the winter.

"Okay. I'm going to pick up a few things at the general, we 'bout out of flour, and someone's sweet tooth has run amok through our molasses, can't imagine who…"

Dean grinned, still as unrepentant ever. "And if they got some peppermint sticks…"

"Lord, why don’t I just open up the front door and chuck my money out on the street? Go do something. Here." Tobe handed Dean a couple of dollars, and waved his thanks off. "It's your money too, boy." He suddenly turned a deep rosy red and fidgeted like a kid—that was odd enough to be startling. He dug divots in the street's mud with his boot heel. Looked off in a direction not Dean's and jerked his beard towards the saloon. He took a deep breath and said, "There's um…there's some rooms behind the place there. Er…Ladies. Girls. Working girls…I mean…boy, go over there and sit with Mr. Waller 'til I get back."

Tobe stomped off down the street towards the general store, the ends of his scarf flapping behind him. Dean just stood in the middle of the street until a wagon chased him off to the side. "What the hell…" He scratched his head. Did Pa really try to steer him towards a cat house? Dean sighed and hoped sincerely that he hadn't because that'd be turning over a rock he'd hoped to leave untouched.

Mr. Waller waved from his perch in front of the barber shop, cigarette fixings in his lap. Mr. Waller had been sitting in front of that shop since Dean was four years old. Dean wasn't even sure if the man had a home, or if he just…sat. No matter the weather, Waller sat at his post, rain, shine, snow, and one memorable occasion, flood, but Dean never brought that up. Waller'd never come to find that funny.

He peered at Dean, and waved a hand. "Sit down here Dean, have one with me."

"Pa don’t like it when I smoke, how you doing today, Mr. Waller?"

"Fine and your pa don’t like anything. That's a joyless man, that Tobe Kane. Priggish as a maiden aunt, and a sight less fun." Mr. Waller was Dean's favorite. He'd never treated Dean as anything less than whole, unlike the most of the town, and never treated Tobe as any less than a man. He was the only one outside the two of them who referred to Tobe as Dean's pa.

Waller rolled a cigarette, wrinkled fingers still agile; he rolled tobacco filled paper across his knee into a thin tube, whipped his tongue along the edge, and poked a bit of the paper into one end, quick made another, handed it off to Dean. "There you go." He popped a sulfur match into life against the bottom of his boot, inhaled with a grateful sigh, Dean following suit. They were both quiet for a minute or two, savoring the smoke and Waller said, "You know your pa knows you sit and smoke with me."

"Yeah…but if we don’t talk about it it's not happening." He grinned until his words caught up with him, and the grin faded…there was a lot he wasn't talking to Pa about lately….

He smoked a little more, his eyes tracking the crowd idly, until he blinked, realized he'd been following the comings and going of one drover in particular without noticing, and now…he saw the drover had noticed him. He tilted his hat towards Dean with a little smile, and walked on down the street towards the saloon. Dean shivered, frowned, and stared at the porch boards.

"Say, ain't that yer pa down there?"

Dean looked back towards the general, and Tobe was standing by the wagon, talking—arguing?—with a stranger. The man was tall, broad, wearing a long yellow duster, a top hat that had seen better days by far. A scarf like the one Tobe wore was wrapped around his neck, around and around, as if the darn thing were ten feet long. Dean started when Tobe backed away from him, hands up, face turned away. His posture said he wanted to run or protect himself, and Dean jumped to his feet—but then Tobe was nodding, and the man stepped back and inclined his head respectfully—

It was odd, Dean was struck by the oddness of the whole thing, and something about the two men and how they acted held him back from jumping off the porch to meet Tobe.

A minute later, Tobe had his foot up on the porch step, looking tired, and irritable. "Dean…Waller." He jerked his beard towards the old man, who jerked his chin in reply.

"Kane." They stared at each other with narrowed eyes and ferocious frowns.

"You teaching my boy disreputable things?"

"I'm teaching the boy to have some fun, ya tight-assed old woman."

Tobe looked at Dean. "See this—" he cut his eyes at Waller. "That's what you call a bad example. You just watch everything Waller does, and don’t do any of it and you'll be good."

Waller grinned at Dean, showing off a precious few teeth and said, "Watch me, an' I'll teach ya to have fun."

Tobe's mouth twitched as he fought to maintain the spectacular frown he wore, and Waller laughed around the butt end of his cigarette. "I like talking to you, Kane. You the only man makes sense in these parts."

"You're a crazy old white man," Tobe said and Waller laughed aloud.

"I am that, son. Ya'll have a good day now."

Tobe's laughter faded quickly as he led Dean off down the back street behind the saloon. Dean swallowed nervously. "Pa…" Tobe had something on his mind, and it sure wasn't a good thing, Dean thought.

"Listen boy, summer past, I realized I taught you a lot of things—still got more to learn--but some parts of your education are lacking. I didn't teach you anything about the natural course of things. It's way overdue and we're going to take care of that today. Because…because I'm…you and Anne didn't…there wasn't….oh my, here we are…" Relief radiated from the man, he clamped his lips together. He stared at his boot toes and nudged Dean up on a small porch set in the back of the saloon. He knocked at the door, keeping his eyes down. When the door opened, he said, "Here's my—Dean. You take care of him like we discussed, ma'am?"

He snatched his hat off and rolled the brim in his hand. It always was hard for him to lower himself like expected. Dean clamped his teeth together hard and silently worked his way through a bit of Latin: De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine, 'Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O Lord'. It helped some, when Tobe had to be...less.

The woman at the door looked the two of them over, her mouth in a wide smile, amusement in her eyes. "'Course I remember us talking about that. We'll take care of him nicely, Tobey. My girl's will treat him right, don’t worry about that. Ya'll want to come in Dean?" She said it slow and careful, and Dean shot a glare at Tobe that should have made a roman candle of him, and Tobe had the nerve, the *gall*, to smirk into his beard.

"Go on Dean, you'll be okay. Remember, it's all been paid for, don’t give up a penny more." He turned on his heels and--*fled* was the only way to describe it. There he goes, Dean thought, the man who's supposed to love me, dropping me at the door step of suspect strangers…he was working up a fine stew of self-pity, when he noticed the woman looked him up and down with an expression of surprise and…a sticky kind of look Dean was coming to recognize. It made him uncomfortable most times…this was certainly one of those times.
***
She had him come up a narrow set of stairs and at the top of the stairs was a sitting room, and at one end of the sitting room, the door to a dark hallway. A few women lounged around, sitting with men on the couches. Some wore suits, some were cowboys, some were heading towards drunk. The women were dressed nicely, which surprised Dean. He'd assumed they'd be a lot less…dressed. But they wore pretty, fine, clothing, all lace and velvet, with their hair rolled and primped, pink lips and rosy cheeks and black-lashed eyes…they showed themselves off and looked bored, amused, tired….

Dean gazed about at the variety of woman-hood, the flash of ankle and neck and arm and felt mostly confused, mostly alone and wishing he could grab Tobe by his collar and tell him in no uncertain terms why this was a bad, bad thing.

He slipped into one corner, hanging back and hoping not to be noticed. Under the light of a red shaded oil lamp, a skinny man with a mustache wider than his head played a piano. He was decent, managed to make a lively tune ring out of it, but it wasn't quite loud enough to block out some very…odd noises. Dean blushed. Forget talking--he was straight going to kill Tobe when he got out of this place. He edged back to the stairway, figured one good sprint out and he'd walk back home before he got in the buckboard with that man. What in the hell possessed him to do this to—

"Here you go hon; Dotty here is the girl we send to work with beginners."

Beginner? Dean blushed again, ground his teeth, and swore; there'd be a nice big horse-apple in a certain someone's bed tonight. "I—this is a mistake, I—"

Dotty laughed, and dragged him back to her room.
***
"Now, sweetheart, don't let it worry you. Most boys first time don't even make it to takin' their clothes off before spillin' all over…"

Dean sat hunched on the bed. "Well, that's not really my problem is it?" He sighed. It had been…enlightening in an awful sort of way. He was limp as a dishrag and dying of embarrassment.

"You're too nervous, that's all. Lay back and let me help." Dean lay back against the pillows and tried not to imagine how many strangers had had their heads there, or their boots propped against the footboard of her bed. Dotty slid up over him, her petticoats pulled up to her thighs. When she straddled them, his prick gave a weak kind of twitch. She leaned forward, and took it in her hand. "It's a pretty one," she said, and pushed skin back until the head peaked out, and he twitched again. "There, see?" And she pumped him again. His prick kind of half-heartedly lurched to hardness, and to his horror, Dean found it helped if he thought about Jan, and that last kiss….

"Oooh, there you go, told you it was just nerves." Her small hand pushed up and down until he was fully hard, and the rosy head of his prick was naked and wet. He pried an eyelid open, and looked at himself. He was hard, blushed dark with blood. He twitched when her breath swept over the sensitive head, and it was the first time someone other than himself had seen him this way. Had touched him. She looked up from under her lashes at him and smirked. She pressed a delicate kiss to the head and his hips rocked up off the bed. Air left his lungs like they were never going to fill again—and then he yawped more air back in when the hot tip of her tongue drew a quick circle round the wet slit—

"SHIT." He dropped back to the bed and shuddered, hoped she was going to do that again. Could he ask her, was that included in the price—her mouth surrounded him, all hot and wet and silky smooth on the inside, clinging to his prick like satin, her tongue washing the head, driving him higher and higher. He snatched up handfuls of sheets and threw his legs wide. In his mind's eye, it was Jan's lips nibbling softly at the tip, his hands rolling his balls—the face changed and it was the drover from earlier dropping his pants and jerking himself roughly, promising Dean he was going to make him come like nobody's business. "Oh God, yes, please do that, do that more—"

Dotty made a pleased little sound and let him drop from her mouth.

"No—please don’t stop," Dean moaned, he shook until she laid her hand in the middle of his chest and pressed. He stilled instantly, a wave of heat crowding through him that felt as if it started in the back of his head and shot down his spine. She pressed harder and he moaned and wished she were stronger, bigger….

She worked a condom down on him and almost before he could figure out just was about to happen, she was on him---he was in her.

It wasn't what he'd expected, but she seemed to like it fine. She rode him with her back to him, which he kind of appreciated—he couldn't bear to look at her face. Her riding him…it was almost as good as her mouth but…he squeezed his eyes shut and imagined hard that it was, maybe it was the drover, but how…and then she squeezed his balls a little, went lower and made the stars come out. She rolled and rubbed the tip of her finger against his hole, pushed into him….

He screamed when he came, too out of it to hold anything back—bucked up into her over and over until it almost hurt. He collapsed into a witless hulk; moaning and trembling…wondered if there was any way he could get her to do that again without touching anything else.
***
He was spread-eagled on her bed, trying to get his breath back, fumbling his way through trying to thank her. She waved it off. "All the thanks I need are folded up on the dresser, honey. At least I won't have to worry about *you* following me 'round like a love-sick pup," she said, and slid off the bed. She grabbed a pitcher of water and poured it into a basin on a stand by the bed. She hitched up her petticoats and washed, rinsed out the rag and handed to Dean. "Take it off and wipe up, hon, that's a good boy." She ignored Dean's unhappy grimace, and shrugged into a purple satin robe. "Some times the virgins confuse coming with falling in love. You, I see, I don't have to worry about."

She took the condom from Dean, tossed it in the sink basin and winked at him. "Had a feeling when you came in. Don't worry, ain't my business. But sugar, that Sam's a lucky so-and-so."

He blinked at her. Sam? His mouth popped open without thought. "I don’t know any Sam—Jan. Was thinking about him. I mean—" Dean slammed his mouth shut and blushed from head to toe. His stomach flipped and burned, he whispered hoarsely, "Don't--"

She laughed. "I wouldn't, 'sides you ain't the first. But I have to tell you, you were awfully sweet and I sure enjoyed it. And anytime you come in town and you feel the need, you come ask after me." She patted his thigh. "I don’t mind, and you can call me anything you want."

He stared into his knees, and nodded, afraid to look into her face. Afraid that her easy acceptance might just be a lie, or the beginning of a mean trick. Still, he felt better, in a horrible kind of way. At least he could tell Tobe that he'd learned all the lessons to be taught about that subject and have it be true…but better yet, maybe they could just not talk about it at all ever, ever, *ever* and just take this quietly to their graves. Spare them both the god-awful embarrassment….

~~part 12~~

and eventually, a xmas card post....

2009-12-01T00:40:40Z

This is a test post in which I attempt to screen comments. Would anyone care to be my lovely assistant?

ETA: Thank you, lovely assistants all! I think I've got it now! A giant step forward for roxy--until next year...*GGG*

help friends, omgosh!

2009-11-30T23:56:41Z

Soooo...how do I screen comments again? This makes what--the fifth year I've asked the same question? Thank goodness I'm cupuddgly or I'd be in serious trouble....

roxymissrose @ 2009-11-30T15:17:00

2009-11-30T20:17:46Z

If I try to post something in a comment box, the whole deal freezes. Is anyone else having a hard time with this or is it just me?

This is why I haven't replied to many comments, or made any, lately. Too frustrating! *grrr*

SSA

2009-11-30T04:03:20Z

So, if you're worried about it, or wondering what's going on, looks like quite a few folks are working hard on it--thanks enderwiggin24. And thanks to the friends of Clex for helping save something so very important!

check here for news!

awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!

2009-11-28T23:45:47Z

I got a *hug*! Who hugged me? How'd you know I needed one? *mmmmmmmmmmm*!

SpN: A Gone World

2009-11-28T09:40:09Z

So, I stole the title for the J2 Beat fic from a book of poems by Lawerence Ferlinghetti. I've not read the book, I just thought the title was neat-o and fit perfectly. Shallow, yes, but you knew that when you came here. *g* We'll call it the Gone World verse. I'm just going to post snippets and maybe some day, pull it into a whole. Fun for you and me! *beams*

Gone:
1. Being away from a place; absent or having departed.
2. Past; bygone.
3. slang in an exhilarated state, as through music or the use of drugs

First part here.

Before The Party
The minute Wells gave them the 'get out' sign, Jared crammed his notes into his bag and grabbed his jacket—his watch told him he had fifteen minutes to catch Sandy downtown. Jared ran down to the subway, yanking on the hem of his too small polo shirt as he ran, fussing with his jacket collar and hoping Sandy wouldn’t mind the wind-blown, hobo look. How was it possible he was six feet—more--and growing? Did that make him a freak, or something? He was sure the darn polo shirt fit just fine last week…he yanked the hem again and shoved coins in the turnstile and rushed through, just catching the train. He leaned against the pole, swaying with the movement of the train—fielding glares from grannies for no reason he could imagine…maybe he looked worse than he thought…a girl in black tights and a man's shirt belted with a tie winked at him as she pushed past. At least someone approved of him. He grinned back, remembered the time and checked his watch, again. Late…crap. He'd promised Sandy they'd go together to find stuff for the apartment.

Apartment. He shivered. A place just for them—starting their life together. It was—scary. Cool. Exciting.

As soon as the doors opened he was flying out and through the turnstile, dodging people and tossing apologies as he ran—sometimes it paid to be taller than most people…he checked his watch as he ran—she should be—and yeah, there she was.

She turned to look at him and smiled. She looked perfect, her pearl grey swing coat caressing the back of her legs. He stumbled; his stomach flickered with imaginary butterflies, his cheeks felt warm. He imagined his hand there, where the coat slid against her calves, stroking her silk-smooth skin, smooth, smoothing the way up her calf, resting on a creamy smooth thigh, soft and giving way to the pressure of his thumb. Her smile would grow, cool and then hot, looking down at his hand…her smile.

He looked at her and his heart opened, happy and warm and he smiled when she waved, big wide loops in the air, happy too, just to see him. How wonderful was that? He saw that she had a folded sheet of newspaper in her hand, she was already talking, explaining, describing, when he stopped next to her, ignoring that he was late and so eager to pull him into her enthusiasm.

"Swanson Street's got this market, used furniture and other things—maybe we can find a rug for the living room, wouldn't that be nice? No more ice block feet," she said, voice high with excitement, and Jared pictured himself barely seen under a pile made of rug and lamps and furniture. He threw his head back and laughed, peals of laughter filling the air around them.

He caught his breath and teased her, the edges of his voice still spangled with laughter, "Now I see why you wanted me—I'm just your lowly beast of burden!"

"No! Well, not *just* that," she made a terribly sweet mock frown and tapped his arm with the folded paper, and then her play frown became real, her gaze whipped over him as if she'd just realized what she was seeing. "Jay, where's your coat?"

He rubbed hands down the lapels of his jacket and realized he'd forgotten his coat in his rush to leave. His hands slid from the lapels and hid in the pockets of his chinos. "Damn…left it in class, trying to bug out fast—that jackass Wells had some question about my final project. As in, why did it stink on ice?" He rolled his eyes and grinned. "So now, I gotta make some changes…" He shrugged. "It's not a big deal. I just didn't want to be late. Er--later," he said. "I managed to just be late-ish." He tried on a rueful smile, and blinked a look full of innocence at her, but she was too well versed in 'Jared'.

Sandy narrowed her eyes. "If you say so…" she said, and the unspoken we'll talk about this later filled the air.

"Yes! I say so! I can sing so if you'd like," and opened his mouth, snorted when she slapped a frantic hand over his mouth. Jared danced around her; she knew the ways and whys of Jared but he was also fluent in the language of Sandy. "Okay—come on then! Load me up; I'm ready to bear the weight of the world for you, my beloved fiancé."

"My Atlas!" She crooned and folded her hands under her chin, eyelashes fluttering and Jared felt filled up with love, wrapped and tucked in it.

Swanson Street was lined with shops and stands overflowing onto the pavement. Furniture, house wares, new and used. Rugs stood rolled with their patterns facing out—plain and patterned wool, worn old Persians, rag rugs, and braided rugs--in stalls, leaning against walls, and laying on long sheets of brown paper on the sidewalk. They took their time, Jared followed her. He sipped a take out cup of thick, hot, strong, and above all sweet, coffee and nibbled on some sweet pastry filled with nuts and dripping with honey, flakey strips of it clinging to his lips every other bite, needing Sandy to kiss them free again. His afternoon was filled with the taste of sweet, the sight of Sandy. Was there a better way to spend a day?

He watched her now, flitting between stands, exclaiming over this or that "perfect" thing, looking tiny and doll-like as she strolled past stacks of chairs and rows of tables. Her coat flew open as she turned, flashing a slice of creamy pink sweater, a skirt clad hip, black wool hugging her, her curves….

Jared took his time following her. He let a little space grow between them, pretending that they'd never met before and she'd just captured his eye. She turned and caught his speculative look and seemed to know what game he was playing with himself. She looked him up and down as speculatively as he had her. He came up behind her, leaned in close, but not too close and asked, "find something you like?" cramming as much innuendo as it was possible to do, and not break out into laughter.

"Yes," she simpered, "but don’t let's let my boyfriend find out. He's a killer when he's…aroused," and gave him a great, big, burlesque house wink. He laughed out loud in surprise and pleasure and a warm spot bloomed in the center of him. She was perfect, they were perfect, life was good and he never wanted it to change.

He still felt so when they left for home, him juggling two old-fashioned oak, ladder-back chairs and a slightly thread-bare Persian, and stuck in here and there were various bags clinking and clanging. They'd settled up for a table to match and a book case due to be delivered by the middle of next week, which pleased Sandy lots and pleased Jared for pleasing Sandy.

Somewhere in the middle of the street, his brain caught up with his ears and he heard, "We'll have time to paint and—"

"Paint? Why? The walls are clean!" Jared burst out. Women. They had some mysterious agenda all the time…the walls were fine. They were all one color, some sort of white or blue or maybe tan, he couldn't really recall anything beyond the fact that they were just fine, for heaven's sake. A few posters here and there and what more did they need?

Lots more, apparently.

"Oh my God," Jay, she groaned. "We're grown-ups. We can't keep living with beer signs and album covers tacked to the walls. This is our place—our *first* place—let's make it really ours. And hunny-bunny, tomorrow's my first day at work—don’t make me a nervous wreck, okay?"

"Of course, forgive me, Miss Going To Be Executive Secretary." He bowed, as well as he could with two chairs knocking him in the shins and a rug trying to make a break for it. Sandy laughed and tried to keep them both from tumbling over.

"Love you," he murmured into her hair.

"Jared." She smiled and cupped his cheek….

TBC

hark the herald angels cringe back in horror...

2009-11-28T07:13:49Z

Look at me, all dressed up for X-Mas! Cool, hanh? Heck yeah! And this weekend, I'm going to start on the house!

Black Friday came and went and I survived quite nicely. I did a mid-shift, which spared me the fucking lunatics of the morning, all ready to shank a bitch because we didn't have the blah-blah-blah they camped out all night for. The store looked like a bomb went off in it, and folks were throwing things around like they were at a flea-market. I just kept smiling and ignoring everyone. These are the times it pays to look like a kindly old granny. :)

Now, I'm off to write sommoah, and obsessively rearrange my icons, woo-hoo!

SpN: Non Timebo Mala 10/?

2009-11-27T23:49:05Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3343

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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.

AAAAH! Huge boo-boo! Thanks for the head's up, toldthestars!

As much as Sam didn't like the silence between them, he hated even more those moments when the man looked at him like…like his favorite gun jammed, or his horse died. Like he might want to talk about it. Or like he was afraid Sam might want to talk.

Took everything in Sam then, not to stand up and shout at him, run at him like a rabid dog.

Some days, Sam got restless. Maybe a little angry. Some days. Most days, Sam was fine. He took that lesson and made it part of him. That--that was never going to happen to him again.

The Eriksen's wagon was waiting for new wheels…it was the first time Dean would be assisting Tobe with wheels without someone else helping out, and Tobe assured him that he had no doubt Dean was more than ready doing the job. It felt good to know that he had the man's trust, but it didn't really do much to make him sweat less…and speaking of sweat…he untucked the handkerchief and wiped his forehead, retied it while casting a more critical eye than Tobe ever would over the wall sconce he was making, one of what was to be a matched pair.

He hefted the hammer and let it drop and for the next hour or so, the only sound in the forge was the crackle of fire and the crash of the hammer on the anvil, hitting the piece one, two, three times, and then a beat on the anvil. One, two, three times, and a beat on the anvil…habit. Tradition…and a wee bit of magic. One beat between to keep the devil away, that's what Tobe had always told him.

Muscles jumped and bunched in his arms as he struck, he tsk'd when fragments of hot metal hit him, but ignored the small sparks of pain otherwise—he was dotted with old scars. It meant nothing; he barely felt the burn anymore. The leather apron that hung to his knees protected everything of importance to him. He grinned and struck again, laid the white-hot metal against the horn of the anvil and turned it, and struck the piece and turned, until it was almost the shape he needed it to be. He whispered to it as he worked, telling it what it was going to be, smiled as the shape of what he had in his mind became born in the metal.

He plunged the piece into the water barrel, and leaned back, both hands jammed against the dripping small of his back. He grimaced, turned--and jumped. "Oh—I'm sorry, how long have you been there?"

Eriksen's daughter took a tentative step into the doorway. The shy smile she directed at him made his face go warm. "My brother and I got bored and came to see what happens in the shop. It's very…warm. And…"

Dean tried to smile back, and hoped he didn't look as addle-headed as he felt. "It's…smelly? Dirty? I apologize. It's not exactly a place for a young lady. And her brother," he said, though since he couldn't convince his eyes there was anything to look at but her, he had no idea if she really had a brother with her or not. What he could plainly see was that she was pretty: long red hair, dimples, soft green eyes and a pink bow of a mouth. She wore a bonnet, with a few limp asters tucked into the crown. No doubt the bonnet was a vain attempt to keep the freckles dusting her nose from turning a deeper copper. He melted a little at the sight....

Dean's attention seemed to make her nervous, her hands fluttered upwards to the waist of her gown, her fingers danced over the tiny flowers dotting the fabric. She blushed furiously when Dean grew bold enough to flash her a full-fledged smile…all together, nervous and blushing and pretty as a sunrise, she snuck right under Dean's skin. He wiped his hand as clean as he could and held it out to her. "My name's Dean, I'm Tobe's so—assistant."

"Really?" she said, her head tilting slightly to look up at his eyes. "You don’t mean to say you work for a nigger?"

Dean felt a chill roll down his back and lodge in his gut. He lowered his hand and took a step back, away from the doorway. "No," he said carefully. "I mean to say I'm the *apprentice* to the town's *blacksmith*, Mr. Kane. A position I'm damn proud of. I also mean to say, he's my only family, and I'm proud of that, too. You have yourself a nice day."

He turned back to the forge and nearly missed the little distressed sound she made. He turned back and glared at her.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, please don't be mad at me—" she looked genuinely upset, her hand held out to him, and Dean was lonely, and few people sought him out….

Dean took a deep breath. "I'm…Tobe is like my pa. I know most people…" He stopped and inhaled again. "I can walk you back to your place. If you'd like."

"I would like that. My name is Anne," she said, "it's nice of you to offer. I thank you." They walked out of the shop and sitting on the log bench outside the shop doors, long legs stretched out in front of him, and long arms folded over his belly, was a carbon copy of Anne…a *masculine* copy of Anne.

"Finally," the lanky boy growled. He had the same red hair and freckles, but on him the pink bow of a mouth was elongated and had a definite downward turn at the ends. He glowered at Dean. "I'm her brother Jan. I go *everywhere* with her." His narrowed eyes looked full of purpose and Dean took a subtle step away from her. This must be something brothers did, swell up like snakes if their siblings were in danger, he thought, and smothered a laugh. Jan may have been nearly as tall as Dean but he was about as thick around as his sister. Dean was pretty sure he was in no danger from the tall, gangly boy—he was thistledown thin and would probably blow over in a high wind.

His sister, on the other hand…now she was something to fear, all right.

It didn't take long and he almost didn't notice, it was so natural, so gradual, that any free time Dean had, he chose to spend with Anne. She'd become a pleasant fixture in his life, spoiled only by the knowledge that at the end of spring, the Eriksens planned to move on, further west. Knowing that made every second they spent together that more precious.

It was on a sunny day, while they picnicked by the river—miraculously alone—that Dean decided he wanted to tell Anne about his life. About how he came to be there, raised by Tobe, learning to be a blacksmith...he wanted to make her understand just how important Tobe was to him, if it was possible.

She sat quietly on the blanket and listened, not once making him stop, or fluttering, or even crying. She listened to him seriously, completely, and when he was done she said, "You really pulled fortune from disaster, Dean. You were blessed."

He tilted slowly towards her, and she to him. His heart was beating so fast and so hard, it almost hurt…her eyes fluttered closed, the pink tip of her tongue inched out, wet her lip and Dean's breath caught, he felt blood fill his cheeks, felt her warm breath skate across his parting lips and then, they folded into each other, mouth against mouth. His hands flew up and cupped her face…it was dream-like, it was melting into honey, it was floating away on a bed of clouds….

The first kiss, his first kiss, the first time he touched someone with purpose and the desire to affect them, and it was sweet, soft, and….nice. So very nice. He pulled back just as slowly as they'd come together, and took his time to look at her. Her eyes were still closed, ginger lashes sweeping the swell of her pink cheek, the fine hairs framing her forehead were damp and twisted in thin, bright curls, there were tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip. Her breath slowed, evened out and her eyes opened carefully.

When she saw he was watching her, she gave him a timid little upturn of the mouth, the mouth he'd touched, felt give under his own, like magic. Her hand rose from her lap, and slowly extended towards him. A little line rose between her brows. She touched his mouth with a delicate finger and lightly traced the curve of his lips. "Your lips are soft," she said shyly. "I've never kissed anyone with such soft lips before."

Den felt a quick stab of disappointment, his fingers danced over his lips when her finger withdrew. "Oh—you've been kissed before?"

She didn't answer right away. Just brushed damp curls off her forehead and took a little time to resettle her bonnet. Smoothed the material wrinkled over her lap and then, she fixed him with a speculative look. "You haven't?" she asked.

"Oh—oh, hell, sure I have. Lots of girls…well not lots. I mean a few, some…two or three…maybe."

The look in her eyes was pure laughter. "Dean," she said, and he knew it meant, I know about you, I hear things. People in town think he's slow—well-meaning but missing a card or two from his deck. Him and Tobe have been content to let folks think so—it's made life a little easier in some ways. But maybe she thinks it too…or maybe she sees what's true about him. Maybe….

"Anne! I've looked for you all over—"

"Jan! Why must you follow me everywhere?" She leaped to her feet, and stamped one foot against the ground hard enough to raise a little puff of dust. "Go away!"

A storm of emotion flowed over Jan's face, anger, and hurt, jealousy…Dean skooted back to the far edge of the blanket. He'd seen the two fight often enough that he no longer winced or felt the need to leap between them but it still made him uncomfortable. Tobe had cautioned him that it was no odd thing for siblings to fight, and the best thing to do if they weren't armed was to keep out of the way until the storm blew over.

Tobe always had darn good advice. Dean sighed and leaned back on his elbows and watched, ready if Anne needed him. Anne was a sight, with her bonnet flying back, dangling from it's ribbons and spraying aster petals all over. There was something about the way she looked with high color in her cheeks—so pretty, so alive. Her curls bounced with the vehemence of her words, they both gave it their all. Words flew back and forth like poison darts…they were fuming, furious and totally involved in their fight. Dean was sure that both of them had forgotten he was even there, even though the fight was more or less about Dean.

With nothing else to do besides wait for the storm to settle, Dean found himself looking back and forth between Anne and her brother, who he noticed mirrored his sister, red flush tinting his face, staining his collar bone and all the skin Dean could see in the vee of his open shirt collar, almost obscuring the freckles speckling his skin there….

Dean flinched his eyes away when he realized that he'd been staring at Jan's neck the last few minutes. He distracted himself by wondering what made a brother and sister hate each other so much—was startled again when he caught Jan's eyes on him. They were green as sapling leaves, and the pupils were black as coal, they looked like his sister's, and they didn't. Something was in the depths of those eyes, and Dean shivered. Nothing good—of that he was sure.

Later that afternoon, he asked Anne why they hated each other so, and she laughed. "I don't hate Jan, I *love* him—he's my brother. It's just…he's so bossy. Just because he was born a few minutes before me, he acts like I'm a baby." She tossed her hair. "Oh, for heaven's--here he comes again—"

Jan slunk up on them like he was Anne's belligerent shadow. Without a word, he fell in behind them walking, and Dean swore he could feel Jan's eyes on his back, like bits of burning iron.

That one kiss turned out to be all they ever had—after that day they never had a real moment alone. What they had was longing, and looks and the touch of each others hands, but Dean felt he could live off that just as well.

xX0Xx

Tobe watched Dean from the corner of his eye, a kind of speculative look that Dean couldn't recall Tobe fixing him with before. He watched Dean follow Anne about, never saying a word, but Dean could see the man was worried. He kept silent, until one night, he walked right up to Dean, grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him along like a reluctant horse headed to get himself shoed.

They ended up at the table. There was the oil lamp, set up in the middle of the table, along with the half-full bottle of whiskey, and the two small glasses sitting on the table again and Dean's eyebrows raised. He wondered what Tobe wanted to tell him. He was a little nervous, considering the last time there was whiskey involved….

"Sit," he said, and poured Dean and himself a bit of whiskey. "So. She's a nice girl. But she's leaving real soon. Dean--" he held his hand up, warding off whatever Dean had wanted to say. "You're going to feel like hell, I'm not gonna lie to you. But you'll survive, and one day, you'll look back on this and feel…like this was the time you grew up in."

"I'm grown now," Dean protested. "I'm not a chap anymore, Pa. I'm almost nineteen—I could marry if I set my cap for it."

Tobe slammed the glass down hard enough to rock the table and Dean jumped. Tobe looked like thunder, and his voice *was* thunder. "Lord all mighty Jesus, boy—tell me you're not—"

Dean embarrassed himself by almost shouting 'no"—and was hit with a hot wash of guilt. Shouldn’t he want to—shouldn't he have thought of that as a way to keep Anne near him? He could, he was sure, marry her and be happy, have babies with her and every day, wake up to her beautiful green eyes…and Jan, hair flopping like a pup's ears and following them everywhere, gnashing his teeth and growling under his breath….

Dean snorted and slapped his hand over his mouth to trap giggles that wanted to come out--he was nineteen and grown and giggling was not done. "Pa, you need me more than anyone else. I'm…not in that much of a hurry to head out on my own. I'm pretty content right here." Hell yeah, he thought and emptied the glass. Still tasted like wash water and kerosene.

"I know you are content here boy, at least until you find the right girl," Tobe said, and took a quick sip of whiskey. "Dean…I got a question. Jan, you know he kind of…" Tobe licked his lips and put the glass down. "Never mind, son, never mind."

"If we're talking like men here, Pa, I gotta tell you, that fella's a burr right up my ass. Everywhere I go, he's there, staring at me. I swan, it's like he's got some kinda hate for me and *no* reason for it! I've been nothing but a gentleman with his sister. Heck, we just had one tiny little kiss…" He shrugged. "Moonstruck." His head felt like fish were swimming slowly through the fibers of his mind…he licked his lips and smiled, a little cock-eyed and woozy.

Tobe watched him, his whiskey colored eyes growing a little darker as he stared at Dean. His lips twitched once or twice like he was about to speak, but finally settled for shrugging. He tossed down the bit of liquor sitting in the bottom of his glass and laughed. "Dean, Dean…you got a lot more life coming your way, boy. Take your time—once you move forward, it's hard to move back."

Dean peered at Tobe. Sometimes the man was like a wrote over book. There was one meaning on the page and another right on top of it….

~xX0Xx~

When the time came for the Eriksens to leave, Dean expected the pain to be towering and terrible, but there was just a feeling of melancholy. He felt wistful, and truthfully, dreaded being lonely again, but the gaping hole in his chest never appeared. Anne wept on his shoulder, her tears hot and damp on his thick shirt but…he kind of got the feeling she was enjoying the drama of it all, instead of really mourning their separation. He kissed her again, his second and final kiss with her and again, it was sweet as honey, soft—his breath left him in a sigh when she parted her lips, and they breathed together for a tender moment…she pressed her hands to his cheeks and whispered, "Dean."

She turned and ran out of the yard towards home…he watched her, a gentle sadness filling his chest.

***
He was coming around the corner form the hen house, a bucket of feed in his hand and thinking of nothing in particular when a shadow fell over the ground in from of him. "Oh—it's you—what did you want? Anne's not here."

"I know," the boy said, face wreathed in an angry scowl, as usual.

"Look, if you saw us kissing, rest assured I respect your sis—"

"God—maybe you *are* touched--" Jan grabbed Dean by the shoulders and the feed bucket was knocked out of his hand, rolled across the dirt and his head rocked back when Jan slammed their mouths together. Pain burst through his lip, and was instantly soothed when Jan swept it with his tongue. Heat, and wet against his lip made him gasp and then Jan's tongue was inside, sweeping over his own tongue, licking across the roof of his mouth and then slower, inside his lip, like he was searching out something special and something about that made Dean moan. The press of heat where only he'd touched before, the press and roll of his lip under Jan's made his breath hitch, and warmth flood him, and then to his horror he realized he was hard, and rocking his hardness against Jan's thigh. Jan groaned approvingly, and grabbed Dean by the waist—it shocked him how much harder that made him, the explosion of heat in his belly made him gasp…

"God, oh wait…" Dean was gasping. He felt like he did when he was about to come. His mouth tingled and throbbed, his heart raced painfully and when Jan pressed up between his legs, just as hot and stiff and throbbing as he was, for a moment Dean thought he'd come. Jan bit his lip and brought him back to himself.

"I have to leave. I kept waiting for you to catch up but you're prettier than smart, Dean Kane." Jan cupped Dean's cheeks, kissed him, on the cheek…brought their foreheads together and for a moment they breathed together, like Dean had with his sister earlier that morning. She had been…her kisses had been nice, and Jan's kiss had been everything but nice—nice was the furthest thing from what it had been. It was wrong, frighteningly wrong, and resting there, panting for breath and willing his prick to go down, Dean would've given almost anything to have had the time to do it again, and again…Jan slapped him lightly on the cheek he'd kissed.

"I should have taken my chance earlier. God, I'll be thinking about you forever," Jan sighed. "You take care of yourself. Dean," he said and his lips traced Dean's cheek, his neck—a moment later, he ran out of the yard.

Dean felt sick with excitement, with dread. What happened? How was it that Jan had made him feel so much more than Anne had? What did it mean…and how could he stop it? He would stop it. It was wrong, and bad, and…he couldn't stop feeling it.

part 11

SpN: Non Timebo Mala 9/?

2009-11-25T16:53:53Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post NC-17, for rape and violence
Word Count: 3547
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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.

This section is NC-17 because it describes a fairly graphic rape

Tobe nodded. "It's a good knife, got some spells of protection woven in with its making. It won’t make you invincible, but you stick a bad thing with it, man or beast, and it'll make it hurt. I'm always going to look to keeping you safe, honey-boy." He smiled, laughed a little at Dean's disgusted protest with the childish endearment, and poured another couple shots. "So, you're too grown to be my little boy, now? All right, Mr. Grown-Man." He tilted one of the shots towards Dean. "You game?"

Dean wrinkled his nose and tried to smile—laughed a little when Tobe winked at him. "Sure am, Pa. But--let's drink to family."

Tobe stiffened, and then nodded, slowly, solemnly. "All right then. To family, son, to family."

Samuel
They'd been out hunting for a long while, following a hunch Sam had had based on some odd talk John had picked up here and there. What he'd heard centered around a string of deaths, bloody enough and frequent enough to cause talk. There'd been no rhyme or reason to the deaths—Indians. White men. Women, children, sometimes animals--whatever the thing was that was killing, it was indiscriminate. Seemed like it picked off whatever was in its path with vicious glee. John and Sam had talked to as many folks as they could about what had happened. The stories they'd collected had all matched, more or less. The unfortunates had all been found in the open, ripped up pretty thoroughly, all laid out on their backs—pieces missing. Local lawmen couldn't find a thing, and the towns between the sites were dangerously on edge. So many deaths and not a bit of explanation for it…Sam could feel eyes on the back of his neck all the time. Bad time to be a stranger in those parts….

They rode from death site to death site, tracked around a neglected cattleman's cemetery that had seen a lot of the carnage. In general, they picked and poked and kicked around and tried to find a reason for it. Sam felt a little sick at the sheer amount of death that had taken place, at his inability to *do* anything. He was down to watching as John searched out the landscape. The long, hot, dull day wore on, the sun climbing higher and higher and tracking it’s way across the sky. By the time it began dropping, Sam started thinking…he considered, pulled what he'd been seeing without noticing together, and when he was sure, he stopped John.

"It's a circle. If we map this out, it'll be a big damn circle," he said.

John agreed. "Yup, can see that now you say it…but can't think of a reason for it—" but they'd plotted it out and it was a circle, wide as a day's travel.

John sat slumped in the saddle, scratched his head as he looked back the way they came. "We'll camp here for the night…shit. This here's a lot of area to search over, seeing as how we don’t know what the fuck we're looking for. Ideas, Samuel?"

Ideas…Sam stared at John. "Damn, we're stupid--the bodies. Did you ask…" John raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. What was missing on 'em?" Sam asked but he'd already dropped to the ground and was trotting in widening circles along the path they'd rode up.

"For certain they were missing hearts. Maybe missing eyes, tongues, but nothing was certain on that, the bodies were that much a mess—but shifters'll eat the hearts, it's what I thought we were trackin', that or weres, having a game of some sort."

Sam cast him a look—it was damn typical of John to have an idea already in his mind and not share it with Sam—they could have been looking for sign together instead of Sam riding 'round after John with his thumb up his ass. "Neither one of those is a good guess, John. None of them pack up like that, and it's a lot of dead folks for a single beast. Im thinking some kind of spell. Maybe a coven…" And if you'd actually talked to me, we coulda been working towards that all ready….

"Yeah, well…it was a thought. If the eyes were taken…could be a summoning, or a guiding spell." John unconsciously touched his own eyes, wondered aloud if maybe the other missing parts had gone towards gifts. "Fresh hearts are a powerful gift in a summoning. Blood…"

"The worst kind of magic," Sam agreed. "Means some evil sonsa-bitches are tryin' to call something here—"

"Fuck," John growled and Sam thought that just about said it all.
***
It took them a few days, which John said was pretty good work, and timely, to find the eyes. The pattern the buried eyes formed pointed to the center of the rough sort of circle—in the center was the old cemetery, and at the middle point of the cemetery was another, smaller, circle marked out by the hearts. It was harder to find the bits of tongue buried within the circle of hearts but they managed. Dug them all up, and burned every bit. Into each hole that they'd found something, they poured a measure of salt, and blessed oil, and set the mixture on fire.

At what was surely meant to be the center of the thing, they set a bigger fire and burned herbs good for keeping evil at bay, just to be on the safe side, John said, and recited a cleansing prayer while the fire burnt. Sam approved—no such thing as 'too much' when it came to dealing with the Devil. He gazed around the cemetery. The place still felt unsettled to him—the shadows thrown by the tombstones were like long black hands, reaching out for something—twisted up all wrong.

He shuddered, hard enough to make the amulets on his wrist chime.

"Rabbit run 'cross your grave, boy?"

Sam just snorted. "All I know is I'm ready to get out from between these, here."
***
They waited a few days more, before finally, low on water and supplies, they rode on into the next town down the line. It'd all been pretty…well, *boring*, Sam thought, when you came right down to it, but he guessed boring was better than fighting for their lives, or bleeding out in the sand….

They never found out what or who it was that they'd interrupted, or what thing was being built out there in the wilderness.

~xX0Xx~

They came into town to restock their stores, and get some well-deserved rest, then decide whether they'd head to the roadhouse, or maybe back to Robert's for a while….

"Meet me here when it's full dark, Samuel." John stepped off the boarding house stairs, pushing wet hair off his forehead. The boarding house offered meals and for an extra dollar, hot baths. Sam inhaled as John walked by…bay rum. He smirked. John was loaded for bear….

"Right here. Full dark. Gotcha. Go have some fun, John. "Sam answered John's scowl with a wink, before heading off in the opposite direction the man was going. John's business was his own; Sam wasn't interested in it outside of hunting. Besides, it didn’t amount to much. John's idea of rest generally came in a bottle and a bordello.

Sam…was coming to realize that his idea of what was distracting was a sight different than John's. Curves and soft places just didn't seem to interest him like that—a fact he meant to keep to himself. So far, he hadn't had the nerve to go farther than thinking about it, then again, he hadn't been presented the opportunity to do more than think about it. He'd gotten over his baby crush on Caleb, but not the feelings that crush brought. Some day, he'd have the time or the space to find out how deep those feeling ran….

"How do, waddy. What crew you come in here with?"

Sam looked up from his perch on the saloon's porch rail. His eyes widened and he jerked his gaze to his boot toes fast as he could. Still, he could feel his ears heat up and that meant they were bright red and he cursed himself. Acting like a damn kid….

The boy who'd spoken to him looked to be a few years older than him, maybe eighteen, nineteen--covered over with trail dust but his grin was bright. He was tall, taller than Sam, and looked well-built. He hopped up on the rail next to Sam and winked at him as he sat. With his thumb, he tilted back the brim of a strange looking hat that was hiding the stranger's eyes. The odd cap was styled like a kepi, the flat bottom of it flopped forward, nearly touching the brim. Sam liked it a lot—it suited the boy. He looked Sam up and down, and his grin got…hotter, that was the only way Sam could describe it. It made his belly clench, and his breath catch. The stranger pulled his hat off long enough to brush back damp blonde hair, revealed piercing blue eyes that seemed to reach into Sam with hot fingers and--pull. Sam blinked, felt like he'd just plunged deep into a cool blue lake.

Without invitation, the stranger started talking, about where he'd been, the sights he'd seen, and told it well. Sam drank it all in, the telling of the stories, the smoke and whiskey sound of the boy's voice…the heat in his eyes. The blonde appeared to want him and Sam felt like he was sucking down water after a long, long drought. He didn’t know how much he'd craved it until he got it. Attention. Interest…Sam reveled in it, wondered that the boy couldn't see how plain Sam was, how undeserving of his interest and hoped desperately the other wouldn't notice…..

"Getting dark, time ta move along," the blonde said, and Sam almost cried out to him not to go before wresting back control over his foolish heart. He nodded, and forced a smile, even though disappointment made it creak a bit. Served him right for being a fool, should have known better. He went to rise from his perch, but the blonde nudged an elbow into his ribs. Whispered, "Not yet—wait 'til I'm off behind the lumber yard…follow me then."

He got up and walked across the porch, jumped off the end and headed out to the dark between the sheds.

Sam sat for a bit before standing because relief and wonder and excitement made him dizzy…he fought not to grin like someone daft, and when he was sure he could walk and not run, wandered off casually into the dark.

Hands pulled him into the shadows, pressed him against the rough plank wall of a lumber shed. Warm breath skirted over his mouth and then, like in a dream, lips soft and warm as a sun ripe peach pressed against his, moved against his mouth until his lips parted by instinct. The kisses came, slow and careful. "You done this before?" The blonde murmured into the downy roundness of Sam's cheek, nipped at the bow of Sam's lip when he groaned, "no, never, no one."

"Don’t you worry; I'll take care of you."

Sam was so scared, and so full of desire. He moaned as he twisted in the other boy's hands, wanting so much.

"You’re so good. So hard. Let me…" he pushed his hand into Sam's pants, and Sam cried out. He threw a rough hand across Sam's mouth, the calluses dragging over his sensitive lips sent a wonderful lightning bolt of desire straight to his straining prick—"Hey, shhh! Don’t bring anyone down on us—" He twisted the hand wrapped around Sam and Sam's hips jerked into the hot, tight, grip.

"That's it. Touch me, too." One handed, the boy unbuttoned, and yanked pants down just enough for Sam to grip him. Touching another boy…another's heat against his palm, the hardness underneath the velvety skin…Sam felt it wash over and over him, the pleasure, the need…he panted and groaned and jerked his hips harder and harder and the stranger groaned back, "Yeah, knew you'd like this…."

It was perfect, and then…it wasn't.

The blonde stepped back, wiped his slippery, wet hand on Sam's shirt. A slow, nasty, grin spread over his face when Sam moaned and reached out for him, begging for his touch again.

"Well, well, little Sammy Winchester isn’t so little anymore…in fact, he's hung pretty damn impressively for a colt—" He winked at Sam and his eyes flashed black.

Demon! Sam cursed, scared shitless and trying to run, but the blonde easily knocked him off his feet. Sam hit the dirt hard on his knees, yelped when they cracked against the hard-packed ground.

The demon shoved his foot between Sam's knees and kicked them apart, and Sam sprawled ass up, face in the dirt. The other dropped on him, and ripped Sam's trousers down his thighs, pinned him with all his weight. "Now then Samuel, we're about to teach your daddy a lesson he so sorely needs—but there's no reason why we shouldn’t both enjoy this. Oh wait, yes there is—I don't care if you get off. When I'm done, sugar, you tell papa we didn't like our time-table being set back like that. Things are brewing that he's not a part of—at least, not in this century." The demon bit at Sam's throat, worried at the thin skin until Sam thought he was going to rip his throat out. Licked a thick, wet stripe over his ear and said, "Fuck, you taste sweet—if we didn’t need you, what I could do to you…."

Sam screamed—thought he screamed, but he could feel his teeth pressed against the tender inside of his lip, and feel his tongue pressed against the wet back of his teeth and acid flooded his mouth—he groaned, terrified that he was going to drown inside his own body. Callused fingers that had felt so good were now prodding at his hole, stabbing and pinching until they shoved inside like jagged claws. The pain skewered him from ass to heart—it hurt, it hurt--a dry, sawing, skin-curling pain that never stopped. He tried to crawl deep inside his head but the hot air fanning over his face in a constant stream, stinking of sulfur and the foul, *horrible* words spit into his ear kept him rooted right there in the dirt. The demon described his mother's death, how they'd ripped her open and fucked the wounds, how they'd played with his brother before tearing him into meaty, tasty, shreds….

Sam screamed and screamed for his dad, to heaven for help but the hand clamped over his mouth kept it locked inside—the searing rasp of pain tearing through his guts stilled, the thing ripping him apart grunted, and Sam felt the hot flood it spilled inside him, felt it spread through his body infecting him with its poison.

The demon yanked out of him suddenly, pulled his hand away and Sam tipped facedown into the dirt, vomit dripped from his freed mouth, blood from his torn lips—he worked himself to his knees and the demon leaned over him, closer, closer, staring at him with a happy smile, an excited light in the bright blue eyes. "Sam, Sam, stupid boy. Did you really think this meat puppet wanted *you*? Look at you—you ugly piece of *shit*. No one wants you—"

Sam sank down to where it was dark and quiet inside, but the demon wasn't having that. He reached out and grabbed a handful of Sam's hair, yanked his neck back hard. The move made pain bloom fire-fresh through Sam's whole body. Suddenly, a light exploded in the darkness muddling his mind, a set of words came to him, and some flicker of instinct made Sam speak, as loud as he could," Dei Gratia."

Grace of God, and the demon flinched hard, hissed as he jerked back a little and his eyes went solid black. As if he'd been jarred awake from a nightmare, Sam took back control of his body, fumbled a little silver knife out of his vest pocket, and jammed it deep under the blonde's chin, pinning his lower jaw to the upper. Between his clenched teeth he screamed—a thick black, sulfurous smoke poured out of his nose and eyes and ears, from between his teeth smoke and blood poured. His eyes faded from black to a shocked, pain-stricken, confused blue before they faded again to a flat and cloudy china blue, lifeless….

Sam struggled to his feet and stood there, swaying and stupid with pain. Sense flickered in and out, veering from the reality of standing beat and bleeding in the dark lumberyard to some black, soft, distant place he didn't want to come back from…he got his pants back up, his knife out of the boy's throat. He picked up the odd hat and stared at it, turning it over and over in his hand, but not really seeing it, or feeling it. He had to get back. It was full dark, and John wanted him at the boarding house….

Sam made it past the saloon, made it right up to the steps of the boarding house. He stumbled, dropped the knife and picked it up; found he still had the hat clenched in his fist, a fat, bright drop of blood still sitting, perfect and round, on the brim. "Hunh," he exhaled and swayed on his feet. He really wanted to sit down—*lie* down and sleep a long, long, long time. When he lifted his head again, he was on the boarding house steps and his dad was coming towards him, looking at him strangely. The bemused look shifted to fear and then he was yelling Sam's name.

"Daddy…." Sam felt the ground come up to him and he couldn't wait for it to take him, he was that tired, really just that tired….
***
It was morning when he woke again. John was sitting at his bedside and looking like he'd been tortured in the night. "Sam, Sam…"

Sam shook his head. He wouldn't talk about it. "Demon," he said. "I was stupid—I should have known."

John made a noise pf protest, reached out his hand for Sam's but dropped it on his knee instead. "Not your fault. You can't always know. He…why? Why?"

"A warning," Sam croaked. "Said to get out of the way…stop interfering with…something. I don't know what. We're hurting it, though. It's a good sign, right?"

"What?" John yelled. "No—no, I don’t care about that—you! You're all I care about, Sam. God—I'm supposed to protect you. You're what I live for, boy." His voice broke, his head dropped and his shoulders shook. Sam could barely hear the dry, choked sobs. "What happened to you…worst thing could happen to a body. I'm so sorry Samuel. I'm so sorry...I'll—I'll find some way to fix it…." His voice broke and cracked, and Sam realized that his dad hadn't met his eyes once.

He winced. Well, fuck, looked like John was more concerned over the fact he got raped than the fact a demon had attacked him…considered that worse than death.

Sam exhaled. Take stock, he told himself. He was alive. He was breathing—had his mind and his heart and his eyes, and he was *alive*. That meant he had all the weapons he needed to go after it, and kill it, Find the bastard fucking thing it followed, and kill that too. If he had to chase it down into hell, that was fine with him, a change of scenery would do him well. As for the rest of the world, it could go to hell with him.

Until John left the room, head down and his mouth a white slash, Sam just lay like a plank in bed, concentrating on one breath in and one breath out, again, and again, and again…Something struck him and he snorted, gagged out a laugh. He'd actually been wanting, thinking of…being loved some day. Being in love and…a tear ran over his cheek and down his neck…stupid. It meant nothing. He was alive—that was what counted. All he cared about.

~xX0Xx~

John avoided his eyes; barely spoke to Sam until Sam decided that what happened to him had forever changed John's view of him. Sam was pretty sure it wasn't just the fact a demon hurt him, it was that he'd let a man do that to him. Sam shrugged it off. Whatever he felt, it didn't affect the job and that was what counted. What they needed to say to each other didn’t have to involve much more than what was under their noses. Their hearts didn’t come into it. Some nights, when he felt the pain rise up in his throat like a live coal, burn his eyes like brine, well then, he rode out alone to some quiet place until he could be the man he was supposed to be, the man John wanted him to be again.

As much as Sam didn't like the silence between them, he hated even more those moments when the man looked at him like…like his favorite gun jammed, or his horse died. Like he might want to talk about it. Or like he was afraid Sam might want to talk.

Took everything in Sam then, not to stand up and shout at him, run at him like a rabid dog.

Some days, Sam got restless. Maybe a little angry. Some days. Most days, Sam was fine. He took that lesson and made it part of him. That--that was never going to happen to him again. Not to talk to strangers, not to trust a smile, always keep your guard up—not a bad lesson to learn.

~~part 10~~

oy, friends. bitch and moan with a little woo-hoo.

2009-11-24T21:31:29Z

I'm writing at the top of my game! It's a little depressing...but in the happy column, I'm having *fun*! REally, having a great time writing this current fic. Unfortunately, it's killed anything else for the time being. Ah well, can't have everything!
Stories, can't live with them...pass the beer nuts.

Thanksgiving is almost upon us. It's going to be a quiet thing here at the Rose Manse. Just us, and I've threatened Mr. Roxy with loss of a kidney if he invites anyone to dine with us. The man is a damn social butterfly. If it was up to him, I'd have been at everyone of your houses. Yes, he is that into people and company and visiting and...*stuff*. Me, I'm not so much a social one. Not so much the raconteur. More...hermity. In fact, I'm saving shoeboxes to wear on my feet. (Ha! That's funny stuff, right there, to folks my age.) So any hoo, the point of this post being lost somewhere along the line--love you all! Kisses! Watch the hair....

SpN: Non Timebo Mala 8/?

2009-11-23T08:34:52Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post R, various by chapter
Word Count: 1637
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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.

There was one dream though, one that disturbed him the most. It was one that came…not often, thankfully. But when it did come, it was profound. It hurt, all the next day—it frightened him more than any nightmare of dropping into a pit of fire or getting bitten by a were or losing John….

It started the same every time, with him putting together a fire for the night, ready to settle down. Waiting for coffee to cook, or bread to finish, just like normal…and then there'd be a body coming out of the dark to the fire, someone he couldn't see, could only feel. A big presence, heavy, dark sometimes, and *all* the time, it makes him uneasy. The only part of the dream that ever changed are the eyes staring at him through the flames…sometimes, they were the mottled yellow of broken egg yolks and their gaze ripped through him like knives, other times, they were the green of willow leaves, and hurt almost as much. He thought, maybe the dreams were something he should tell Missouri about, but he never did. They didn't feel like something he should be sharing, and anyway, sharing was something Sam didn't much care for.

Samuel
They made the trip to the Black Hills, and met up with the man John'd been sent to—a man named Robert Singer. A peculiar guy, not really friendly, but after John and he had been with him a while, he seemed to thaw to them—at least after a while, Sam was pretty sure he wasn't going to load them with buckshot and bury them in the hills.

Sam didn't know about John, but he sure as hell liked it there with Singer.

They were high up in the mountains, the air was chill and thin but it felt good—made Sam feel clean inside. He liked that Singer's place smelled like pine—pine trees grew everywhere in the hills. The house was a big one: two whole floors, windows everywhere and a porch that poked out of the middle of the house. Seemed like there were rooms all over, enough for everyone to have their own. It was painted white, with green shutters that glowed bright in the sun. It was pretty, and Sam liked the way a horse shoe hung, like an iron smile, over the unpainted front door. Every time he jumped up on the porch, he first tapped his fingers over the pentagrams carved into the posts on either side of the stairs before heading into the house. He knew under his feet, on the underside of the porch boards, Singer had carved something he called a Solomon's Seal. He wasn't right certain what that was, but every time his feet trod those boards he felt it—a warm rush of 'safe' through his bones.

Another reason Sam was damn pleased to be holing up with Singer was the pleasure of having that room, all his own, for the first time in…ever. Singer had separated him from his dad—"A growing boy needs a little space to think," he'd said, and winked. Sam blushed furious red remembering. He hadn't liked that. He didn’t like anyone noticing him. He made a practice of keeping his head down. He knew what he was--all long ugly face, long scrawny colt legs and arms crackling with aches, hair all over no matter how they chopped at it—no, he didn't like being singled out for any kind of thing.

But Singer ignored that about him. They'd both worked through their prickly distances, and came to work together well. Singer began teaching him things when he realized he had a willing student…writing, reading…*real* reading, not just what he needed to know to make an exorcism, or chant a spell. Singer had him reading stories, histories….

Sam swallowed it whole, and Robert Singer took it on himself to teach the boy what he should have known all along. Sam could see John resented it, but was too guilt struck to interfere, something Sam had counted on. John, for his part, learned what he'd come for from Singer. Enough to keep him on through the winter, and the most part of spring. It was almost enough for Sam, almost like living a life for the living instead of the dead.
***
Sam was crouched over the book in his hands, the light from the candle making the page jerk and waver. He finally gave up on reading for the rest of the night. His eyes felt like they'd been boiled in brine. He smothered the flame and lay back in the soft darkness. Here they could close their eyes and give up to sleep entirely—the wards Singer had around his place were plentiful—almost overkill. But that was Robert—everything he did, he did to the utmost.

Sam rolled his shoulders against the mattress, still luxuriating in the feel, even after weeks of climbing alone into a real bed. Every night, he sighed in relief, in pleasure. Warm blankets, no one living in them but him, a softness under him, and clean sheets to roll up in, and every day, there was hot food without a bit of taint in it—some days there was even sweet tea, something he'd taken to strongly, or honey in the comb—sweet and sticky and wonderful.

His eyes slipped shut, warmth rode him from his toes to his cheeks and started to thicken, settle in his gut. The feeling inside was a little like excitement, a little like the urge to…to something, spread out wide and feel everything. The sheet moved over him and the urge and warmth settled on his prick. He moved his hand over it and moaned just a bit, quiet as a cat on prowl. His cheeks heated, and his mouth opened. The feeling grew the more he touched--he wrapped his hand around his prick and closed his eyes, let the feeling take him. After a minute, it got even better if he imagined it wasn’t *his* hand or *his* thumb rubbing lightly over the head, pressing into the slit. He grunted with the sudden increase in feeling, shivered and bit down hard, trying to muffle any sound. He pulled the skin up and over the head and rubbed again and groaned. It felt good, felt better when he held it a little tighter, moved a little faster. His prick pulsed as he pumped it, stronger, with more purpose. Tilted his head back against the pillow, closed his eyes and imagined some of the girls that worked the houses Dad visited from time to time. He imagined their long, slim necks, their rounded breasts, imagined little smooth hands touching him like he was touching himself, their mouths touching his…his breath speeded, sweat broke out on his lip and he licked and licked like a puppy, liking the salt and the smooth wet feel of his tongue. He arched and twisted against the sheets, he imagined pushing into that mysterious dark vee, that naked space between a girl's legs that he'd never really seen. His hand faltered, and then speeded up—the girls grew faint no matter how he tried to call them back and then, it was Caleb whispering 'good boy' against his neck and the tightness inside him yanked even tighter, his prick grew thicker and harder, jerked in his hand and dripped. Between one breath and the next, the urge to let go slammed into him—slick, wet heat sluiced over his fist and dropped onto his belly—he nearly bit a hole through his lip trying to be quiet, but he figured that bright spark of pain was well worth the delicious feeling flooding him—he washed up on the shores of his bed with a long, contented sigh.

He lay sprawled against the sheets, enjoying peace for a few minutes, before fishing under the mattress for the kerchief he kept there. He really wanted to sleep, but cleaned up before dozing. His sleepy mind tentatively poked around the fact that Caleb's hands had been the one's he'd imagined on him, but he was just too tired to worry at the moment. He'd have plenty of time to worry in the morning….

~xX0Xx~

Dean
Dean celebrated his seventeenth birthday on November twenty-third. Tobe set a small cake on the table, a bottle of whiskey and two very small glasses. Dean unwrapped the package Tobe tossed to him with a grin. Inside was a cross made of iron, and a leather bracelet holding a turquoise bead, and a hunting knife Tobe made. On the blade was engraved Non Timebo Mala—'I will fear no evil'.

Tobe poured a splash of whiskey in each small glass, passed one to Dean. "Bottoms up," and waited for Dean to drink. Dean flushed, pleased, embarrassed—Tobe was acknowledging he was a man. He drank, and tried to hide his instant desire to *spitcoughvomit* all at once. It finally burned it's way out of his throat and into his stomach, were it made a flaming hole. "Smo—oth," he gasped.

Tobe did that thing were he grinned with his eyes, the look Dean tried to emulate. He tossed his own shot back, then got serious. "Boy, you ever wonder how we knew your birthday?

Dean stopped—he'd never really given it a thought. Pa knew his birthday, of course he did. But no…if he stopped to think, there really was no reason for Pa to know it, and he only knew the day himself because Pa told him it was his day….

"That's the day I found you. I chose that day on purpose. I chose it so that one day I could tell you this—that when you celebrate this day, you're honoring your mother and father and your brother. You live like a *good* man, Dean, live the life they would have—your brother would have had. Live so that they'd be proud of you. Like I am."

Dean felt his eyes fill—tried to keep the tears in. "I hope that I never disappoint you, Pa. You've been a wonderful father to me. Thank you for everything—and for this," he said, and held up the knife.

Tobe nodded. "It's a good knife, got some spells of protection woven in with its making. It won’t make you invincible, but you stick a bad thing with it, man or beast, and it'll make it hurt. I'm always going to look to keeping you safe, honey-boy." He smiled, laughed a little at Dean's disgusted protest with the childish endearment, and poured another couple shots. "So, you're too grown to be my little boy, now? All right, Mr. Grown-Man." He tilted one of the shots towards Dean. "You game?"

Dean wrinkled his nose and tried to smile—laughed a little when Tobe winked at him. "Sure am, Pa. But--let's drink to family."

Tobe stiffened, and then nodded, slowly, solemnly. "All right then. To family, son, to family."

part 9

SpN: Non Timebo Mala, 7/?

2009-11-21T16:33:25Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post PG-13, various by chapter
Word Count: 1937
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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.

"DAMN IT SAM."

Sam rolled his eyes. He was in trouble now, and it hardly seemed fair. As often as his dad said it, it must be his name. He pulled away from the post and straightened 'til he stood like a soldier and waited for the inevitable. Wondered if there was a way to convince his dad he really thought his name was Damn It Sam…maybe get out of the whipping John was probably planning right now.

"Jumping Je--Sammy, just—come on."

Sam rode all the way back to camp leaning against his dad's chest, warm from the top of his head down to his butt, feeling his dad's heart beat against his back. Feeling content. But mostly feeling glad he didn't get the whipping he deserved….

Dean
Time passed, and Dean learned more and more from Tobe about the craft of blacksmithing, learned to love it. He became expert at making nails—not surprising, since for quite a long time, nails were all that he was allowed to make. Eventually, Tobe trusted him not to bust out a kneecap or burn himself up and he was allowed to move up to hooks and pans and cooking spoons and shovels and eventually he learned the art of shoeing horses...he found that he had the hand, the talent to make beautiful things out of iron, and made candle stands, andirons, fireplace hooks, all types of decorative work, and did it so well that Tobe had nothing but praise for his work.

He also began learning the craft of The Blacksmith. He learned that the water they used to quench the pieces was almost as good as holy water to drive off spirits and hold back some beasts of the night. He learned about signs, sigils, learned prayers of protection…and Tobe was more than satisfied with his skill in that.

Shortly before his sixteenth birthday, a stranger came to the door of the forge. It was dark outside, and bitter cold, but the man wouldn’t step over the threshold into the warmth of the shop. He almost seemed to glow in the light cast by the fireplace. His face held the still, tranquil look of a shaman. "The man called Tobias Kane," he called out, his words deliberate and slow. "I wish to speak to you."

Tobe and Dean exchanged glances—both thinking it was an odd way to call a person. Tobe shrugged and went to the doors. "Coming right up, mister. And what brings you out this chilly—"

Tobe came to a dead stop, mouth open a bit, eyes round and shocked. He paled to a faded tan, the dash of chocolate freckles over the bridge of his nose stood out like they'd been fresh spattered on him. "What can I do to help you?" His voice was dry; the words came out like leaves in the wind and his eyes fell.

Dean didn't know what to make of Tobe's behavior—the man had never really backed down to anyone as long as Dean could remember—he'd seen the man go quietly cold with rage, he'd seen him cautious, reserved, and careful of his neck, but never seen him afraid. Right now, Dean thought, and the thought made his stomach clench painfully, Tobe looked like he was about to plain pass out.

The stranger smiled, raised one hand and in a slow careful voice he said, "Just came to look at the boy, that's all. He looks good. Smart."

Tobe nodded. "He is that, and brave. He has the craft in his hands. He makes me proud as if he was my very own son."

"Well, you raised him and taught him. That makes him yours." The man looked at Dean like he was trying to see right through him. "I can see he's strong, body and mind. He'll need to be. You're going home soon and won't be able to look over him."

Tobe stumbled back a bit and sat heavily on one of the stools perched near the anvil. He wiped a shaking hand over his face, rested it over his mouth for a moment. "Well," he said, folding his hands into fists, and setting them on his knees, "I can't say that's real pleasing news—" He stopped with a small laugh, and the stranger laughed with him.

"What is there to fear, Tubal Caine? You come and go like fires. You'll be back again when you're needed. We thank you for your sacrifice—and don’t worry, you'll see the boy to a becoming a man." The stranger dipped his head in a short bow before turning and walking back into the night.

Dean shuddered all over. He knew something odd had happened but what it was…the man was not one of the possessed, that was plain. He walked right over the sigil worked into the bricks of the porch, Dean had the feeling it was respect, not fear that kept the stranger from crossing the threshold. Dean put a hand on Tobe's shoulder, shaking him a little. "You okay, Pa? Did you know him—who was it? Where did he go to?"

"Just someone from town, boy, someone on their way to other places. Now come on over here, I'm going to show you how to make a silver knife. Mostly just good for weres, and some types of shifters. Now, not all the shifters have to be bad, some are…."

~xX0Xx~

1848
Samuel
There were a row of sticks set in the ground, each one topped with a bottle or a tin can. Sam stood a ways back from the row, his mouth set in a grim line, fiercely concentrating on the targets. He could feel his dad behind him, he could feel his wrist twinge in the faint beginning of an ache—but he knew it wouldn't waver like his first times, shooting. The sun struck a glint here and there on the bottles—a faint breeze made the lighter, smaller bottles rock on the twigs, make the gleam flare. He could feel the breath in his chest, feel the sun on his shoulders…he blinked, focused, and it was as if the world had slowed a bit, like the targets were flat and still and painted on a paper sky and he could take a lump of charcoal and cross them out, one by one—he tightened his finger.

The crack of the bullet leaving the gun was overlaid by the pop and tinkle of broken glass.

"There ya go boy, damn good." Caleb, the man whose house they were staying at for the moment, whistled. "Your boy's going to be a shot, that one."

Sam didn't turn his head, didn't listen for praise. He'd hear from his dad if he did it wrong. He kept on, reloading the gun and taking his shot—trying to load faster and faster, trying to keep his aim true, missing a few but hitting more than missing, before pain—and Caleb--made him stop. The man shook his head, his hand a hot, solid weight on Sam's shoulder. "Boy, you have to stop before you hurt yourself. Good job though." He grinned at Sam and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that fascinated Sam for some reason. He liked the way the skin folded and creased—it made him look friendlier. He ruffled Sam's mess of hair and grinned. "Going to go start dinner. Why'nt you wash up, help out?"

Sam waited until Caleb was a good distance before turning to his dad, waiting to hear where he'd lacked.

John nodded. "Not bad. A little more practice and you'll be fair more than decent. Here." He pulled a long, oil-cloth wrapped bundle out from behind his back. "You might need this."

Sam raised his eyebrow, and held his hands out. "What is it?"

John stopped, swallowed once or twice. He looked…ashamed? Sam had no idea what to call the odd look that flitted over his dad's face. "It's…it…well, open it, boy.

Sam shrugged and unwrapped the object—a rifle rested in his hands. Damn, he thought—a right nice piece of work, the rifle. Nicer than anything he'd ever held in his hands..."Why'm I getting this, Dad?"

"It's your birthday. Happy thirteenth birthday, boy."

"Hunh. Well, thanks, I guess. It's a nice one. Real nice." Sam looked up at his dad, and the man made a face like he'd swallowed a burr. "Really, Dad. I like it a lot. And…um…thanks for remembering my birthday. That was real nice of you." Sam felt like he was babbling but he wasn't sure exactly what his dad wanted. Birthdays were just like any other days, weren't they? He heaved a sigh of relief when his dad walked away, and sat down to examine the rifle, stroking the walnut stock. Carved into either side of the stock were the words "Dei Gratia". The letters were a little rough, made him think that maybe whoever had made the stock hadn't carved the words. He rubbed his thumb over them again. Grace of God. Time and usage would smooth out the rough spots, darken the wood so the letters would stand out more…he sighted down the barrel. Nice. Real nice. He guessed getting the rifle meant John thought he *was* getting to be a better shot all the time…too bad guns and bullets didn’t have any effect on the demons they crossed paths with from time to time…but a chupra', a tailypo—they went down like bags of wet salt with a good shot. He smiled to himself. Okay, these birthdays might not be such a bad thing after all.

He heard Caleb call his name and shivered. Time to go get dinner. Maybe later, he could get Caleb to come shoot with him some, maybe he'd be able to make him smile some more….

~xX0Xx~

Life was what it was, Sam thought. They gathered from time to time with the men who'd come to call themselves Hunters—men who knew what things lurked, to pick apart the seams of everyday life. They were a hard crowd for the most part—rarely having come to the profession without having experienced some personal tragedy. Those that could were even beginning to bring their families into it. There were some men like John—bringing sons with them, trailing wives and daughters. Sam began to meet some boys close to his age, also training to help their families, but he felt no special connection to any of them and for the most part that lack of interest was returned. There wasn't anything about the job that called up any fraternal spirit; mostly it came down to 'what can you do for me'. John had one or two men he called friend—Sam had no one.

What Sam had were vague dreams, calling him, promising him great things…dreams he didn’t talk to anyone about. Ever. Dreams that told him his destiny awaited him. Some good thing was waiting out there, for him to find. Sam mostly ignored the dreams. If there was anything out there, experience had taught him it wasn't nothing good.

There was one dream though, one that disturbed him the most. It was one that came…not often, thankfully. But when it did come, it was profound. It hurt, all the next day—it frightened him more than any nightmare of dropping into a pit of fire or getting bitten by a were or losing John….

It started the same every time, with him putting together a fire for the night, ready to settle down. Waiting for coffee to cook, or bread to finish, just like normal…and then there'd be a body coming out of the dark to the fire, someone he couldn't see, could only feel. A big presence, heavy, dark sometimes, and *all* the time, it makes him uneasy. The only part of the dream that ever changed are the eyes staring at him through the flames…sometimes, they were the mottled yellow of broken egg yolks and their gaze ripped through him like knives, other times, they were the green of willow leaves, and hurt almost as much. He thought, maybe the dreams were something he should tell Missouri about, but he never did. They didn't feel like something he should be sharing, and anyway, sharing was something Sam didn't much care for.

part 8

SpN: Non Timebo Mala 6/?

2009-11-20T07:58:18Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1811
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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.

Dean skipped off to do as Tobe asked, the emotional storm of a moment before evaporated like morning dew, his hand wrapped around his necklace and beaming like the beginning of the world. Tobe combed fingers through his ruffled beard, trying to smooth it out. He let out a long shaky breath and shook his head. "Dean." That boy was going to be the death of him, him and his crazy notions.

Samuel
John walked around to the back of the road house, strolled across the dry expanse of yard until he stood at one side of a fire pit the visiting men had built up. There were cuts of beef roasting there, fat dripping into the fire and making it hiss—he shuddered, and pulled his coat a little tighter. Looked around himself and shook his head. This gathering had almost a festive air to it, there were some families, too, a few women standing around together, talking about whatever it was women talked about when men were ignoring them. He greeted the few men he knew by name, and was invited to help himself to one of the pots brewing on flat stones near the fire.

He sipped bitter coffee and watched the sky as it purpled, one eye on it, and the other on his boy. Samuel ran in and out of the stands of dry grass, long hair flopping around his shoulders, busted out boots throwing dust up, and the old shirt of John's flapping on him. The sleeves had come unfolded and flopped over his hands—the old kerchief tied around his waist to hold the shirt in place was miraculously doing its job, instead of trailing after him, like usual. Up and down the yard he went, whooping and chasing and being chased by a pack of long-faced, tawny puppies, some Indian dogs looked like. The horses penned there shied at his voice, the yipping pups. They stamped their feet, and metal jingled—protective amulets woven into their manes, their tails. That was a smart bit of work, John thought. Sensible. His horse had a few, some sigils painted on. Never could hurt to be protected. He stroked at the symbol tattooed in the web of his thumb, a small pentagram. The thing was probably more for his peace of mind, but it helped him sleep, knowing that hand was wrapped around Sam's chest at night. And when Sam was old enough to understand, he'd get his own.

And speaking of Sam, he thought, and scanned the edges of the fire, seeking him out. A few other boys were standing around the outside edge of the fire, all older than Sam and too grown to chase around after dogs like babies. They all of them pointedly ignored 'the baby', who was throwing himself to the ground behind them, deep in a pile of dogs. John shook his head. Sam never had a problem entertaining himself and he wasn't one to butt in where he wasn't wanted.

John split his watching Sam with listening to the 'hunters' trade bullshit stories and tips of the trade. This was what he did, turning up at the places these men gathered, to share stories, trade goods, it was important. More steps towards getting the just retribution he deserved, his lost family deserved. These…hunters, or however they called themselves, he didn't quite feel like one of them but they almost all shared a common story—some ghost, or beast, any number of supernatural predators, had made havoc of their lives. They'd been gutted in some way by things that went bump in the night. Things that ripped the heart out of you in the night….

He gulped down the bitter coffee and looked around for his boy, spotted him lying in the idle of that litter of wild-looking pups. He was wrapped up and twisted in with the furry bodies, looking pretty much to home. John swallowed, watched his son's eyes, narrow and assessing as a wolf's, look over the fire circle. They swept back and forth before meeting John's, seeming to have as much interest in the group as the pups had.

Samuel was…maybe a little wild himself. Smart—the boy was smarter than a four year old had a right to be and yet. And yet…John sighed, and called out his boy's name. "Sam."

Sammy jumped up and ran to John's side, face alight and eager, pleased to be recognized.

"Let's go turn in, boy. Leaving early in the morning. I got some things to get in town, some stuff you need too, before we head out." John had heard of a man out in the Black Hills who was supposed to be more knowledgeable of this stuff than anyone else around. Heard he was a loner but John figured he'd be able to work his way into the man's trust, he was that charming. Sam gave him an odd look when John laughed, but raced him to their bedrolls when John pointed and said, "Sleep."

Sam climbed into his and with a muttered, "G'night," dropped right off to sleep. John lay back and watched the stars come out; one after the other until the sky was suddenly dusted with them, like some giant had thrown diamonds in the sky…John sighed and looked at his son's back. He remembered Dean at this age, and at night how he'd told the boy stories that he'd been told himself as a child, fairy stories that'd made his little boy smile. For no reason he could think of, he'd never told one to Sam. At night, it was just go to sleep—see you in the morning. And Sam would throw himself down and sleep, just like that. No hug, no kisses between them. But that was good for the boy. He couldn't be soft. Soft would get them killed. He needed to be sharp, that was all. Sharp and clever and ready to look out for himself….John drifted off to sleep, and dreamt terrible dreams that disappeared without leaving a trace in the morning, just like he did every night.

~xX0Xx~
The next morning, after a quick breakfast and finishing up any deals to be made, John figured it was more than time to be off again. He had a few items to pack up in his saddlebag: an amulet supposed to protect against possession—though he had his doubts--a crow's skull, good for spells, bullet molds, and more protection--nails wrapped in red thread. The man he'd got them off of told him they'd been made by a colored man—a blacksmith who knew the old ways and the new that had grown steadily in this new world. The iron in the nails would protect against unsettled spirits and once they'd been blessed, hold demons at bay. With any luck. John sighed. The more protection Sam had the better. He had a book that he meant to bring to the Black Hills fellah, supposed to contain explanations and lessons. He hoped so; they were in a language he couldn't decipher. He just crossed his fingers and hoped it'd be something the man would covet….

***

Sam stood quietly by as his dad packed, waited for John to settle him on the horse in front of him. The ride into town was punctuated with lessons—John pointed out helpful herbs, good for the soul as well as the stomach, and plants to be avoided, how to look out for rattler's dens and what the rattles were good for—the cast-off skins too. Every step they ever took was filled with lessons and warnings, tests and all. They rarely spoke an idle word. Sam had learned young not to ask why. He knew that together, he and his dad would make the evil thing that had taken his mother and his brother pay, but…he wasn't sure exactly what that meant. He knew mothers were kind of like Missouri, that brothers were like…like other parts of you, and sometimes in the night, he wished hard to have the other part of him near again. When he played with the puppies, he watched them, and saw how some of them stuck together against the others. Sam figured a brother—his brother--would have been something like that, stick with him and keep the older kids from beating on him. He inhaled sharply, cast a quick look at his dad, knowing it was silly to worry he could see inside his head…he just didn’t want John to know that happened sometimes. Sam exhaled again, slow and careful and stared down the path, thinking his favorite thoughts, the ones that made him happiest, imagining his brave big brother that no one could beat, no one could out-talk or ignore.

If he'd still had his big brother, he'd know what Sam was thinking, and he'd care, and he'd look out for his little brother, because big brothers did that. Sam knew for sure that's what Dean would've done, if he'd ever got the chance to….

~xX0Xx~
John went into the general store and left Sam outside with the horses. Sam leaned against the hitching post and waited for his dad to return. Movement caught his eye, and he turned to watch two women walk carefully down the boardwalk towards him, doing their best to protect their boots from the mud and dust. They smiled at him, and the cute picture he made, something that Sam was quite unaware of. He only knew that women were like butterflies, bright and pretty and the function of which, he hadn't figured out yet.

One stopped and greeted him, just as his dad walked out of the store.

"Well, hello—aren't you precious? What's your name?" she asked, and her friend made odd little cooing noises—annoying noises.

Sam looked her up and down, eyes flashing over the parasol in her hands, the knit gloves that covered them, the line of dust that trimmed the hem of her dress and coated the toes of her boots. He answered her after a good few seconds thought, he knew his dad was there but he didn't even glance over at him. He said, emphatically, clearly, "Damn It Sam."

Both of the women gasped at his language, stepped around him like he was a cowpat on the path. John groaned like he'd been shot, and the ladies cast him the most baleful glances as they hurried away—Sam figured medusas must make faces like that—

"DAMN IT SAM."

Sam rolled his eyes. He was in trouble now, and it hardly seemed fair. As often as his dad said it, it must be his name. He pulled away from the post and straightened 'til he stood like a soldier and waited for the inevitable. Wondered if there was a way to convince his dad he really thought his name was Damn It Sam…maybe get out of the whipping John was probably planning right now.

"Jumping Je--Sammy, just—come on."

Sam rode all the way back to camp leaning against his dad's chest, warm from the top of his head down to his butt, feeling his dad's heart beat against his back. Feeling content. But mostly feeling glad he didn't get the whipping he deserved….

~xX0Xx~

part 7

The Pain!

2009-11-20T07:50:53Z

OMG, Internets!! You're back! Please let me post my story now!

Tonight's SpN ep was just amazing and heartbreaking and EVERY ONE OF THEM knocked it *WAY* out of the park. Good job all the way around. Well, except for the stunning amount of WTF MORONS at the beginning...were they supposed to be that stupid? *scritch head* Anyhoo, I want a lot more Crowely, Meg was cool but Castiel was GANGSTA!

What We Saw At My House

*watch TV*

*Cas throw a bitch in the flames* "It's bridge time, bitca"

*us be watching* "WTFUCKINGFUCK???? CAS???"

*Niece, all wide-eyed like Santa came: "Fuck, that was GANGSTA."

*us, all nodding and grinning* "Castiel came to get the job done!"

Fuuuuuuuuuuck, I love this show! Even when it breaks my heart, I love it!

Thanks, nataliadarimini!

2009-11-19T07:53:55Z

LOL! you know I'll do anything for a cup of coffee, love!

roxymissrose @ 2009-11-19T01:14:00

2009-11-19T06:16:02Z

I have to spread some more love on World's Forgotten Boys I can hardly get through an update in one shot, I have to factor in time for screaming "NoRossNo", and cringing time and sniveling time. I swear, I love this fic. Poor screwed up, stupid, hurting, adorable, idiot, wonderful Ross--he's just about my favorite OC of all time.

This was a weird evening--I went to bed like super early, fell asleep because Mr. R was there too, being all warm and human-blanky like, and then I woke up and ♥ and fell asleep again, aaaaaaand woke up again, got out of bed, ready to answer comments on Non Timebo Mala, post a new bit and then fuck Sammy up real good, but I got distracted by the shiny. I'm a baaaaad roxy. :)

but kind of feeling pretty good too. *double thumbs up* ah...because I made the heart. Yeah, see, heart.

spn: non timebo mala 5/?

2009-11-18T07:17:03Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1998
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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings.

"John…I know a man or two who might be able to help. I've told you all I know and that ain't much, but at least you've got a start. Remember, iron hurts most bad things, salt too. I put some helpful herbs in that sack you got, and soon as you can, you meet up with those men I told you about." She held Sam, and reluctantly gave him up. "John, you can't forget that Sammy is a baby, and needs a baby's care. He'll do everything you want, but don't forget, he's going to be his own man. And what kind of man that is depends on you. And if you need help, ever, I'm here, y'hear me?" So much concern, and maybe, a little fear, creased her face that John felt a cold shiver down his back. Almost she seemed to fear he'd make his little baby wrong in some way. But nothing in this world could make him hurt Sam, the last of his family. All he wanted was to keep him safe and when the time was right, to teach him how to keep himself.

"Damn it, Sam. Don't block the light—Daddy's trying to get this part to heart." John leaned back against the straight, splintery chair back, his hands clamped over the top edges of the old book he was studying. "If I don’t get this Latin just right…" he rubbed both hands over his face, knuckled his burning eyes and blew out a frustrated breath, "…I gotta get it right."
***
"Damn it Sam, be quiet for a little bit, willya? Go sit over there and play with the puppies or something. This man has got some things Daddy needs, and I gotta figure out how to make him settle for half what he wants for'em."
***
"Damn it Sam—stop cryin'! Babies cry, not grown boys! Now, wipe your nose and wait over there 'til I get this fire going so the damn bones'll catch good."
***
"Damn it Sam, just keep quiet, stand on the porch and eat the bread, Dad's got to talk to this fella, all right? We'll try and rustle up some foods later, promise…."
***
"Damn it Sam…."

~xX0Xx~
Dean
Sun was setting over the hills; orange and purple bled together in the sky. The hills reflected the colors, deep burnt orange melting into tan and sand, the dusty green of grass stippled through it. Dean leaned on the porch rail, just barely getting his elbows on the top one, and watched the colors shift and change. Behind him, through the open window, he could hear singing, smell dinner cooking—greens, ham, and biscuits, perfect for a summer's evening meal. He turned to watch Tobe at the stove, grinning at the way his broad body blocked the view of the thing, thick neck bent over a pot—considering. Tobe watched food cook like some strange alchemy was taking place—like dinner might take wing and fly away…Dean giggled to himself and turned back to the show nature was putting on for him.

A big ginger cat weaved through his ankles and he shook his leg, trying to scare it off. Tobe would have a fit if he knew Dean let the cat up on the porch. Couldn't imagine why the darn cat kept coming up on the porch…could be because he fed it, when Tobe wasn't around. Tobe had an iron-clad rule. Anything on his place not edible, had better be working. He had no use for pets. He said animals were animals, and they existed to help men, not to lounge around looking pretty. Sure. Which was why Mr. Kane talked to Gabe like the horse was part of the family, and brought him treats and in general acted like the horse was smarter and more entertaining than most men. Dean smiled. Tobe acted like he had a heart of stone. Him and Gabe knew better.

Dean looked back at the line of trees at the horizon and startled. For a moment, it looked like the trees had spread—and then the shapes separated out and he could see men on horseback, hear muffled whickering of horses, muted voices, the soft clink of metal—

The ground under Dean tipped and nearly dropped him on his ass. His head was swimming. Fire and ice filled him. He sucked desperately at air filled with smoke, too hot to breathe, too scared to yell until finally, sound tore out of his mouth, a shout of fear that came out of his mouth a whimper, meant to be a call for help. Momma…the men found me. He wasn't sure what that meant but his mind kept shouting it at him—Run, run from the men, Dean.

Tobe charged out of the house—he burst through their front door looking like he was going to kill something. Got even fiercer when he saw Dean sprawled on the porch floor. "What the hell, boy—oh!"

He grabbed Dean up and plopped him into his lap, and Dean didn’t even complain he was too big for that. "It's okay, honey-boy. Look. They're friends, promise—it's okay." Tobe was pointing out to the dark at the end of the yard--the shadows became dark-skinned, black-haired men on painted horses, hands up in greeting, shouting something in a friendly way.

"Arapaho. They come through this way this time of year, they always stop by me for metal to make arrowheads, other things. We trade. I promise, they won’t hurt you." Tobe stared at Dean's too wide eyes, the way his breath came too fast. "Those are *not* the men," Tobe said on a guess, and Dean's head snapped towards him. "Not them, Dean."

Dean stared at him for a long moment before nodding. okay. Trust you. he grimaced and kicked his legs. now put me down Tobe laughed and set him on his feet again, and went out to greet their visitors.

~xX0Xx~

Tobe held Dean as he talked to him about the men around the fire. He explained to Dean that this time of year, the Arapaho gathered for the Sun Dance, and this small band was on the way to meet up with a lot of relatives and friends. Dean couldn't imagine having so much family it would take days to gather, wondered what it must feel like.

Dean couldn't keep his eyes off them—they fascinated him. They were beautiful, colorful, he could see they were fierce and strong…it drew him, he felt like there was something he shared with them…maybe the way they loved family.

Tobe was good to him and let him stay up way past his bedtime. After a while, the stories told and translated--mostly for him, the murmuring and the quiet laughter, a belly tight with stew, all led Dean into dozing in and out, content. The warmth of the flames were like hands stroking his skin, soothing him into deep sleep ….

He woke up with a start, to see one of the younger Arapaho men leaning over him. He was older than Dean but not by very much. His hair fell over his shoulder, the ends of his braids brushing Dean's cheek. Dean reached up without thinking and grabbed the loose ends of one of the braids. Most of it was wrapped in a long strip of rawhide dotted with feathers, the strands left loose slipped through his fingers, black and sleek as a crow's wing. "Pretty…soft…" the words fell out and he gasped, as if trying to draw them back. The boy smiled and patted Dean's hand.

"Tired of hiding, little brother? Speak when you want to, you'll be safe." He ruffled the unruly thatch of Dean's hair and walked away.

Dean's heart beat hard, he felt a little dizzy and a little too warm, like he'd just run miles. Something he couldn't understand or put a name to, something like magic, had happened, it felt like. He rubbed the fingers that he'd pulled through the boy's hair over and over, still feeling the silky texture, the smell of the grease that had been in it still on his fingers and it smelled odd but good, Dean thought. He lifted his fingers to his nose and drifted back to sleep on the scent, the broad expanse of Tobe behind him as comfortable and safe as his bed….

He had a dream and in the dream he heard, "Speak when you want to little brother," but he was saying the words, and a little warm hand closed around his. His heart swelled big and warm—it was a good feeling, to look out after his little brother. He looked down to see a head full of jet black hair; big brown eyes, tilted like a cat's, and locked on his. "I'm going to protect you, brother," the little boy said." The little boy wavered a bit in the light of the campfire, stretching taller, thinner, like the flames, looking through the fire at him made the boy's eyes look green, and his hair, the color of mink's fur….
***
Dean woke up in his own bed, missing a brother he didn’t have. He cried, quietly as he could into his blanket, cried for his brother and for his mother and father—he cried a long time, but after he felt better, lighter than he'd had in…he couldn't even remember ever feeling this light.

At the foot of his bed was a loosely wrapped square of cloth—a red bandana, like the one Tobe wore in the forge. Dean picked it up, and it fell open. Inside it was a jumble of things, a piece of dried sage, some dried yellow flowers, a little gnarled piece of root that smell nice. Mixed in with them was a little rock shaped like a snail, a nail twisted into a ring, and a shiny piece of blue stone. He wrapped it up again, small and small. He held it to his nose—sighed. Safe. It smelled like safe. Maybe he could get Tobe to make him a little bag…he'd ask after breakfast.

~xX0Xx~

1839
"Da—Tobe…I was wondering…"

"Hmm?" Tobe sorted through bars of metal, sizing up what he'd need. He had a horse to shoe later in the day, and figured he might as well start on those pulleys for the Tomich's farm. "What you said, Dean?" Since Dean started talking, Tobe had been pleasantly surprised that he chose his words well, spoke like a preacher, that boy. Just about any time Dean spoke, it was sure to make Tobe think, or smile—sometimes laugh out loud. At eight, Dean was quite the observer of life.

Dean swept the forge floor, and separated out usable pieces of scrap metal as he worked. Slowing down, he leaned on the broom and watched Tobe start the fire. "I want to know, when will I get black? Why am I still white? Do I need to stand close to the flame, or work the iron—" his words came out in a rush, and then trickled to a stop, confusion in his eyes.

Tobe's face was a picture of horrified-amused-shocked, and then the flood of expressions melted into sadness.

Tobe narrowed his eyes, and his lips tightened, he barked, "Never, boy! I ain't never heard such foolishness. You're white, I'm black, that's the way God made it. There ain't no changes coming."

Dean looked at Tobe with the same open, torn look of betrayal he'd had when Tobe made to get rid of him…he was mostly sure Dean didn't remember that day, but it broke his heart to see the boy so *hurt* again.

"But I want to be like you," he wailed and Tobe dropped his tools and knelt down by Dean, wrapped his arms around him.

"Listen to me, honey-boy. You afraid I don’t love you?" Dean shook his head. "Then what're you making a fuss about? I love you no matter what, and you love me too right?" Dean nodded, still balled up in Tobe's leather apron. "Then stop this foolishness, hear? You wipe your face, and help your pa out, okay?"

Dean lifted his head up, his face shining like the sun was under the skin. He grabbed a handful of Tobe's beard and yanked his head down so he was eye level with the boy. "You said pa."

"Wee-ell, long as no-one's around, I guess it's all right. Now, go do what I told you, bring us some coal back here. Gonna need a lot today."
.
Dean skipped off to do as Tobe asked, the emotional storm of a moment before evaporated like morning dew, his hand wrapped around his necklace and beaming like the beginning of the world. Tobe combed fingers through his ruffled beard, trying to smooth it out. He let out a long shaky breath and shook his head. "Dean." That boy was going to be the death of him, him and his crazy notions.

He couldn't stop grinning to himself so after a bit, he just stopped trying.

part 6

stuff

2009-11-17T04:59:10Z

So tomorrow I go back to work--perch-toooieeee! It was a long vacation, and I got a bit of work done on my stories, and a lot of work done in the house. I have some faint idea of where to go with the J2, I'm glad about that.

Can someone explain to me what happened to that movie Avatar? Are there two flicks called Avatar? 'Cause I see the trailer for this one flick, and it's like "ef-what?" Yes, old people call the movies flicks--shut up. I've been wallowing in nostalgia this week.

Thank you loves, for your comments on my J2 sniplet. There will be a disturbing amount of het in the thing--still, hoping it's going to be toasty enough. If one porns, one should strive to porn one's best. This should be on a pillow...

BOOOOOORED

2009-11-16T04:33:16Z

OMG--so bored! How about I post a little snipplet of that J2 that I haven't actually been writing so much as tweaking a few lines endlessly? It's only 2000 words, but it's 2000 words I've been working on--if by working we mean screaming into a pillow and hurling curses at the story. A-hem.

Soon, there will be a teeny bit of NTM, too. *poor Sam*

Anyhoo, have a little sliver of fic and when I really do start posting this thing, pretend you've never seen this....

Title: none yet
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Jared/Sandy
Word Count: 669 (snort--is twelve)
Rating: NC-17
Warning: het (omg, i know right? me???), very, very much a WIP, posting for encouragement

"Really, I'm asking you not to embarrass me. I mean—I--I don’t mean embarrass me…" Sandy winces, stares at him in the mirror.

"I know what you mean", Jared says and tries to look amused. Inside he thinks how did we get here? How did I get here?

Sandy sends him a look over her shoulder, the look that she wants to mean I'll do anything you want to make up for that and he's…his prick stirs in interest, can’t help it. She's got him trained. She untwists something, some mysterious girl thing, pins or combs, out of her hair and lets it fall loose the way he likes it and the way she so seldom wears it. Her breasts push the front of the plain black slip out, creamy skin filling up the silk fabric, her nipples dimple the lace. Her knees are spreading a bit on the vanity bench. "Jared…"

He's behind her, lifting her, sliding a hand under her, rucking up her slip. He slips two fingers past the leg of her panties and slides them into her so easily--feels how hot and wet she is already. He unzips with one hand, slides behind her on the seat and settles her over his knees. Her head drops back against his chest. Her weight is nothing on him; she's like, like feathers. Inside her is slick as silk, hot and getting wetter, his palm pressed against damp, fine curls, his fingers held, and released, as she clamps down on him, moaning. Fuck, he loves this…blushes deep, deep red…loves it almost more than fucking her.

Jared presses against Sandy's back; prick sliding against the silk fabric. They both shudder when the head rubs against her lower back.

"Jay." Her eyes are locked on his in the mirror, but they gradually slide out of focus; she's pulling her full lower lip between her teeth, the marks she leaves pale and then flush dark red. His fingers move slowly inside her, teasing her at first, then fucking deeper until he reaches the point he needs to be there, inside of her. Lifts her up two-handed and she squeaks out laughter, gasps when he shoves into her without warning.

"Shii—oh, Sa---oh." He's watching her darkening eyes, the way her mouth comes loose, open—the only sounds she makes are moans, grunts when he jerks up into her hard, whines when he teases her by barely staying inside. She grabs his thighs with her nails and digs in until he pulls her tight to him and fucks her hard. It's so good he almost forgets to pull out, has to struggle to catch his spunk in his hand. Almost forgets to get her off with his free hand, rubbing hard on her clit the way she likes it. When she comes, he presses his palm against her pussy and grinds down, feels her riding her orgasm out.

"Oh." She drops her head against his chest, and he rests his chin on her head. He watches her come back to herself, her lazy grin tightening, getting sharper. Licks her bitten lips and checks her makeup, snatches a wad of tissues out of the box on her vanity. "Here. Clean up, and don’t get any on me."

He rolls his eyes. He used to think that was cute, sometimes it still is, but right now he feels…a little flat. Still annoyed at being border-line insulted, but then she squeezes his wrist and sighs, "I love you, you big goof." He can't resist that, hugs her to him and buries his nose in her hair.

"Okay, okay," she breathes. "Let me up, I've got to shower."

"Don't," he whispers into her hair, "leave it. I want to know what we did tonight. I want to smell you, know you're mine…"

"Jared, are you nuts, for God's sake. My boss is going to at this party-—people—"

Jared lets her get up and flounce to the bathroom.

How did we get here?
next part

Sick!

2009-11-14T06:42:36Z

SICKsickSick...sick...SICK.

Tomatoes have joined the list of food that hates me. *pout* They were good though. Almost worth the horrible awful cramps and stuff...also, I almost put my eye out. Very scary, just crouching there thinking, omg, that could have been my EYE!!! I'm still all freaked out and shit.

So, I might be slightly incoherent answering comments(thank you story readers, i want to bear your children) & leaving comments--hey! Who said "and that's different how?"

roxymissrose @ 2009-11-12T21:11:00

2009-11-13T02:11:13Z

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!
DYING OF EMBARRASSMENT!!

And laughing my ass off!!!!!!!

KRIPKE YOU MOTHERFUCKER I LOVE YOU!!!!

SpN: Non Timebo Mala, 4/?

2009-11-13T00:09:42Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1765
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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest.) Sections will have individual warnings.

Tobe huffed and crossed his arms—huffed again to cover the sharp tug at his heart. "You're one powerful annoying little so-'n-so. You keep out of that molasses, hear? Keep out of the cellar all together, you gonna break your neck going down those stairs. You'd do it just to make me mad, I swan."

*We done now, not mad any more* "...Dah Tobe…?" Dean's voice, rough with lack of use cracked in the air. Dean gave out words like precious nuggets, like it hurt to talk, and sometimes went so long, Tobe almost forgot he could….

"Boy, take them mocs off and don’t call me Daddy. All we need is to have someone hear that…" It made him sad to scold the boy for calling him so. He was an all around pain in his hind-quarters but in the weeks he'd had him, Tobe had come to think of the little boy as his—

Tobe watched Dean fling feed for the chickens with great enthusiasm, if not accuracy. He laughed aloud, but made no other sound….

The winter had passed, and now they were deep in spring, and still Dean hadn't been moved to talk. Tobe sighed. He knew he made it too easy for him not to. His heart led him to protect Dean from any hurt, gave him too much protection, maybe. Just couldn't forget the tragedy that brought him into Tobe's life. Of course, Tobe realized he wasn't really helping Dean, not at all. That continuing silence convinced him that the best thing for the little white boy was to give him to others like him. White people could make the boy to talk again. Familiar faces, familiar things…he knew giving him up had to be the right thing to do.

Soon as the road out was passable, Tobe loaded the boy into the wagon, and they rode into town—he was determined to see if there was any way to find a family, relations for the boy. He figured he'd settle up what he'd come to owe the store over the winter, arrange for a shipment of coal to be delivered to the forge, and maybe buy a pair of boots for the boy—for sure a few pieces of clothing. He wore through the clothes he came in, and wore through a shirt or two of Tobe's--went through the moccasins Tobe made for him like they were made out of paper. He was pretty much running about the place like a wild animal. Troublesome, that's what he was. He'd be glad to be shut of the boy.

The store owner and his wife were waiting on customers as they walked in, and Tobe quietly moved to stand in the back of the place. He planted himself against the rear wall of the store, almost out of sight, and prepared himself to wait. He crossed his arms and shut off his brain—he'd have to wait until every last customer had been waited on until they turned to him, town's blacksmith or not.

Dean was fascinated at first, wandering the store, staring at the ceiling to floor shelves full of brightly colored bottles and cans, boxes and crocks, filled and empty. There were bags of salt, and sugar, and flour. Jars of penny candy and peppermint sticks marching across the counters in straight lines caught his eye, and the everyday, necessary tools hanging over their heads and on the walls made him tilt his head back until he got dizzy....

The store owner spared them an uninterested look from his perch on a tall ladder behind the counter, but he did nod his head in greeting to Tobias. Behind the counter with him stood a tall thin woman, busy with a bolt of cloth she passed to a customer, declaring the pattern to be the latest thing, and very popular with the ladies in the East.

Dean looked and looked until information overload lead him to being cranky--he fidgeted and fretted, impatient to be out of the store. He yanked on Tobe's pant leg. Why are we waiting? There's no line. Come on.

"Shush, boy," he said, as if Dean had spoken out loud. The store owner's wife looked up at that, and frowned at the pair.

"Toby, what *is* that boy doing with you? Where's his parents?" She looked as suspicious as if she believed Tobe had stolen Dean—and the tone of her voice put Dean instantly on edge, glowering at the woman and backing up against Tobe's legs.

Tobe said, "He's an orphan. Come to look for relatives of his. Give him back."

Dean inhaled sharply--looked up at Tobe, his face a mask of betrayal. "Nu-unh." His voice croaked out, raw and unsettled and Tobe winced. He'd wanted to tell the boy when it was a done deal.

"Well, Toby, you go on and leave him with us. Not right, him living with you—" She wanted to go on, her pinched face tight but the store owner interrupted her.

"Mrs. Baker, leave it-- it's not our business. Leave him be." The man looked at Tobe in silent apology.

"Mr. Baker, it's not right. Just not right. We can't leave that boy with a nigger. He needs a proper family. We can find his relatives, and while he waits we'll take him in. It's our Christian duty." She came around the counter, a dusty, dry bag of bones without the juice to run a heart, Tobe thought, and clenched his hands. There was nothing he could do—God knew he wanted to smack the living hell out of her, and he prayed to God it didn't show on his face—Dean was taking care of that for both of them, his pink lips were almost white, pressed flat in fury.

The woman reached out and grabbed Dean's hand. "Come on now, little boy—"

Later Tobe would think of it as That Time All Hell Broke Loose. Dean pushed Mrs. Baker hard enough to stagger her into a shelf, showering the floor behind her with loose goods—yanked his hand back out of her grip and when she tried to go after him again, before Tobe could hold him, Dean leaped up into the air and *spit*.

Accurately. Plentifully.

The glob landed on her shirt, and she looked down in horror. Screamed, "Mr. Baker!" at the top of her lungs.

Tobias froze, his mouth open, his brain shut down. Dean looked at him, and shrugged. The corner of his mouth twisted up into a rueful half-smile. Too bad. Was aiming for her face. "Dean!"

"You—you—*you brat*—" She smacked Dean, right in the face and he fell back into Tobe, the entire side of his face bright red. She raised her hand again, and Tobe grabbed it.

He was done. No way was he standing by and letting this woman beat on an innocent baby. More or less innocent…least ways, not his baby. "Nope. Don't do it."

Dean refused to waste words on her, but he peeled back his lip and growled, loud and ragged. His eyes flashed, he made to go after her and Tobe yanked a handful of collar and pulled him back, holding him like a hunter held back a dog set for bear.

"Mr. Baker! Do you see this? The little monster—he tried to *bite* me!" At that point, Mrs. Baker seemed in danger of completely giving over to a serious case of hysterics, and Mr. Baker had had enough.

"Nope, don’t see a dang thing. Get over here woman, before you make a worse scene. I say let Tobias handle him, he's not got anyone else and it's plain to see the boy is mentally deficient in some way."

Dean snapped his teeth again and growled in a way that was enough to convince Mrs. Baker that Dean was indeed crazy, and that erased any vestige of her interest in him. From that moment on, Dean ceased to exist for her, and Tobe was relieved as anything that the horrible events transpiring might just be swept under the rug. He could count on the woman spreading it about that Dean was damaged—and that suited him just fine.

Tobe quickly placed his orders, and Mr. Baker dropped his eyes when Tobe laid a pair of tiny new boots and a few items of clothing on the counter. He slipped Dean a peppermint stick, and apologized very quietly under his breath to Tobe.

What Mr. Baker understood and his wife didn’t was that no one with any sense at all angered the Blacksmith. Tobias Kane might not be a white man, but blacksmiths…they knew things, maybe not dark things but it never hurt to be wary…and add a little extra to the bag of cornmeal.

Tobe nodded, carefully accepting the man's apology and decided right there, Dean was not going into town again. He'd school him himself, and teach him the trade and teach him the things he needed to know to keep himself safe.

They left the store, and Dean 'helped' Tobe load up the wagon. Gabe tossed his head, and watched them work with interest. Tobe gave Gabe an eye-over, like always before working him, felt a tug at his hip. His hand out, waving it under Tobe's nose, Dean demanded a piece of carrot for Gabe. Tobe watched him feed the horse, patting Gabe's velvety nose. Stood there, quite and sweet, crooning to the old horse and there was no sign of the furious boy who'd gone to battle for the right to stay with Tobe.

They were out of the town and almost home, Tobe deep in thought, when he felt Dean's eyes on him. He was looking up at him, smug little expression on his smug little face. We done with this foolishness? the twist of his lips said. I'm staying with you, and that's that. the words plain in his smooth brow, his sparkling eyes.

"You ever start speaking," Tobe muttered, "and I'll never have a moment's peace again, will I?" he huffed. "Long as you don’t forget who the boss is we'll be all right, y'hear me?"

Dean smiled, sitting straight as a ruler on the seat next to Tobe, peppermint stick clutched in his hands and kicking his feet back and forth, admiring his brand new boots.

~xX0Xx~

"John…I know a man or two who might be able to help. I've told you all I know and that ain't much, but at least you've got a start. Remember, iron hurts most bad things, salt too. I put some helpful herbs in that sack you got, and soon as you can, you meet up with those men I told you about."

She held Sam, and reluctantly gave him up. "John, you can't forget that Sammy is a baby, and needs a baby's care. He'll do everything you want, but don't forget, he's going to be his own man. And what kind of man that is depends on you. And if you need help, ever, I'm here, y'hear me?"

So much concern, and maybe, a little fear, creased her face that John felt a cold shiver down his back. Almost she seemed to fear he'd make his little baby wrong in some way. But nothing in this world could make him hurt Sam, the last of his family. All he wanted was to keep him safe and when the time was right, to teach him how to take care of himself.

part 5

November 11

2009-11-12T05:27:59Z

This is my dad. He's holding me. My dad served in the Army--WWII, and in Viet Nam. He did thirty years and retired. The Army probably gave him a better life than he would have had in Florida at the time. My dad wasn't a service kind of guy. Once he got out of the army he was done. I think the thing he valued about his service was meeting my mom when he was stationed in Europe. (warbaby here).

He gave up a lot for this country, and in my opinion, gave a lot more than he got. When he came back to the States with my mom, it took them forever to find a place to live. Service wasn't good enough. He was a vet, but he was a Black vet, and that didn't mean anything to anyone. Still, he overcame, and eventually, Black vets were recognized for their service too.

So anyway, my dad--handsome devil.

SpN: Non Timebo Mala, 3/?

2009-11-11T20:51:56Z

Title: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: this post G, various by chapter
Word Count: 1730
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. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest.) Sections will have individual warnings.

He picked up the blanket wrapped bundle, barely a weight in his arms, but warm and comfortable against his shoulder. A long damped feeling flickered in his chest. Remembered holding his sister's babies, long, long ago, and how it'd felt, even if it wasn't true--like safe, and good, being close to family. Holding Dean felt like that, and that made him mad. He shouldn't feel like that about a little one who didn't belong—couldn't belong—to him. He sighed, and laid Dean down on the spare room bed. Tobe pulled another blanket over the one the boy wore and went back to his work.

Soon as the snow settled, that boy would have to go.

~xX0Xx~

Samuel
The town was little more than a camp, boardwalks kept the spring mud from sucking a body down to its knees. There was a bar...he squinted…or whorehouse?...a barber's, and a small store. John's head was spinning, and Sam was screaming, wide awake again. He'd walked all night, not stopping, until he'd made his way into town—a dismal little spot on the map that he'd had little to do with in the normal course of things. He'd had no use for the bar or whorehouse--whatever it was, the store sold no feed or seed and he'd always gone to Mackinaw on the other side of the hills but. It was too far to walk to in one night, what with no longer having a wagon, or horse to pull it….

He bounced Sam up and down, tears in both their eyes. He needed to feed the boy, and change him and he had nothing. Sam's bottom was wrapped in what was left of John's shirt—he needed clean napkins, he needed milk, and John was about ready to fall down on the ground. He was drawing curious stares from the rough bunch of men who passed back and forth past the little alley John had taken refuge in. It was a whorehouse all right, the building he'd taken refuge behind. He was thinking, thinking hard. There were…women…here. Working women, but women who had a better idea of how to raise a baby than he did. Maybe….

John wiped his eyes, fought to stifle a useless sob. His wife had done all that kind of work. She'd done a wonderful job with Dean, stout little fella with a huge heart and a bigger smile. She'd made that boy happy and smart, that was certain. He patted the blanket swamping Samuel, who was wrapped up so tight he couldn't wiggle a finger and all tuckered out from yelling, now sleeping hard as could be. His round cheeks were bright pink, and sweat curled the brown wisps tickling his forehead. No doubt that Mary'd made Dean a happy child in his too-short life. But how was he to help Sam? What did he know about that, making a child to be happy and whole? John knew breaking soil, planting seed, he knew fishing, and he knew hunting, but not a damn thing about raising a baby by himself. Milk and diapers and feeding and changing and. God.

He was lost. They were lost. His mind came back over and over, to the thing that had worn a man like a suit, and the blood, blood everywhere. He looked down on the little bundle in his hands and vowed…he'd find out that thing and kill it, he swore before God and Mary and Dean. He'd find that thing and anything like it and make it bleed and die like his family had. He shuddered and Sam chose that moment to wake up and scream some more.

"Man, get that baby over here. Can't you hear that child's hungry?"

He looked behind him in the alley and caught the stern glare of a stout black woman, standing on a sliver of porch hanging off the back door of the whorehouse. She called out to him again, impatient and brusque. John took no offense. He was ready and desperate for anyone's help.

She was dark-skinned, her eyes dark too, and even in the dim light he could see how sharp they were. Her arms were crossed over a shawl covering the shoulders of a starched white shirt, the shirt and ends of the shawl tucked into a plain, black wool skirt. A black kerchief covered her hair…signified she was a servant of some kind, and not one of the house's girls. She was…formidable. And proved it so by skewering him with a look his old sergeant would have been envious of. John's lips twitched in what tried to become a smile. Even Sam held off on his screaming to stare at her.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

At first, the stench--perfume and beer and cabbage and a lot of humans stuffed into one place--assaulted him. She pulled him down a narrow dark hallway and bundled him through a door, into a well lit, warm kitchen. The scent changed here—the air was filled with the smell of baking bread, greens simmering, navy beans cooking in a kettle on a big black stove. It smelled good, and clean—no hint of casual hygiene, or indifferent cleaning in this room. He glanced around, his hands pressing a squalling Sammy tighter to him. His eyes watered from the good smells and—just the damn joy of sitting still and being warm.

"Man," she snapped her fingers, "Give me that child now, from the smell of the poor little thing it's been a while since it's been changed or fed."

John responded to the voice of command and handed his son over. "Sam. His name is Sam.
And I'm his daddy, John Winchester." He held out his hand to her, ready to shake hands like she was a white woman, and she snorted, turned her full attention to his Sam.

"Well, hello, little Sam," she crooned. "Aren't you a handsome little thing." She looked up at John, and her big brown eyes, so melting and full of love when she'd been looking down at his son, turned hard as flint looking at him. "I dreamt about you, your family. You need help, and I can give it to you. I know what it is you want to hunt." She looked at his son again and sighed. "I don’t want to but I will. I have to, no matter the price."

John shifted on the seat, and opened his mouth to speak, but the woman interrupted. "John…I know what you're going to say and no. We can't keep this baby here. This is…not the place for a little child. You think being raised without a momma would be bad? Raise that baby in a whore house and imagine what he'd be. What could happen to a tender young thing. Worse than what he'd be with you, I know."

John reared back, wanting to smack the pitying look off the woman's face, but sense took over and he knew she wasn't trying to hurt him, she was trying to make him think about Sam, not about himself.

"You hate what I'm saying to you, but it's nothing but the truth. Keep your son, John, and love him. Keep him safe. You the only one who can protect him, teach him what he needs to know."

He took his baby son back out of the woman's arms, Sam's little fingers caught up in her shawl and nearly taking it with him. She smiled, white teeth whiter against her dark skin, her plump cheeks plumper still. "He's beautiful, but…" She shook her head. "I'm a cook in a whore house and I barely have a minute I can call my own. I can tell you this. Your boy's got a big piece of work in front of him." She looked sad. "Both of you. You…you'll do your level best."

She stood, and fixed him a plate and took Sam off to a corner table, to change him. He was happier in a bit—bottom wrapped in a clean flour-sack towel, sucking away on a bottle meant for orphan kids. "You eat now," she told John sternly. "Tomorrow, we start lessons. And by lessons, I mean diaper making and baby feeding. That's the most important thing right now, hear?"

John nodded, almost afraid to speak. He'd never met a woman as fearsome as this one….

"Missouri. You can call me that," she said, and smiled.

~xX0Xx~

Dean
Snow melt drip-dripped off the edge of the porch roof, puddled around the porch steps. The front yard was a lake of slowly warming mud, dotted here and there with a few brave lupines. And foot-steps. Lots and lots of little water filled footsteps. Tobe stood with his fists balled up and jammed into his hipbones, he was that mad. And the little criminal who'd raided the pantry was standing in front of him, unrepentant as hell, and compounding the crime he was muddy and wet from the knees down. He'd followed the trail of muddy moccasins to the beastly little criminal grinning up at him—shining smile and bright green eyes locked unblinking on his—*totally* unrepentant.

"Look here, boy. Don’t pretend you don’t know who was into the molasses. Ain't nobody here but you and me and I know it wasn't me. Plus I gotta damn trail of muddy footprints all over—could be a blind man tracking you, he'd catch you."

You sure about that? Dean's eyebrow asked. He sucked his bottom lip in and held it. His eyes danced with the need to laugh. One knee bent a little. I can run pretty fast.

"Ain't funny, Dean boy. Right about now, I'm favoring tanning your hide. A good solid whipping, I mean to say." Cocoa tinted cheeks flushed a dull fierce red, Tobe was that mad. His whiskey-colored eyes flashed like fire, and Dean's eyes lost all their mischievous sparkle.

A tremble shaking his chin, lowered brows and a glance away and back said, don’t be mad. Are you mad, really?

Tobe huffed and crossed his arms—huffed again to cover the sharp tug at his heart. "You're one powerful annoying little so-'n-so. You keep out of that molasses, hear? Keep out of the cellar all together, you gonna break your neck going down those stairs. You'd do it just to make me mad, I swan."

We done now, not mad any more "...Dah Tobe…?" Dean's voice, rough with lack of use cracked in the air. Dean gave out words like precious nuggets, like it hurt to talk, and sometimes went so long, Tobe almost forgot he could….

"Boy, take them mocs off and don’t call me Daddy. All we need is to have someone hear that…" It made him sad to scold the boy for calling him so. He was an all around pain in his hind-quarters but in the weeks he'd had him, Tobe had come to think of the little boy as his—just as much as Dean had come to think of Tobe as belonging to him.

part 4