Hey look, a plot.
I don't know if this happens to anyone else, but when I write stories, I often don't know what's going to happen until the words appear on screen.
This is definitely one of those kinds of stories. I had no idea what was going to happen, or who else was going to show up. And no, I don't know yet how Dean lost his memory.
It began as many of my stories do, with a vague image from a dream I'd had a few nights ago -- Dean with a tattoo of wolf -- and snowballed from there.
Imagine my surprise when I found it turning into this:
************************
1 / ?
************************
Dean Winchester has been a hunter, of one sort or another, for as long as he could remember.
Of course, his memory is spotty at best, an effect, he is told, of the physical trauma he sustained before he was healed.
But Dean’s body recalls what his mind cannot, and his hands are quick and sure with blade and gun alike. His mouth shapes Latin words without effort, though his accent is poor and low-class according to some, and his broken memory is a very grimoire of spells and arcane lore.
Sometimes Dean wonders what he was in his other life, that he knows all this: that he *needed* to know all this. He cherishes the vague and fleeting impressions of a golden-haired woman, a dark-bearded man, a chubby, smiling infant, and hopes that once, he was loved.
He says nothing to anyone about the glimpses of the past. His life here began the night he was found on the doorstep, somehow having bypassed the gates and the guard dogs, and asking questions is dangerous business.
There’s a tattoo on the inside of his thigh, large and intricately detailed. He knows without having to ask that it must have been incredibly painful to receive, and therefore, he thinks it must have been incredibly important.
Dean strokes it sometimes, wishing for answers. The image is a wolf in profile, long and lean and almost fox-like, chestnut fur stirring in the wind and hazel human eyes shining.
Around its neck is a heavy silver chain and arcane pendant, twin to the one Dean wears.
He knows better than to inquire about the mark. No one around here cares much for wolves.
Dean takes great care to keep the tattoo covered at all times. It’s not as difficult as it sounds, because mostly it just means keeping his pants buttoned. It’s his mouth they all want, anyway.
He has no ties of family or blood to bind him to any of the others. Despite his prowess in the gym and the armory, regardless of the amount of supernatural lore stored in the recesses of his damaged mind, he has little standing among the others. Like a work of art without its provenance, Dean’s value is diminished.
His survival is guaranteed by his looks and his wits. Despite his amnesia, this feels familiar to him, like an advantage he’s accustomed to exploiting.
When the leader of their group sends for him, though, Dean has to school his features into blankness. Politics is something he is only now learning, and the man who rules here enjoys his hierarchy and his power games too much for Dean to let another see his irritation at the summons.
As soon as he is ushered into the dimness of the library, Dean goes gracefully to one knee, head bowed. “My lord.”
After a few beats, a pale, be-ringed hand gestures sharply. “Come sit by the fire, little one,” the voice says, trace of an Irish lilt curling around the vowels. “You look chilled.”
Dean shrugs, but does as he is told, and seats himself on the fur rug before the hearth. *Wolf’s pelt*, something in his mind whispers, and he has to consciously stop himself from stroking its softness. Belatedly, he realizes that he is expected to speak. “The manor is - sometimes, all the stone,” he begins haltingly before giving up on the attempt at diplomacy. “Yes, I’m cold, my lord.”
The dark head in the shadows nods. “You’ll grow accustomed to it eventually.”
Dean bends his head briefly in acquiescence. He learned this quickly, the rules that governed manner and behavior. Dean doesn’t know who he was in his other life, but here, he’s someone whose existence depends upon his ability to conform.
This is the man who holds Dean’s fate in his hands: at any moment, he could take it into his head to have him thrown out into the street where he was found.
Dean’s only memory of that night was vaguely of rain and blood, swamping all thought and filling him with an unreasoning terror of abandonment.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the long fingers steepled in thought.
“Many would have left you there to die,” the voice says softly, almost as if he’s read Dean’s thoughts. He can’t hide the flinch of reaction, but tries to cover it by saying, “I owe you a great debt, my lord.”
“So you do.”
The silence is broken only by the pop and hiss of the logs on the fire, and just as Dean is beginning to wonder what is expected of him now, the voice speaks again. “You’ve taken well to our ways, little one.”
Dean isn’t sure what to say. He settles on, “I’ve worked hard to be all you’ve wanted for me, sir - my lord,” he corrects himself swiftly. Sweat is prickling on the side of his body that is turned to the flames. He can feel gooseflesh from the chill of the room ghosting over the rest of his skin, and wishes that he had better clothes than the thin silk shirt and cotton pants.
The garnet center stone on a heavy silver ring winks in reflected firelight as the pale hands move, resting on the carved wooden arms of the elaborate chair and tilting the occupant forward, into the light. “And you’ve done well, well enough that I see no reason to continue your training.”
Dean can’t prevent the involuntary reaction, his head snapping up as hope and panic war equally in his chest. “My lord?” he breathes.
There’s a chance that he’s about to be promoted. Or slaughtered.
“There, there,” the voice soothes, and he rises, moving forward to crouch beside Dean at the fireside. Dean concentrates on keeping his hands flat and open, palms down and relaxed on his thighs. “Little one, it is time for us to begin to rise again, to regain our former glory. The last battle took too much from both sides and we’ve needed time to regroup; to lick our wounds in peace and recover our strength.
“You, who have learned so much and so well, and so quickly . . . you, Dean, you will be captain of my guard.”
Dean huffs out a long breath of relief, unable to speak for a long moment.
A cool white hand strokes his cheek. “Does this not please you?” He’s frowning slightly, creases marring the smoothness of brow and mouth. “Your stay here has not been . . . pleasant. It is our way, though.”
“I know, my lord,” Dean manages. And he does know. He’s the lowest of the low, with no ties of kin or patronage to protect him, and is forbidden to fight against the others. This man made the decision to allow Dean to stay, but gave him no promises beyond that.
The games of dominance among the others grow very wearying, very quickly, when he’s not permitted to do anything other than submit. Since the players are mostly those who are too weak or too low in status to be serious contenders in the physical or political arenas, the chosen form is usually sexual.
Dean could have easily found himself a protector, but then he would have been bound to another, forced to bend to another’s whims, even to the point of death, and something deep within him raged against the very idea.
Better, he had thought, to be the whore of many than the slave of one.
The hand was stroking his hair now, like a favored pet. “I’ve given orders for you to have your own rooms here in the manor,” and Dean closes his eyes and lets the lilting voice wash over him, “and your own accounts.”
Dean can’t prevent the shiver of pleasure at the thought of the independence he’s just been granted: not just to buy his own clothes and choose his own bed, but by extension, to fight his own fights.
He’s just leapfrogged several rungs up the ladder of power. There aren’t many who would openly challenge him to a physical battle, but he’ll have to watch for the Machiavellian maneuverings of those who would like to see him fall - or, conversely, ride his coattails as high as they might.
Dean receives a last pat to the cheek, and then the pale hands are drawing him to his feet and across the room. “Come, share a glass with me,” the soft voice offers. In the shadows, a rich red is decanted, so robust that Dean can smell it.
“My lord,” Dean whispered, awed at the honor and ready to refuse, but a raised hand stops his words, and he takes the glass automatically when it’s placed in his nearly nerveless fingers. The crystal is delicate, and he fears his own strength.
A smile, and more soft words. “Dean - please, there’s no need for ceremony when we meet alone.”
The glasses chime together, and Dean takes his first sip of human blood. “I’ll try not to disappoint you, my lord . . . Kraven.”
Kraven’s teeth shine like his rings, red-coated and vulpine in the firelight, as he smiles. “I know you will not, Dean. Not you, who are now become a Death Dealer.”
************************
So? Opinions, anyone? I'd like to continue and find out what happens, although frankly, the very formal style of writing that I'm using is pretty much killing me.
Lucifrix? Grammar check? You know that sentence is driving me batshit.
This is definitely one of those kinds of stories. I had no idea what was going to happen, or who else was going to show up. And no, I don't know yet how Dean lost his memory.
It began as many of my stories do, with a vague image from a dream I'd had a few nights ago -- Dean with a tattoo of wolf -- and snowballed from there.
Imagine my surprise when I found it turning into this:
************************
1 / ?
************************
Dean Winchester has been a hunter, of one sort or another, for as long as he could remember.
Of course, his memory is spotty at best, an effect, he is told, of the physical trauma he sustained before he was healed.
But Dean’s body recalls what his mind cannot, and his hands are quick and sure with blade and gun alike. His mouth shapes Latin words without effort, though his accent is poor and low-class according to some, and his broken memory is a very grimoire of spells and arcane lore.
Sometimes Dean wonders what he was in his other life, that he knows all this: that he *needed* to know all this. He cherishes the vague and fleeting impressions of a golden-haired woman, a dark-bearded man, a chubby, smiling infant, and hopes that once, he was loved.
He says nothing to anyone about the glimpses of the past. His life here began the night he was found on the doorstep, somehow having bypassed the gates and the guard dogs, and asking questions is dangerous business.
There’s a tattoo on the inside of his thigh, large and intricately detailed. He knows without having to ask that it must have been incredibly painful to receive, and therefore, he thinks it must have been incredibly important.
Dean strokes it sometimes, wishing for answers. The image is a wolf in profile, long and lean and almost fox-like, chestnut fur stirring in the wind and hazel human eyes shining.
Around its neck is a heavy silver chain and arcane pendant, twin to the one Dean wears.
He knows better than to inquire about the mark. No one around here cares much for wolves.
Dean takes great care to keep the tattoo covered at all times. It’s not as difficult as it sounds, because mostly it just means keeping his pants buttoned. It’s his mouth they all want, anyway.
He has no ties of family or blood to bind him to any of the others. Despite his prowess in the gym and the armory, regardless of the amount of supernatural lore stored in the recesses of his damaged mind, he has little standing among the others. Like a work of art without its provenance, Dean’s value is diminished.
His survival is guaranteed by his looks and his wits. Despite his amnesia, this feels familiar to him, like an advantage he’s accustomed to exploiting.
When the leader of their group sends for him, though, Dean has to school his features into blankness. Politics is something he is only now learning, and the man who rules here enjoys his hierarchy and his power games too much for Dean to let another see his irritation at the summons.
As soon as he is ushered into the dimness of the library, Dean goes gracefully to one knee, head bowed. “My lord.”
After a few beats, a pale, be-ringed hand gestures sharply. “Come sit by the fire, little one,” the voice says, trace of an Irish lilt curling around the vowels. “You look chilled.”
Dean shrugs, but does as he is told, and seats himself on the fur rug before the hearth. *Wolf’s pelt*, something in his mind whispers, and he has to consciously stop himself from stroking its softness. Belatedly, he realizes that he is expected to speak. “The manor is - sometimes, all the stone,” he begins haltingly before giving up on the attempt at diplomacy. “Yes, I’m cold, my lord.”
The dark head in the shadows nods. “You’ll grow accustomed to it eventually.”
Dean bends his head briefly in acquiescence. He learned this quickly, the rules that governed manner and behavior. Dean doesn’t know who he was in his other life, but here, he’s someone whose existence depends upon his ability to conform.
This is the man who holds Dean’s fate in his hands: at any moment, he could take it into his head to have him thrown out into the street where he was found.
Dean’s only memory of that night was vaguely of rain and blood, swamping all thought and filling him with an unreasoning terror of abandonment.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the long fingers steepled in thought.
“Many would have left you there to die,” the voice says softly, almost as if he’s read Dean’s thoughts. He can’t hide the flinch of reaction, but tries to cover it by saying, “I owe you a great debt, my lord.”
“So you do.”
The silence is broken only by the pop and hiss of the logs on the fire, and just as Dean is beginning to wonder what is expected of him now, the voice speaks again. “You’ve taken well to our ways, little one.”
Dean isn’t sure what to say. He settles on, “I’ve worked hard to be all you’ve wanted for me, sir - my lord,” he corrects himself swiftly. Sweat is prickling on the side of his body that is turned to the flames. He can feel gooseflesh from the chill of the room ghosting over the rest of his skin, and wishes that he had better clothes than the thin silk shirt and cotton pants.
The garnet center stone on a heavy silver ring winks in reflected firelight as the pale hands move, resting on the carved wooden arms of the elaborate chair and tilting the occupant forward, into the light. “And you’ve done well, well enough that I see no reason to continue your training.”
Dean can’t prevent the involuntary reaction, his head snapping up as hope and panic war equally in his chest. “My lord?” he breathes.
There’s a chance that he’s about to be promoted. Or slaughtered.
“There, there,” the voice soothes, and he rises, moving forward to crouch beside Dean at the fireside. Dean concentrates on keeping his hands flat and open, palms down and relaxed on his thighs. “Little one, it is time for us to begin to rise again, to regain our former glory. The last battle took too much from both sides and we’ve needed time to regroup; to lick our wounds in peace and recover our strength.
“You, who have learned so much and so well, and so quickly . . . you, Dean, you will be captain of my guard.”
Dean huffs out a long breath of relief, unable to speak for a long moment.
A cool white hand strokes his cheek. “Does this not please you?” He’s frowning slightly, creases marring the smoothness of brow and mouth. “Your stay here has not been . . . pleasant. It is our way, though.”
“I know, my lord,” Dean manages. And he does know. He’s the lowest of the low, with no ties of kin or patronage to protect him, and is forbidden to fight against the others. This man made the decision to allow Dean to stay, but gave him no promises beyond that.
The games of dominance among the others grow very wearying, very quickly, when he’s not permitted to do anything other than submit. Since the players are mostly those who are too weak or too low in status to be serious contenders in the physical or political arenas, the chosen form is usually sexual.
Dean could have easily found himself a protector, but then he would have been bound to another, forced to bend to another’s whims, even to the point of death, and something deep within him raged against the very idea.
Better, he had thought, to be the whore of many than the slave of one.
The hand was stroking his hair now, like a favored pet. “I’ve given orders for you to have your own rooms here in the manor,” and Dean closes his eyes and lets the lilting voice wash over him, “and your own accounts.”
Dean can’t prevent the shiver of pleasure at the thought of the independence he’s just been granted: not just to buy his own clothes and choose his own bed, but by extension, to fight his own fights.
He’s just leapfrogged several rungs up the ladder of power. There aren’t many who would openly challenge him to a physical battle, but he’ll have to watch for the Machiavellian maneuverings of those who would like to see him fall - or, conversely, ride his coattails as high as they might.
Dean receives a last pat to the cheek, and then the pale hands are drawing him to his feet and across the room. “Come, share a glass with me,” the soft voice offers. In the shadows, a rich red is decanted, so robust that Dean can smell it.
“My lord,” Dean whispered, awed at the honor and ready to refuse, but a raised hand stops his words, and he takes the glass automatically when it’s placed in his nearly nerveless fingers. The crystal is delicate, and he fears his own strength.
A smile, and more soft words. “Dean - please, there’s no need for ceremony when we meet alone.”
The glasses chime together, and Dean takes his first sip of human blood. “I’ll try not to disappoint you, my lord . . . Kraven.”
Kraven’s teeth shine like his rings, red-coated and vulpine in the firelight, as he smiles. “I know you will not, Dean. Not you, who are now become a Death Dealer.”
************************
So? Opinions, anyone? I'd like to continue and find out what happens, although frankly, the very formal style of writing that I'm using is pretty much killing me.
Lucifrix? Grammar check? You know that sentence is driving me batshit.