Passing The Sword. Part 1/2
This is the timestamp for The Unsuitable Slave that I was never going to write, and then, when the characters beat me into submission to write it, it was not going to be posted. *sigh* . How can anyone refuse these boys when they insist?
Description: Master!Jensen and Slave!Jared. This is a world where the only monsters are men. Every legend has a beginning and an end. This is the very last adventure of Unsuitable Slave’s Prince Jared and Prince Jensen, as told from Dean Winchester’s POV.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: AU, graphic violence, non-explicit sex, slavery, D/s themes, serious illness, angst, schmoop, did I mention angst, major character death.
Pairings/Characters: Jensen/Jared, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Length: ~8,000 words
Thanks to
meus_venator and sylsdarkplace for reading this through and making it so much better. I know it wasn’t easy! Any mistakes remain my own, I tinkered with text during posting, so if you spot a typo don’t be shy to point it out.
Disclaimer: This is fiction, pure fantasy folks. Nobody here belongs to me and they’re not likely to get in my van for candy any time
This fic might never have seen the light of day if it hadn’t been for the amazing art made for it by
meus_venator. You’re so generous and talented bb.
How could I not share it all? The art post is here with bonus banners and icons, so go give her some love! (Or kick her for setting me off ...)
Also on my A03 for PDF/ePUB
Dean and Sam Winchester dismounted at the same time, with the same fluid grace. They stood at the top of the meadow, gazing down at its flower-dotted and tangled grass, both of them lost in thought.
They stopped here sometimes, between hunts. The toll-house where they used to live stood abandoned and decayed, covered with creeping ivy, but they spared it barely a glance. They had noted the old manor house as they passed it by, but its glory was faded too. It had been converted into soldiers' barracks soon after the Laird had been incarcerated for his crimes.
They’d met King Joshua and Queen Meghan in this meadow once. Sam and Dean Winchester had been young, too young, at the time. They had been exhausted, blood spattered, overwhelmed and grieving. The royal delegation hadn’t seemed remarkable to Dean then. The Queen and her King mourned the passing of their kin, the same as any other person, and they’d stood side by side with Dean and Sam, the physik and Granny Eowyn when cold earth filled a grave and flowers marked a silent space.
Now, old soldiers of the Royal Guard trained nearby, quietly watching over a small village and tending the sweet meadow which was both remembrance and sanctuary. Today, the sky was clear blue and the sun was high and bright in the sky. A breeze ruffled Sam’s hair and scented spring blossom drifted on the grass and settled by a modest stone marker. Sam raised his face into the warmth and shaded his eyes. Dean knew he was thinking how Jared and Jensen would have liked to sit out here on such a day.
Sam sometimes said there was so much evil in the world he felt he could drown in it. As many bandits, brigands and gangs as they put down, there were always more victims, more places and more evil demanding their attention.
So once in a while, when their destination brought their journey close, Sam and Dean came here to think, to breathe deep and gain perspective. To remember the how and why of their lives and to remind themselves that perfect love can still exist in the midst of the chaos and turmoil of the life that had been passed to them.
~~~~~~
Sam was too thin, thought Dean, as he broke another chair into pieces and fed the sturdy oak seat into flickering, orange flame. His eleven year old brother sighed and flicked brunette bangs from his face as he stirred the gruel, and Dean stopped to rub his shoulder. It was the only reassurance he could give and he knew it wasn’t enough.
“We’ll have no furniture left, Dean,” Sam whined.
“What is furniture without family?” Dean’s reply was too quiet, too broken.
Sam raised the spoon and the lumpy mixture dropped with a plop, back into the pot. “Are you going out there again, tonight?”
“Yeah. The bad men won’t be back, not yet. The windows are boarded. You barricade the door and turn out all the lights. Stay quiet, Sammy.”
Sam pouted. “Why? If the banditos won’t come? And what if Ma and Pa come home? How will they get in?”
Dean’s face darkened, deep green eyes closed briefly before he spoke again, “May as well accept that Ma and Pa aren’t coming back, Sammy. It’s just you and me now.”
“And the rest of us? The physik and Granny Eowyn, and my friends at school? We’re all still here, Dean.”
Dean patted his little brother on the back and feathered his other hand around the heavy old sword his father had given him on his fifth birthday, “That they are, Sammy. I’m here too, I’ll look after you. That’s my job isn’t it? Look after my pain in the ass little brother.”
They ate their meal without enthusiasm but every drop was licked from the bowl and their stomachs still grumbled. Sam cleaned the dishes without Dean asking and hid his tearful hazel eyes behind his long bangs. He sat on his bunk in the corner of the kitchen and drew his knees to his chest. “Do you think they’ll meet you on fine horses, in crimson capes, carrying shining swords of magic steel?”
Dean sat carefully on the side of the bed and reached to card his hands through Sam’s hair. He drew breath before recounting the familiar bedtime story. “They’ll ride on fine unicorn stallions. Their weapons will shine with sharp blade and magic.”
“Tell me more about them, about the Child and his Master, Dean.”
“They ride faster than the North wind. They wear clothes of fine leather and silk. The Child is a giant tree of a man and yet he moves with the stealth of a fox. His Master is taller than any mere mortal, his eyes flash emerald with vengeance and he pounces with the grace of a tiger. No bandit can defeat them.”
Sam joined in now, to mouth the words of a well-versed legend with his big brother, “Together they hunt as one, swifter than a cheetah, stronger than a work-horse and deadlier than a pack of wolves, to cut down the guilty and rescue the innocent.”
“Yeah, Sammy. Yeah. Now, lock and barricade the door after me and don’t open it for anything until I return, in the morning …”
“And if I don’t come home, don’t come looking. Take the old cart and take everyone South. Keep moving and don’t stop until you’re in Ty’Bont.” Sam joined in with Dean’s words and tried not to cry. “You’re coming back though, Dean, right?” his bottom lip wobbled as he asked the question.
“Of course and I’m going to bring the Master and his Child with me, you’ll see.”
Dean wrapped a scarf around his neck, pocketed a knife and lifted his sword before walking out of the door and closing it behind him.
“They’re a myth, Dean,” Sam said, too quietly to be heard. He knew the real purpose of Dean’s departure. His fifteen year old brother would be standing watch for what was left of the village, alone again that night.
***
Hypnos crept over the horizon, huge and almost fully formed. Nyxos was a thin sliver of white light and dark clouds scudded across the sky creating moving shadows and flickering light. Stars were revealed and hidden by the whim of the cold North wind.
Dean stood at the crossroads beside the toll-house that was their home, and waited. His toes chilled and his hands were stiff with cold but he kept his eyes wide and scanned each way, the same as he had done for the past twenty nights. There was a rustle in the copse behind him and Dean swirled around, sword at the ready, but a small deer stepped into the pathway, twitching its nose, eyes wide, poised for flight. Leaves shook as it made its way back into the wood and Dean resumed his watch. Overhead, an owl swooped in silhouette across the moons and hooted dolefully.
In the early hours Dean blew into his hands for warmth and stamped his frigid feet. Winter was coming and it would be harsh. In only seven nights the moons would both rise full, marking the last of Autumn, and then there would be frost and ice. With their livestock stolen and the adults of the village taken by bandits for sale to slavers, the crops lay untended, larders empty. The bandits would be back at any time, to pick off vulnerable children, make them grateful for an owner’s mercies and hot food. It was likely they were being watched even now, that any escape attempt would be cut off with them all taken. All except Granny Eowyn and the physik. They were too old to be of any worth and Dean shuddered to think of their fate.
Dean’s eyelids were heavy and his breath huffed steamy curls as chilly dawn broke bright streaks in the sky. Sammy’s safe for another night, he thought, but the Master and his Child hadn’t come. He hadn’t expected them to, not really. They had been a legend even in his father’s day, when brigands and ghosts roamed over freshly dug battlefields and the scars of war still ran deep. Dean had written the letter anyway, in careful, bold writing and optimistically addressed it as myth decreed. He had waited at the crossroads to have the Queen’s courier snatch it from his hand as he galloped his way to Venne through their toll-gate. Still, magic wasn’t real and even if it was, there was no reason for fortune to favor their remote village.
He was still musing when he heard a horse whinny and felt the cold threat of steel against the back of his neck. Dean cursed his carelessness and tears pricked at the thought of Sam, alone in their house.
“What do we have here?” It was spoken in a low gravelly drawl, spiced with amusement. Dean wouldn’t snivel. He wouldn’t let bandit scum have the satisfaction. He ignored the sharp danger and drew his own weapons, the short bronze dagger and the heavy, old sword.
“Oh, my! A brave one. Perhaps he’d like to duel?”
There was the clatter of a second horse and Dean looked up, and up, and up at a tall, gaunt man with a mop of faded brown hair astride a fine and sturdy bay stallion.
“He’s a mere kitten with his toys, don’t tease him, Jen.” The statement ended in a cough and the man doubled over his reins, spitting red-flecked phlegm to the floor.
“I am Dean Winchester and I am no kitten.” Dean gritted his teeth, whirled on his heel and, with a clang of metal and the flow of raw anger he faced his opponent and fought. He held on with good defence and fast footwork but in the end it was no match for an experienced fighter with a superior weapon. He was downed into the dirt within minutes, held firmly with one knee in his back and his arm locked.
“You know I think there may be hope in this mission, Child. The boy reminds me of someone I once knew. A real stubborn firecracker.”
Dean took a moment to digest the words and the breathy chuckle of the man who had stayed on his horse. His weapons were removed from him and he was pulled to his feet. Hands brushed the dirt from his clothes and he was looking at a tall, broad and muscular man with sparkling green-gold eyes, salt and pepper flecked hair and deep laughter lines in an aging face. He was weather-worn yet fit and Dean estimated that he had to have near forty Summers.
It was hard to estimate the age of the man on the horse. His hair lacked the grey tint of the other and yet his face seemed somehow pinched and without vigor. He leaned from his horse and passed Dean an envelope with twig-like, yellowing fingers. The writing was his own and he caught his breath, hardly daring to hope.
“You wrote to us for help, Dean Winchester.”
“Yes, but you’re …,”
“Tired and hungry,” grinned the man still gripping Dean’s arm, “We should stable our horses and rest a little before you tell us your woes and we formulate a plan.”
“He really does sulk if you call him old,” added the brunette on his horse, “So it is better if you call him Jensen, and I am Jared or Child.” The voice trailed off and became hard to hear but the wind carried it far enough for Dean to discern his words.
“I do not sulk, you impertinent boy.” The Master scowled up at his Child.
“Do.”
“I should spank you.” Jensen was looking fondly at Jared as he spoke and Dean wondered at the affectionate banter.
“Promises, promises.” The one called Jared winked back at his friend in an inappropriate manner and coughed again.
“We should get Child somewhere warm, to rest. You have shelter?” enquired the one called Jensen.
Dean closed his gaping mouth and tried to stop staring at them. Now the light was increasing he could see the softness of Jensen’s leather jerkin, his wool and silk layers. Their horses were thoroughbred stallions and their weapons, finest shined steel, with jewelled hilts. Dean gulped. “Are you really the Master and his Child?” he managed to ask.
“Yes, but I hope you don’t believe everything you are told,” Jensen smiled, “We are only mortal and everyone ages.”
Dean led the way, he knocked a signal on the toll-house door and Sam opened a cautious gap. “De?” he queried, with a tremor in his voice, as he noted the strangers with his brother.
“Open up, Sam, cut some bread. It’s them, Sammy, I told you they’d come. I said they’d rescue us, didn’t I?”
Sam opened the door wide and peered out with wide eyes, “But they’re …” Dean kicked his brother’s shin, “Ow!”
“Real, Sammy, real is what you meant to say.”
***
Dean pretended not to see Jensen help Jared from his horse, or the tremble that wracked the frail body as he rested against Jensen’s shoulder with not a gap between them, each pace taken in step. “He needs a bed,” the old warrior grated out and Sam dashed ahead to clear his own bed by the fire.
“M’fine, be better after sleep,” mumbled Jared, but Dean had to wonder how much better, better would be. In the firelight Jared’s skin was sallow and leathery, tight over bones which stood starkly in relief. His hazel eyes were sunken and yellowing, and his chest heaved with the effort of each rattling lungful of air, yet his dry lips still turned upwards with a soft look at the man supporting his meager weight.
Dean’s shoulders fell and he tried not to show his dismay but he knew what Sam saw. This was no rescue. There were no legendary heroes, just more mouths to feed and an invalid to protect.
Jared’s eyes closed almost the moment his head was on the pillow. Sam gently placed a soft blanket over him before retreating to heat a kettle of water over the fire. Jensen sat by Jared’s side, stroking at his hair. A wedding ring glinted on Jensen’s finger and Dean noted with curiosity, that it matched a ring, too big for withered fingers, that was held by fine leather cord around Jared’s neck. Jensen placed a tender kiss on Jared’s forehead and whispered “Good Boy,” in his ear. It seemed like a deeply private moment between the two older men so Dean crept out to tend to their horses and fetch their belongings in.
The food that Jensen pulled from his packs was quick to soften Dean’s disappointment and Sam moaned and smacked his lips as he ate the cured meat and pickles Jensen provided. Jared lay listless on the bed and Jensen told Dean that Child wouldn’t eat. The old warrior produced a pouch of herbs and brewed a strange green tea which he sweetened with honey and fed patiently to his friend, sip by sip.
“He’ll sleep now. Can you gather all the weapons in your house, clean and sharpen them, and stay with Jared? Dean can show me the lay of the land and introduce me to the others?” Jensen addressed Sam as if he were an adult and Sam nodded enthusiastically, pleased to be a part of something positive at last.
“We can ask the physik to take a look at Jared while we plan,” offered Dean, with a glance back at the pale man on the bed.
Jensen’s brows dipped and his eyes misted just before he wiped at them with the back of his hand, “It’s kind of you Dean, but Jared has been poked and prodded enough. We’ll see this through and I think that helping you will ease his pain. When there are no bandits left alive to terrorize your village, then perhaps we will rest.”
***
When they returned from the short tour of the village, Jensen insisted that Dean sleep, saying he would need to be sharp for the work that lay ahead of them. For the first time in weeks he let himself sleep deeply, confident that Jensen would wake him if necessary. When he woke again, it was evening but a little light remained. Jensen and Dean scouted the area together, examined the layout of the village in detail, and the routes that the bandits could use to attack it. A rota was organized for look-out duty and a warning cry, like the screech of a wild animal, was devised.
The next morning they logged weapons and Jensen had the older children wield what they were comfortable with. Several were passable archers and a few more had been taught swordsmanship by fathers who had returned from a war twenty years earlier. Some of the small children were clever and stealthy at hiding. Jensen seemed alert for any signs of the gang but they were never visible in daylight. Dean knew they would be waiting though, guarding the roads that led away. It occurred to him to wonder how Jensen and Jared had bypassed them.
“Their sentry was as tired as you were,” explained Jensen. “It was easy to skirt around him. I don’t think we will get all of you through the same way. “I have sent for help but it is likely that the gang will want to return for the rest of you before Winter settles. It is enough time to have smuggled your parents to the slavers in the North and for the traders to return for you. How can you be sure they will come back? Surely they would have taken you before now?”
Dean had expected the question and was ready with the answer, “They want us to think that, but I have heard that this is what they do. It is easier than keeping us tied and having to feed and guard us. What can children and the sickly do to protect themselves? We cannot defend ourselves against such a number of fierce criminals and we don’t have the means to cross the mountains that skirt this valley.”
I’m not sure if troops will get here in time. Why didn’t you ask your Laird for assistance? He must have men.”
Dean frowned, “There has been a village raided every year for the last five years and the Laird’s men have never arrived. There are many who say he takes payment from the bandits.”
Jensen shook his head and scowled. “The Laird needs a lesson but I think it will not fall to us. It can be arranged. For now, we will work on drawing the bandits into the open.”
“They’ll kill us all.”
“You are no value to them dead and we shall kill them first, Dean. They won’t be expecting that.”
For a moment Dean thought he saw the years fall away from the warrior. Jensen stood solid and determined, his chiselled jaw set and his expression resolute. The sun glinted on the scattered golden tips of his hair and his freckles seemed to dance over his nose.
“I don’t know how,” protested Dean.
“You’ve already got it Dean, the courage, the killer instinct, and you’ve stayed strong, led the others. You’ll do fine, just you see.”
***
Jared was out of bed when they returned to the toll-house for lunch. He sat on the doorstep with a cup of hot coffee and angled his face to the sun, “I needed to be outside,” he explained to Jensen as the warrior sat beside him and tangled his fingers into the gnarled leathery hand.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up as the men held hands.
“Do you think you can handle some tuition?” asked Jensen.
“Of course I can,” replied Jared, with dimples showing as he nudged Jensen in the ribs. “We should go somewhere that can’t be overlooked by the bandits though.”
Sam had come to stand by Dean. He stood on tiptoes to whisper quietly in his brother’s ear, “They’re married.”
Dean swatted at him, “I know. I saw. They have rings.”
“No, Dean. I mean married. To each other. Jared told me.”
“Don’t be …” Dean snapped his attention to the two older men just in time to watch Jensen slip a hand around the back of Jared’s neck and pull him in for a long lazy kiss, eyes only for each other, “Oh, right, yes.”
Sam pulled Dean away, “Give them a moment.”
Part 2