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Title: Characteristic Of The Time Of Chivalry
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG (Language)
Fandom: SPN
By:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Category: Gen AU
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
- Year of the Harvest, 186 -
Sam looked uncertainly across the gap he was being expected to jump. The Keep they were exploring had an unprecedented eight floors in the body of the building, excluding the towers, and Sam knew that was a long way to fall.
“I found it yesterday. You’ll love it.” Dean held his arms out across the divide, prompting his brother to leap. He had made it seem so easy and although Sam hoped his long frame would one day be a thing of grace like Dean’s, at the moment he had trouble walking on flat ground without tripping over his own feet. He was permanently covered head to foot in scrapes and bruises, usually caused by trying to emulate some stunt Dean had made look simple.
“I’m going to split my head open like a melon,” Sam breathed as he took a few steps backwards to give himself a run up.
“Would you hurry up? If someone sees you there you won’t be allowed out the rest of our stay,” Dean urged, a mischievous grin lifting his face upward. “It’ll be nothing but sewing and tea services for you, princess.”
Sam took a deep breath and ran forward. Although still naturally clumsy, he was also extremely fast, faster than Dean, he sometimes suspected. He met the edge in a few seconds and launched himself upward and over, expecting to plunge head long to the cobbled courtyard below. Instead, he landed in the waiting arms of his brother and they both went over backwards, skidding to a halt, panting and laughing.
“Gods, you’re getting way to big for me to catch you anymore.” Dean poked Sam in the ribs, urging Sam to jump off him with a yelp. He rolled away and up, scraping the tangled mess of his hair out of her eyes and grinning.
“Don’t blame me if you underestimate where I’m going to land,” he huffed. Dean laughed and got to his feet.
They were currently in the Western-most corner of the Keep of the family of Azazel. Neither boy knew why their father had accepted an invitation from Lord Azazel since they had been sure that Winchester and Azazel had never been allies, nor had they known why they had had to pack up and leave in the middle of the night without their usual retinue.
Their interest was well and truly piqued and both had their own theories.
- Year of the Rain, 198 -
“He’s still got the shirt on.”
“Really? That’s not good. It’s been three days. Has anyone been in there?"
“One of the maidservants tried to take him in breakfast yesterday. He threw it and her out into the hall. No one’s tried to go in since.”
“That’s not good either. We can’t just let him waste away in there.” The door was pushed open, without a knock and Singer came through, pushing it shut behind him. Singer turned to face the man he had been serving faithfully for more years than he could remember, the family longer still and took a deep breath, as if readying himself for battle. “My Lord?” he began.
“What do you want Singer?” Sam lifted the brandy bottle he held to his lips and tipped it up. He grunted when he found the bottle empty and let it slide from his fingers. The bottle smashed and Sam looked up at Singer blearily. “Have you come to talk some sense into me?”
Sam was sitting on the end of his bed, smashed glass now at his feet and an arrow across his lap. It was short and wicked looking, fletched with large black feathers. The head and most of the shaft were streaked with dried blood and Sam now and again would touch it, as if reminding himself it was there. He would stroke the fletching, then his hand would travel down the length and his thumb almost caress the point. Singer watched this for a few moments, but then leaned forward, intent on taking it from the destroyed man.
Despite having crawled inside a bottle for the better part of three days, Sam was still on his feet with his sword in hand in one swift movement. Instinct and years of training had honed in him a discipline that could override his body’s temporary intoxication. Singer merely gazed at him steadily.
“My Lord, my sword is yours to command. If you wish me dead, you merely need to instruct me to fall upon it. Considering your condition, it might be an easier way for me to go because you would probably need a couple of swings.”
Sam blinked and then dropped his sword behind him on the bed. He chuckled sadly and lowered himself, intending to drop back onto the mattress but he missed it completely and sat hard on the floor. He snorted, dropping his head into his hands. “Let me be, Singer,” he implored, the sound muffled through his fingers. Singer felt pity and a deep ache for this man, but he could show neither. All he wanted to do was leave the man before him to his grief, but it was a luxury that a Winchester could not afford, especially at a time of such unrest.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that my Lord,” he admonished and reached down, grabbing Sam under the arms and hauling him to his feet. Both the sword and arrow that had been in his lap clattered to the floor and Sam let out a cry of protest but Singer put one hand to the nape of his neck and the other to his back and half pushed, half dragged the protesting man into an adjoining room where three maid servants and a page had been preparing a steaming bath. They all scattered as soon as their Lord appeared and Singer walked Sam over to the tub and pushed him in, clothes and all.
Sam broke the surface, spluttering and swearing and pulled his sopping hair out of his eyes. Singer was pleased to see that some of the dullness had left them and the young man looked angry. Anger, in Singer’s opinion, was much better than the overwhelming sorrow that had been dragging him down. Sam coughed harshly and looked at the Captain of his Guard with murder in his eyes. “Better?” Singer asked.
Sam blinked, as if truly waking up for the first time in days and then slid back down into the tub with his head resting on the rim. He rubbed his temples with the heel of his palms and sighed mightily. “Time was, my Father would do this to you, old friend,” Sam grumbled.
It was true. When Singer had first joined the Guard of the Winchester Keep, he and Sam’s father, John, had gotten along famously and were known to carouse to the wee small hours. John had always seemed to recover and be his usual self by the next morning but Singer had never had the same fortitude. Singer remembered being awoken time and again by being dumped unceremoniously into the City baths or a similar tub to the one John’s son now sat in.
The drink, however, had killed John, or at least it had contributed to his death and Singer had not touched a drop since then. He had been pleased to discover that Sam had the same idea and steered clear of the brandy his father had loved so much but had given him such terrible waking nightmares. Sam had only gotten drunk three times that Singer knew of. This was the third.
“Be thankful. It wasn’t always hot water I awoke to.” Singer smiled. “Now sir, please take that shirt off, for your sanity’s sake.”
Sam looked down at himself. There was a stain of dark red, almost black, across the front of his shirt just below his breast. The water made it distend so the stain stretched out, growing larger. A hand made ghostly pale by being immersed drifted over it and settled, touching the patina of droplets reverentially.
“I should wear it until I bring down the dogs that killed her,” he said, his tone frosty. Singer looked at him with worry creasing his brow. Samuel Winchester had always been quick to laugh, sometimes tended toward quiet, but forever calm and easy. The expression he wore now reminded Singer so much of John that he shivered.
“Come. She lies in state. Would you go to her looking like that? Your people and those that serve you mourn also. I would have them see a Lord, not a shattered shell of a man at this time,” Singer scolded gently. Sam’s eyes ticked towards Singer before returning to his careful study of the shirt he wore.
“I care little for what the people see,” he said. “Why should they not expect to see a shattered man? I would if that man’s wife had died three days hence.” There was no emotion in Sam’s voice. What little anger he had grasped had slipped from his reach all too quickly and he had returned to the overwhelming sadness.
“What about a man whose daughter has died three days hence?” The hardness in Singer’s tone made Sam’s head snap up. Of course he had not forgotten that others had lost the woman who was his wife, but he had been too immersed in his own misery to think of them. Guilt now stabbed through his grief like a lance that he had been so self-absorbed. As a path to obeisance, Sam stripped his shirt off and held it out for Singer to take from him.
“Forgive my selfishness my friend,” he said sadly.
Singer grinned wryly and took the proffered shirt. “I’ll send someone in to attend you if you promise not to threaten them.”
“I promise. Please do.”
“Good.” Singer nodded, squeezing the sopping shirt and then slinging it over his shoulder. He was halfway out the door when Sam called to him. “Singer?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG (Language)
Fandom: SPN
By:
kellifer_ficCategory: Gen AU
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
Sam looked uncertainly across the gap he was being expected to jump. The Keep they were exploring had an unprecedented eight floors in the body of the building, excluding the towers, and Sam knew that was a long way to fall.
“I found it yesterday. You’ll love it.” Dean held his arms out across the divide, prompting his brother to leap. He had made it seem so easy and although Sam hoped his long frame would one day be a thing of grace like Dean’s, at the moment he had trouble walking on flat ground without tripping over his own feet. He was permanently covered head to foot in scrapes and bruises, usually caused by trying to emulate some stunt Dean had made look simple.
“I’m going to split my head open like a melon,” Sam breathed as he took a few steps backwards to give himself a run up.
“Would you hurry up? If someone sees you there you won’t be allowed out the rest of our stay,” Dean urged, a mischievous grin lifting his face upward. “It’ll be nothing but sewing and tea services for you, princess.”
Sam took a deep breath and ran forward. Although still naturally clumsy, he was also extremely fast, faster than Dean, he sometimes suspected. He met the edge in a few seconds and launched himself upward and over, expecting to plunge head long to the cobbled courtyard below. Instead, he landed in the waiting arms of his brother and they both went over backwards, skidding to a halt, panting and laughing.
“Gods, you’re getting way to big for me to catch you anymore.” Dean poked Sam in the ribs, urging Sam to jump off him with a yelp. He rolled away and up, scraping the tangled mess of his hair out of her eyes and grinning.
“Don’t blame me if you underestimate where I’m going to land,” he huffed. Dean laughed and got to his feet.
They were currently in the Western-most corner of the Keep of the family of Azazel. Neither boy knew why their father had accepted an invitation from Lord Azazel since they had been sure that Winchester and Azazel had never been allies, nor had they known why they had had to pack up and leave in the middle of the night without their usual retinue.
Their interest was well and truly piqued and both had their own theories.
“He’s still got the shirt on.”
“Really? That’s not good. It’s been three days. Has anyone been in there?"
“One of the maidservants tried to take him in breakfast yesterday. He threw it and her out into the hall. No one’s tried to go in since.”
“That’s not good either. We can’t just let him waste away in there.” The door was pushed open, without a knock and Singer came through, pushing it shut behind him. Singer turned to face the man he had been serving faithfully for more years than he could remember, the family longer still and took a deep breath, as if readying himself for battle. “My Lord?” he began.
“What do you want Singer?” Sam lifted the brandy bottle he held to his lips and tipped it up. He grunted when he found the bottle empty and let it slide from his fingers. The bottle smashed and Sam looked up at Singer blearily. “Have you come to talk some sense into me?”
Sam was sitting on the end of his bed, smashed glass now at his feet and an arrow across his lap. It was short and wicked looking, fletched with large black feathers. The head and most of the shaft were streaked with dried blood and Sam now and again would touch it, as if reminding himself it was there. He would stroke the fletching, then his hand would travel down the length and his thumb almost caress the point. Singer watched this for a few moments, but then leaned forward, intent on taking it from the destroyed man.
Despite having crawled inside a bottle for the better part of three days, Sam was still on his feet with his sword in hand in one swift movement. Instinct and years of training had honed in him a discipline that could override his body’s temporary intoxication. Singer merely gazed at him steadily.
“My Lord, my sword is yours to command. If you wish me dead, you merely need to instruct me to fall upon it. Considering your condition, it might be an easier way for me to go because you would probably need a couple of swings.”
Sam blinked and then dropped his sword behind him on the bed. He chuckled sadly and lowered himself, intending to drop back onto the mattress but he missed it completely and sat hard on the floor. He snorted, dropping his head into his hands. “Let me be, Singer,” he implored, the sound muffled through his fingers. Singer felt pity and a deep ache for this man, but he could show neither. All he wanted to do was leave the man before him to his grief, but it was a luxury that a Winchester could not afford, especially at a time of such unrest.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that my Lord,” he admonished and reached down, grabbing Sam under the arms and hauling him to his feet. Both the sword and arrow that had been in his lap clattered to the floor and Sam let out a cry of protest but Singer put one hand to the nape of his neck and the other to his back and half pushed, half dragged the protesting man into an adjoining room where three maid servants and a page had been preparing a steaming bath. They all scattered as soon as their Lord appeared and Singer walked Sam over to the tub and pushed him in, clothes and all.
Sam broke the surface, spluttering and swearing and pulled his sopping hair out of his eyes. Singer was pleased to see that some of the dullness had left them and the young man looked angry. Anger, in Singer’s opinion, was much better than the overwhelming sorrow that had been dragging him down. Sam coughed harshly and looked at the Captain of his Guard with murder in his eyes. “Better?” Singer asked.
Sam blinked, as if truly waking up for the first time in days and then slid back down into the tub with his head resting on the rim. He rubbed his temples with the heel of his palms and sighed mightily. “Time was, my Father would do this to you, old friend,” Sam grumbled.
It was true. When Singer had first joined the Guard of the Winchester Keep, he and Sam’s father, John, had gotten along famously and were known to carouse to the wee small hours. John had always seemed to recover and be his usual self by the next morning but Singer had never had the same fortitude. Singer remembered being awoken time and again by being dumped unceremoniously into the City baths or a similar tub to the one John’s son now sat in.
The drink, however, had killed John, or at least it had contributed to his death and Singer had not touched a drop since then. He had been pleased to discover that Sam had the same idea and steered clear of the brandy his father had loved so much but had given him such terrible waking nightmares. Sam had only gotten drunk three times that Singer knew of. This was the third.
“Be thankful. It wasn’t always hot water I awoke to.” Singer smiled. “Now sir, please take that shirt off, for your sanity’s sake.”
Sam looked down at himself. There was a stain of dark red, almost black, across the front of his shirt just below his breast. The water made it distend so the stain stretched out, growing larger. A hand made ghostly pale by being immersed drifted over it and settled, touching the patina of droplets reverentially.
“I should wear it until I bring down the dogs that killed her,” he said, his tone frosty. Singer looked at him with worry creasing his brow. Samuel Winchester had always been quick to laugh, sometimes tended toward quiet, but forever calm and easy. The expression he wore now reminded Singer so much of John that he shivered.
“Come. She lies in state. Would you go to her looking like that? Your people and those that serve you mourn also. I would have them see a Lord, not a shattered shell of a man at this time,” Singer scolded gently. Sam’s eyes ticked towards Singer before returning to his careful study of the shirt he wore.
“I care little for what the people see,” he said. “Why should they not expect to see a shattered man? I would if that man’s wife had died three days hence.” There was no emotion in Sam’s voice. What little anger he had grasped had slipped from his reach all too quickly and he had returned to the overwhelming sadness.
“What about a man whose daughter has died three days hence?” The hardness in Singer’s tone made Sam’s head snap up. Of course he had not forgotten that others had lost the woman who was his wife, but he had been too immersed in his own misery to think of them. Guilt now stabbed through his grief like a lance that he had been so self-absorbed. As a path to obeisance, Sam stripped his shirt off and held it out for Singer to take from him.
“Forgive my selfishness my friend,” he said sadly.
Singer grinned wryly and took the proffered shirt. “I’ll send someone in to attend you if you promise not to threaten them.”
“I promise. Please do.”
“Good.” Singer nodded, squeezing the sopping shirt and then slinging it over his shoulder. He was halfway out the door when Sam called to him. “Singer?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
From: (Anonymous)
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