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spnmysteryyearsTitle: With Steps Made Firm. Title from Psalm 37:23.
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Balian (see Background/Summary notes), Sam/Dean UST implied.
Timeframe: Pre-series, Stanford era.
Thanks to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blind_acrobat, beta darling.
Written forblacklid and blincolin, who both love Balian almost as much as I do.
Word count: 7,632 words.
Prompt for spnmysteryyears Challenge #2: "It's hard at first to make friends at college. Sam hasn't been on his own before, and his social skills are pretty pathetic, but he finds that being a good listener is as good a way as any to get people to like him." Prompt #4: They're both in an art history class to pick up chicks, but Sam mostly finds himself listening to this man talk, and watching the way his hands move.
Also posted for un_love_you Prompt #25: You remind me of someone.
Background/Summary: Balian of Ibelin, main character from Ridley Scott's movie Kingdom of Heaven, was played by a highly pumped-up Orlando Bloom. The movie is set in the late 12th century, during the Crusades, where Balian starts out as a poor blacksmith in France & ends up a soldier in Palestine. If you haven't seen the film: Balian was a reluctant, but extremely capable hero - who almost became a martyr - and in his spare time was the lover of princess Sybilla, wife of his enemy. The parallels of his character to both martyr!kickass!Dean and Sam himself were just too tasty to ignore... he gets the crap beat out of him on a regular basis, loves working with weapons in his hands, and is a soldier par excellence who stood at the fall of Jerusalem and negotiated saving the lives of thousands, never asking for anything for himself, fully expecting to die at the hands of his enemies. The final battle gives new meaning to the words, "I choose to go down swinging."
Artwork by Irene. This is a piece of artwork, and is not a photograph of an actual person. This (manip) by Irene H. shows Balian going to the terrace of his house on the outskirts of Jerusalem to get some cool night air. Tasty, no? Sam thought so, too. Which is why he gets a little distracted when this guy in class not only reminds him of his brother temperament-wise, but physically resembles a character in a movie he may have seen recently... lots of hand porn in this story, and details about sword-making, because the premise is, Sam loves knives and bladed weapons, and this guy knows how to make them. They ostensibly bond over a shared interest, that descends into a parallel world that may actually prove the existence of time-travel - or not. It may only be a dream.
“The focus of western and middle eastern art in the twelfth century was largely religious. Little record is preserved of daily life, however, outside of art. Craft was valued as a testament to the ability of man to infuse his soul into something tangible. There was a level of patience and pride in one's work that elevates even the every day to an art form. That's why we have decorations in the form of intricately woven tapestries that were made to hide ugly walls and hold in the sparse heat of open fireplaces, embroidered garments - including undergarments, even highly etched weaponry. By studying these embellished artifacts, canvasses and sculptures we seek to gain an understanding of daily life. In short, we look to discover things that transcend time itself: simple truths.”
Here the professor paused, spectacles perched above his hawklike nose. Sam shifted slightly, his pen poised above his paper, fingers taut around the hilt. The skin on his arm prickled, and he glanced up to see a pair of eyes fastened upon him, coffee-brown and warm above a slightly mischievous grin, framed by glossy curls the color of melted chocolate.
The eyes rolled and his face split into a full smile that matched Sam’s. Unconsciously Sam’s tongue flicked out to lick dry lips.
The professor continued but Sam took no more notes that day. Every time the dark-haired guy spoke, Sam's attention was arrested. Sometimes he cracked a dry joke, and often had those closest to him in stitches from a murmured, wry observation. He had a natural, casual charm, and it seemed like everyone was drawn to the guy's wisecracking good humor, which made Sam think of Dean, and how he'd so often done the same kind of thing to put both himself and his brother at ease in unusual or difficult situations. And several times Sam and this good-natured stranger had exchanged glances with what Sam thought a surprising level of camaraderie, that he put down to their being somewhat outnumbered.
They were both in an art history class to pick up chicks, but as the days wore on Sam mostly found himself listening to this man talk, and watching the way his hands moved.
They’re strong hands on what at first glance appear to be delicate, almost girl-like arms - until he followed them upward with his eyes and noted rippling muscles under the thin fabric of his loose-fitting shirt. Callused but supple, with an interesting scar in the shape of a half-moon across the back of his left wrist, the fingers blunt but powerful, causing Sam to blink against the confusion of memory.
Hands that would grasp the stock of a shotgun with cold calculation, the fingers fanned outward like the caress of a lover across the silken skin of his belly… oh, no.
He was doing it again.
He gulped and swallowed, clearing his throat with a slight cough.
* * *
He was in the library, lost amid treatises on ancient texts and the ramblings of dusty philosophers, gazing half-heartedly at pages and pages of depictions of warriors dressed for battle against Saracen and Turk alike.
How was this applicable to his time, or to anything? They had fought wars, and lost. There had been raids on villages and burnings at the stake. And for what?
The medieval period was lost to him in one big cacophony of clashing swords and dirty bodies, of smoke and waste. Of ignorance on the part of both Church and State. With the little people caught in the muck, downtrodden, fodder for armies.
Caught in the crossfire, as always.
He closed the books with a sigh, one by one, hearing the satisfactory thud as their pages clapped shut, cutting into the silence.
“Whoa, there,” a whisper sounded from behind, the merest breath ruffling the hair above his right ear. “You aren’t done with that, are you? It was just getting to the good part.”
“What - were you reading? Hey, have at it,” Sam looked quizzically up at the merry face above him, then chuckled as he recognized the guy from Art History class. “Oh,” he rolled his eyes. “It’s you.”
“Thomas Balian,” the guy stuck out his hand and Sam grasped it, closing his fingers over the rough palm and feeling a ripple he put down only to recognition in the soft fluttering of his heart.
“Sam. Winchester,” he managed, wondering where the idiotic urge to clear his throat came from, that always seemed to rise up and clutch somewhere underneath his collarbone, as if suddenly his neck weren’t large enough to gather breath for his lungs. “I was going to take a break, actually,” he finished more smoothly. “You’re welcome to any of these, that way I won’t have to put them back.”
“Sure,” Thomas slid into the seat across from him with an adept turning of his slim hips. Sam felt an inexplicably keen sense of loss as the coiled firmness of the other man’s body was now so close, but out of reach, and out of sight from mid-chest down. He rubbed his forehead in confusion, slanting a look sideways at his new study companion.
He’d fully intended to leave, but five minutes later was still seated at the table, trying to concentrate on the words in front of him. He heard the echo of the voice of the man across the table from a discussion in class the day before. His voice was soft, but with a heart of iron - vibrant, softly resonant - and Sam had found he had to listen, he couldn’t not listen, he was fascinated with the slight curl of British accent in the dropped r’s and soft pronunciation of the vowels.
He looked up, and found the man staring back at him, an unknowable expression in his eyes. He felt a connection to the person across from him that he couldn’t begin to understand, except when he glanced again, for what must have been the four hundredth time, at the man’s - Balian’s - hands. The rough, reddish patches over the knuckles. Blunt fingernails cut short. Capable wrists. A network of bluish veins that crawled over the backs of his hands evoking a sinuous mastery of whatever he touched.
Sam forced himself to look back up at his new companion’s eyes. The man lifted an eyebrow, once.
Sam shattered his inhibitions to bits, and nodded. Without a word, they began to pack up their things, and together they exited the library.
* * *
He only wanted to be touched by those hands, just for a moment. Just once. He hadn't thought beyond the moment, if he had thought at all. But as they walked down the street Sam felt his scalp prickling in anticipation, and his stomach rolled with a sickening, quicksilver lurch as the implications of what he'd just done hit him full force in the chest.
Was he going to let this fantasy become real? He'd never so much as considered anything of the kind before - at least, not with someone like this, someone he barely knew. The first few days of class it had been obvious that the guy was, like himself, attracted to women; Sam had watched his long eyelashes sweep downward in appreciation as a gorgeous pair of legs walked by on their way to find a seat, and he'd overheard at least two flirtatious conversations between Balian and female students.
So why this sudden telepathy - this quick sureness that left nothing to the imagination? And how was it that Sam was going along, quite happily, to where ever this thing led?
He had no idea what he was doing.
"Sam?"
He started, glancing over in shy determination, unwilling to let his rambling thoughts get the best of him, and yet wanting to remain open, honest, willing to learn. For somewhere in the depths of his mind he automatically reached for the threads of something fine and yearning that radiated out from this man, Balian. "Yeah," he answered, chin lifted, smile flickering at the corners of parted lips.
"Are you in the mood for coffee?"
Sam started at that, taken slightly aback by the casual nature of the question. He wondered if in his ignorance he'd read this completely wrong. He shrugged in answer. "Sure."
"Here, then," and Balian swept aside to open a dark green door to their right, and they were inside a small, cottage-like room filled with the scent of warm, freshly ground elixirs. They ordered and seated themselves with steaming cups at a table near the window, and Balian crossed his right leg over his left knee and leaned back comfortably against the cushion-lined banquette behind him.
Sam sipped his coffee. It was hot, but flavored and cooled to a drinkable temperature with generous dollops of cream. Balian's bright eyes ranged over the room and he lifted a hand in greeting to a couple entering the doorway. He seemed so sure, so comfortable, at ease with himself. Turning back, he nodded at Sam.
"So," he smiled. "How's your brew?"
"It's fine."
"Good. Coffee - and conversation. A good combination, wouldn't you agree?"
"Um - sure," Sam murmured, unwilling to say anything more at the moment. He shifted in his seat, tonguing his cheek nervously. Really, he had no idea where this was going, and he was unnerved with himself for his thoughts earlier.
"What do you think of the early Renaissance genre so far?"
"What? Oh, well..." Sam smiled again and gave consideration to the question. "I think they were painting what the Church wanted them to paint, and to hell with what Professor Radsen says about reality."
"Oh? So you don't agree with his statement about everyday life?"
"Hell, no. They're cardboard cut-outs. There isn't the slightest resemblance to what their lives were like in any of those depictions we've studied. Take the pieces we looked at yesterday, for instance. The pilgrims march along the road like so many faceless cockroaches. The nobility passes by farmhouses that look identical to one another. Tell me you buy that crap with the perfectly tended gardens, not a weed in sight. Even the barnyards don't have a speck of horse shit in them. We all know differently."
"Well, consider that the craft was in its infancy. Artists weren't sophisticated enough to depict realism - and the camera obscura hadn't yet been discovered to help them get proportions correct. It was enough for them to get ideas down. It was for later generations to add subtleties of shadow, color, and what you might call 'horse shit.'"
"Pfft. I don't buy it. Nobody wanted to see the horse shit - that's why it's not there."
Balian chuckled. "That's why I like you, Winchester. Nothing gets by you. I'll bet before the year is out you could tell us a thing or two about what's missing from those paintings."
Sam was surprised by this. "What gives you that idea? I was just going on common sense. They don't seem real because even what we know must have been there isn't, so how can we trust what is?"
His companion seemed animated by this remark. "Really," he quirked an eyebrow. "Are you quite certain you don't know anything? I'd have almost taken you for a history major, maybe even with a concentration in medieval studies, from the way you talk. All authority, no blather."
It was Sam's turn to laugh. "No, man. Pre-law."
"So that's it. Always asking the questions, presuming we aren't being shown everything. For argument's sake."
Sam relaxed perceptibly. "I just don't like being played for a fool, that's all."
Balian leaned forward, speaking in a low whisper, "No one - no sane, rational person, that is - would ever take you for a fool, my friend." He clapped Sam on the shoulder conspiratorially. "I think, however, that you try to seek out too much for yourself, and have a hard time taking other people's word for things. You need to experience things first hand in order to understand and accept them. No rules for you - unless you've made them yourself. Am I right?"
Sam's glance immediately shifted downwards to the hand that had touched him and was now withdrawing. His eyes widened as the other man let his fingers fall open, palm upwards on the table, the back of his hand resting calmly, quietly, on the smooth surface.
He felt his breath hitch in his throat, and slowly, he let his gaze wander upwards, from the tips of his fingers to the dark curls at his shoulders. Sam's eyes fastened for a moment on the sharp chin, slightly clefted, and the hint of pearl-like teeth behind pink lips, softly parted and ringed with darkening stubble. And finally, he met Balian's eyes once more, and he knew as he looked into them that only one other human on earth had ever seen this deeply into his soul, and that person was not here.
He had left him behind. The person who had raised him.
His brother.
Sam slipped the coffee past his lips, and stared boldly back at this stranger who'd dared to enter and to look so openly into his heart. He could be imagining it, but he didn't think so. So he chose to meet this head on, he was tired of being confused and reading impulses.
He swallowed once more, and set the cup down. "So," he canted his head a little to the left as he spoke, "You wanna tell me why you keep making eyes at me? 'Cause I could have sworn that before this week that neither one of us swung that way."
Balian's smirk was far too much like Dean's - halfway between cherubic and derisive - to ignore the implications. Not that Sam was in a mood to do so - now that he'd opened his mouth, he sat waiting to hear the answer.
"I've no idea, Winchester," Balian's eyes sparkled as he cocked his head to the side, another gesture so like his brother's that it was maddening. "I can tell you this - up to this past week, I had no problem with nearly always accepting things as they were presented. But you've caused me to question that. I think - you remind me of someone."
"Yeah? Who?"
"I don't know exactly. I almost wonder if it's someone I... knew in a dream once. You'll laugh when I say this, but... you look a bit like my father, when he was young."
"Really?"
"Yes, you do. Your lips, and the way you wear your hair, definitely. And you're big, like him. My father was huge. He's dead now."
"I'm sorry."
"S'alright, really. But I do miss him."
Sam shifted slightly, his attention focused, intent. "Were you close... with your father?"
Balian shook his head, expelling a slight sigh. "No, actually. I hardly knew him. He was a soldier, gone mostly."
"I see."
"But he was a good man, my father. He loved my mother, in his own way."
Sam nodded. They were quiet for some minutes. Then, inexplicably, he shrugged. "I was thinking of my brother, Dean. God, he's crazy. I don't know why I remember him so much lately. He practically raised me," he offered, not realizing how disjointed he sounded.
Balian smiled. "You miss him."
Sam glanced up once and back down at his hands, saying nothing.
They were silent again.
Balian coughed slightly after some minutes. Sam looked over at him, smiling a bit nervously, and cast about for something to say. His eyes lit upon the odd, half-moon shaped scar on Balian's left wrist. It was thick and deep, the skin whitened in the middle, like a burn.
"That's an interesting scar you have there - not to pry, but - well, it looks like it hurt." Sam winced a bit, not knowing really if it was kosher or not to ask about such a thing; except in his universe, warriors carried scars proudly. Certainly he'd seen Dean inspecting his own quite often... nothing much was ever said, but still, Sam's curiosity had gotten the better of him and he wondered if there was another side of Balian that would be like his brother.
The dark head bowed slightly. "Oh, that." He glanced up at Sam, eyebrows quirked. "I was - a bit careless with the fire that day."
"The fire?"
"Yes. It's a reminder, that's all. Not to get distracted in the forge. I could have lost an eye, actually. I was lucky the slag only hit my hand."
"Wow. I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about, though. A slag hit you?"
Balian chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling across the table in amusement at Sam's confusion. "No, a piece of slag. I'm a metallurgist. I make blades - sharp ones. Knives, actually. And I collect them. Would you like to see?"
Sam felt his breath catch in his throat as his eyes glowed. He loved blades. He loved the tactile heft of a perfectly weighted knife, fitted smoothly into a custom leather sheath. Yes, indeed. Sam wanted - appreciated - a sharp edge, especially rare, hand-crafted ones.
He happily accompanied Thomas to his loft, where he revealed an array of glittering implements, and allowed Sam to touch the blades, to handle them, and smiled as he murmured in appreciation over several - for each was fine in its own individual way, and further evidence of the link between one warrior and a craftsman.
Sam listened carefully as Balian pointed out the defining details of a copy of a twelfth century dirk, several small swords, each with historically accurate detailing, and gasped out loud as he was shown a curved middle-eastern blade that reminded him of a small version of a reaper's knife. Sam was taken with this weapon in particular, with its glittering hilt and the fine etching of figures along the blade. He lost track of time until it grew late into the evening. He had listened to Balian recount stories of battles and archaeological finds until his stomach began to remind him of the fact that they'd had no dinner. Thomas laughed as Sam's belly finally proclaimed this loudly, and picked up the phone to order takeout. They stepped around the corner and brought back boxes of hot spicy canton noodles and beef, their heads bent closely together as Balian continued to tell Sam all he knew about the lore of the weapons in his collection.
"You are fascinated with this stuff, aren't you?" he exclaimed after another hour had passed. "You're gonna let me go on all night about this, I do believe," he laughed.
"Oh, no," Sam murmured apologetically. "I'm sorry. You probably have things to do, and I have to get back. But I've enjoyed it - really, these were fascinating. Thank you." Sam wiped his hands and chin on a napkin and stood up, gathering the containers from the table, intending to clean up a bit for his host and then leave.
"Leave them," Balian commanded. "I'd - well - enjoy your company a bit longer, Winchester - if you don't mind."
Sam paused above the table, then shook his head and moved toward the kitchen. He was the neat one in the family, it always irked him when Dean left a mess, especially involving food. The least he could do to repay his host for such good company was to throw away the containers and wipe the table.
He heard the soft sound of a beer opening behind him, turned and looked down to see Balian's blunt fingers brushing his, a cold bottle proffered before him. "Thank you," said his friend. "You didn't have to do that. But since you did, here's your reward. And I'm sorry I talked your ear off."
Sam grinned. "You didn't talk my ear off. I enjoyed every minute of it. Okay, I'll stay awhile longer." His fingers grasped the cold neck of the bottle as he looked deeply into Balian's coffee-colored eyes with a smile. It was good to have found a friend, especially one who shared Sam's love of edged weapons.
He didn't know it, but the happiness reflected there was entirely mutual.
They stood by the counter in the dim reflected light from the small living room behind them, sipping their beers when suddenly a flash of lightning lit up the sky and the room all around them. Balian swung his head in the direction of the windows, then back at Sam.
"Oooops," he murmured. "Guess you're actually stuck here for awhile now."
"Oh, no," said Sam, "I shouldn't have stayed so long. I'm sorry, dude, I should totally go now."
"No, really, it's okay..." said Balian, but Sam had already taken long, loping strides toward the foyer and was shrugging into his jacket. Lightning split the sky again, followed by the immediate boom of thunder. And they heard the rain echoing incredibly fast on the roof and on the window sills.
"I can make it," Sam murmured breathlessly, turning. The air was sparkling all around him, and he found himself suddenly short of breath.
His heart hammered in his chest. Balian had opened the door and stood looking out into the searing blackness, streaked with white as the smell of hot ozone mixed with cool rain reached their nostrils. He turned back to Sam and shook his head, blocking the doorway. "I'm not sending you out in this," he said, and pulled the door closed again.
Sam stood stock still at the sight of Balian's fist on the doorknob. His fingers were so like Dean's, and he felt the thread of protection running through his friend just as it had in his brother.
Dean wouldn't have let him go, either... not unless Sam forced it.
And right now? Sam didn't want to force anything, anymore.
He was staring at those fingers curled protectively, possessively, he imagined, around the knob as the door slammed shut. He heard the turning of the lock and the slip of the latch on its chain before he let himself look again at Balian's face, where once again there was a mutually reflected feeling.
But this time, he did see it.
He dropped his guard, and bowed his head, as Balian stepped into his arms. Tentatively, his lips parted as they touched, and he stood frozen, immobile, as the thunder sounded once more, and explored what it felt like to be kissed by a man, and then what it felt like to kiss back.
And he marvelled at how the taste of him was smooth and rich, like dark syrup on his tongue, as his trembling fingers stilled as he touched Balian's face and he felt Balian's hands clenched into the folds of his jacket in mutual wanton, desperate need.
Sam's palms curled under the smaller man's jaw, cupping it gently as he felt and heard simultaneously a small sound escaping Balian's throat and gave an answering murmur from deep inside his own. His kiss was like the lightning, leaving quicksilver tingles along Sam's spine as his tongue darted and withdrew in an alternately slow coupling that ran along the seam of Sam's desire, stemming from somewhere deep inside his heart.
Outside, the storm raged, but inside as they stood there they shared a cocoon of warmth, testing and exploring for long minutes the strange but satisfyingly golden feelings that sparked inside their heads in response to this growing, daring discovery. This, thought Sam, was like nothing he'd ever found with any girl. It was more like an answer to a question he'd never known to ask: it was fulfillment tantamount to a glowing, banked fire that flares up as soon as it is fed dry, seasoned hickory.
Kissing Balian made Sam hunger for more.
His throat muscles worked as he drew in breath and dropped his chin, taking Balian's lips again in a deeper, searingly passionate embrace. He could feel the warm pressure against his belly of Balian's cock and an answering rise of his own sensitive nerve endings held in check. He wanted to go more slowly, and yet to engulf this man in the power of his own ability to give and answer the need to love and to be loved.
It wasn't like the object of his affection - his truest, deepest love - would ever accept this from Sam. Tears stung his eyes as he thought of Dean, and although he now realized he would give almost anything to kiss his brother like this, to touch him, to love him physically like he could feel Balian wanted to be, somehow it still seemed right to be with this strange man whom he'd only gotten to know that very day. As if it were almost pre-ordained, and the feelings that welled up inside Sam were meant to be explored here, now, and in this context.
And so he stopped, momentarily, resting his forehead against Balian's and looking deeply into his companion's eyes, looking for words that he could not say, living in the moment as he breathed softly in and out, his long fingers trailing down Balian's sides and finally grasping his waist and pulling him in more closely, where his answering ardor against Balian's cock couldn't possibly be missed or interpreted as anything other than what it was.
"I don't really want to go home," Sam murmured.
"I know," came the whispered response. "Would you --maybe --let's, um --shower?" The final word was spoken in a gruff, uplifted note, hesitant and yet filled with longing.
He followed Thomas down the hallway - having no choice, really, as he hadn't let go of Sam's hand - and stepped into the crystalline spray as soon as he was naked. It was dim, they kept the lights off by mutual unspoken agreement. In the shadows he could see Balian's face, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a lamp, and they stared for long minutes at one another as they stood under the spray, their hair dark, slick to their skulls, which only made the blades of Sam's cheekbones and the deep wells of Balian's eyes that much more fascinating to each other.
They kissed softly, silently, with tactile fingers stretching over wet ribcages and curling around taut muscle, their eyes exploring each other's bodies with rapt attention as naked need rose between them. With mouths fastened together they locked arms around each other's waists, holding each other up, and tentatively explored what the touch of another man's hand around one's cock felt like, and their quivering flesh responded as the heat bloomed between them, and their palms and fingers grasped each other, mirroring flesh to flesh in complete accord with their own desire.
Their blood sizzled like hot coals in their heads, and Sam felt his eyes still burning with unshed tears, but he refused to stop and think now about the consequences, or anything at all about the future. He grasped Balian's cock firmly at the base and bit his lips sharply as he felt the same pressure on his own, fingers and palms strong and sliding upward, pulling a keening response from both of them. He leaned forward and snaked his tongue along Balian's collarbone. Kissed his eyes, nuzzled his wet hair. The sharp tang of salty sweetness as he dared to lean down and press his lips against the head of Balian's stiff cock. The almost delirious joy as Balian licked the head of his own.
If he had never known it before, he knew it now: this was the thing he had always wanted to do for his brother, for Dean. To touch Balian like this was on some level like touching Dean, and as they rose again in answering powerful thrusts into each other's palms, their minds spun together out of the universe of understanding. Sam gasped aloud and let go, panting as he felt thick hot ropes of naked mutual response spurting up over their stomachs and down to their feet. They gasped together, and felt their legs give way a bit as they held each other up, giggling and laughing now in spent relief.
He had no idea how he got here. But did it matter, really, when the end result was discovering something new about himself?
And apparently, making someone else happy was part of that.
They noticed the rain was over as they toweled off, and Sam left Balian's apartment soon afterwards. But at the door, he felt the cold touch of something hard against his sleeve, and turned to find Balian pressing something into his palm.
He glanced down, and saw it was the blade, glittering and curved like an eagle's talon, and the case that had held it was in Balian's right hand.
"What is this?" Sam asked, not understanding.
"Take it," his friend nodded. "You'll need it someday."
"I can't take this," Sam said. "You made this. It's the copy of the Saracen's reaping knife that your Dad carried. It's beautiful, but as I remember, it's priceless. Plus, it must mean more to you because of the connection to your father."
"No, take it, Winchester," Balian urged. "In some cultures, they may say it's bad luck to give something with a sharp edge as a gift. Says it cuts the friendship. But, I don't think the same holds true between warriors and fighters. Which, even though you haven't said anything, I can see that you are. You appreciate this. I appreciate you. And I want you to have it."
Alarmed, Sam stared, chewing his lip. But Balian's equally committed stare brooked no opposition. So Sam thanked him, tucked the knife reverently back into its sheath, and put it safely inside his jacket.
Nodding his head once, he turned and left the apartment.
It was late when he returned home, and exhausted, he fell asleep almost as soon as his damp head hit the pillow.
In the morning, he heard the birds singing before opening his eyes, and smelled a scent like sulfur. He came awake suddenly at the sound of voices, and an axe chopping wood.
Overhead, dark, smoke-stained beams held up a roof of thatch, from which hung baskets and odd implements. A figure passed by him, whistling. Sam rolled out of bed, and stood in the open doorway of a tiny hut facing down a long road that wound through blue-shadowed hills, the end of which could not be seen.
The figure returned, stopped, and grinned at him.
"There's water in the pitcher on the table, and food in the iron pot on the hottle. Fill yourself and get out to the shed, Sam. Daylight's burning. Must be almost 6:00 of the morning."
"Balian?"
The figure stopped. "Yes?"
"Where am I?"
"The town I was born in. Where did you think you were?"
"How should I know? What --how --"
"Does it matter, really? They sent you here. I'd like some help, if you don't mind."
"They? Who?"
Balian shook his head. "Don't have the answer to that. Just --"
"But --Stanford. My classes. My life, dude."
"Stand ford? Oh, Stan-ford. School. Yes. Well, all I can tell you is --you're here, now, Winchester. My time. I came to yours. Now it's your turn."
"What?"
"Never mind." Balian looked him up and down, smiling bemusedly. "You'll get used to it. 'S not so bad, really. There are lessons here that you couldn't --wouldn't --learn at that school of yours. I do know that."
"Why?"
The dark-haired man shook his head. "Hell if I know. It just is." He shrugged. "Oh, and --get dressed. You'll find breeks and a shirt on the peg behind the door."
"Breeks? What are breeks?"
Balian laughed. "You wear them on your legs. I forget what they're called in your time. Keeps your arse from showing," and with that he turned and headed up the hill toward a low, open shed, where smoke rose from a huge chimney, leaving Sam to stare open-mouthed at the scene before him.
Pigs - several of them - grunted in the low pen before the door. As in, right before the door. There were a few dingy sheep as well, and a goose waddled by, picking at the sparse grass among the cobbles. An earthy smell permeated the yard, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. The road passed right in front of the house, and someone in a cart was headed towards him, so before Sam could be seen in all his shining nakedness he ducked back inside and shut the door.
* * *
The days passed in a blur of dirt and animal smells and heat surrounded by bitter cold. They worked in the smithy, up the hill from the cottage, shoeing horses and banging iron into rods and shafts and implements. Well, Balian worked, and was patient with Sam's attempts to learn. The shed was hot, smoky, and of necessity open to wind and weather. The rain dripped off the roof and in spots invaded their workspace, into pails and buckets set about to catch it. There were also pitch-lined casks of oil, which Balian used to finish his metalwork, which was everything from long swords to iron rings, depending on what was needed, and by whom, and what could be paid in either barter or trade.
At first, Sam was skeptical and tended to wake up each morning believing it was all a dream, and he'd find himself in his own time again. He was disappointed. He tried to remain positive and learned how to tend the fires as an apprentice might, but it was difficult, exacting work, requiring a patience that he had never cultivated. He was constantly uncomfortable, his cheeks had ruddy places on them where the skin had chapped, his nails were torn, and the skin on his back and thighs itched from the rough wool and worn leather of his clothing. There was no explanation offered for why Sam had woken up one morning in twelfth century France, so eventually he stopped asking.
It was certainly no weirder than watching Dean take out a banshee or going head to head with a fire-starting poltergeist. And he thought that somebody obviously wanted him to learn to live more simply, without electricity or running water or a paycheck when he thought he needed it. So he fed the fires and and watched his friend in spite of his irritation, and found himself absorbed in the process of making fine implements - swords, harnesses, horseshoes - from scorching heat and hunks of twisted metal.
He learned to operate the forge at the precise temperature needed, and Balian started to show him how to make the simplest items - nails, hooks, and latches.
It was the first time since he'd left home that he felt as if he were part of a team - and he found that he liked it, more than he remembered.
Few neighbors stopped by the shed except on business, trading food or household articles - bowls, wooden shelves, or furniture - for the metal work Balian and his apprentice were able to fashion. If anyone noticed the tall, broad-shouldered assistant had come out of nowhere, he or she accepted Balian's statement that Sam was a distant relation on his father's side, come to stay for the winter to help out and earn his keep.
And in the interim, the nights Sam and Balian spent together were their own, and no one was the wiser. Their minds and bodies connected through some shared spiritual need that neither wanted to examine too closely, and besides, the way they made each other feel was too damned good to spoil by too much thinking. The same things amused them, they laughed as much as talked, and even though Sam missed his brother and the life he had begun to build for himself at Stanford, and the work was hard, overall he was content.
Companionship made all the difference. Besides, he was learning. He learned patience and understanding, and to know that no matter how the elements seemed to be stacked against him, he could still depend on himself to build a fire, cook his own food, and repair the shelter that he and Balian shared. It was enough, for the time being.
The forge was especially hard to heat up one morning, and Sam had fed it all the dry wood in the shed. He pulled hard on the bellows chain over and over and over, his muscles straining in the cold and his back weary. A pain in his head that had bothered him for what seemed like weeks was threatening to turn into a migraine.
Shit, he muttered as he watched the small flames sputter and die after releasing the bellows for the umpteenth time. He knew there was a core of heated coals at the heart of the forge, and that the air passing up through them from the force of the bellows needed only a bit more fuel to catch and burn. He threw back his head in annoyance as he released the bellows and cast his eyes around the shed, looking for more wood. He spied the open pail that held the oil Balian used for finishing the finest swords, and in a sudden burst of frustration he grabbed it up and tossed the oil into the center of the burning wood.
A roar seeming to come from hell itself filled Sam's ears as the oil flared up at the same instant that air from the bellows rushed back underneath the coals and hurled soot and ash into his eyes, blinding him for a moment. But it was the fierce, searing slice across the back of his hand that made him cry out in pain, and brought Balian running from the other side of the shed. He dashed Sam's hand in a bucket of water. The fire had subsided into merrily burning coals by this time. In disgust, Balian bound up his hand, but said nothing.
They sat staring into the fire that evening, and eventually Sam felt tears rising in his throat. He lifted his head, feeling his hair falling dank and sticky across his brow. He couldn't remember when he'd last bathed, it had ceased to matter weeks ago how clean he was past bathing his face and hands. He felt dirty, sick, alone, and hurt.
And he just wanted to go home. Or - to what passed for home, and the possibility that he could one day see his family again.
He caught Balian's eyes in the flickering firelight. "Can I just ask - again - why?" he ground out. "Why am I here - why did this happen?"
"Not for me to say, Winchester. I just did as I was told."
"Told? By whom?"
Balian shook his head. "Can't say. But if it helps, I'd say that - up until today - you were doing fine. And maybe this last lesson was a bit harsh - but you needed it. There are rules to be followed in this world - and the strong don't always make them. Sometimes... sometimes, Winchester, you just have to do what you know is right. No shortcuts, be patient, and what is meant to happen will happen."
Sam shook his head. "It's not about that. I know there's something more. To hell with rules - to hell with you. I just wanna go home."
Balian crept closer, so Sam could see the reflected light, ruby red in the depths of his eyes. "I'm not the enemy, Sam. What is home, to you --really? I mean - you've told me you left the only one you ever knew. And for what? An education, ambition? What good will that do you, if in the end, you still don't have patience? To wait while things work themselves out in their own time? To try to force things to your will? You poured oil from a bucket stored in a leaky-roofed shed, where rainwater had probably been dripping for weeks, into a hot forge, merely because you couldn't wait for the bellows to blow enough oxygen to heat the coals. You could have gotten us both killed."
Sam's jaw was clenched, his raw cheeks reddened more with seething emotion. "So what are you saying, really, Balian? 'Cause I'm sure there's a metaphor here, but I'm really too tired to get it right now."
"Sam," Balian breathed. "Sometimes, you have to wait. To be patient, just wait it out. Keep doing what you know is right. Don't stop, don't give up. It'll pay off, in the end."
He is like unto a refiner's fire...
Sam hung his head. "I just wanna go back," he whispered. "I miss my family... my brother." Dean. Snarky, irreverent, irascible Dean. Precocious, precious Dean. Where was he? Would he ever see him again? Even without being able to touch him the way he and Balian had been, Sam realized he would give almost anything to be able to just hear his brother's voice and see his face again.
He had moved beyond the need to feel anything other than the purest love for his brother. It was like emerging on the other side of a desert, being cleansed and fulfilled after being denied water.
"Is it so bad, really?" Balian cocked his head. "You and I - we've been happy here, in our way."
Sam smiled, and put a hand on Balian's shoulder. "Yeah, that part has been good."
"But you are ready to move on. Maybe you have learned, after all."
"I've tried. I know I haven't learned much. But... I'll try to do better. You've been a good friend to me, you've been patient, and I appreciate that," Sam pressed Balian's knee as he spoke in earnest. And Balian understood.
"What man is a man... that does not make the world better," Sam repeated the words etched into the rafters of the blacksmith shed, and smiled at his friend.
Balian smiled. "That's right."
Sam shook his head. "I wanna go back, Balian. Can you help me do that, or not? I miss my family. And - just so you know - there's a lot of hypocrisy and fear in this world, just like there is in mine. I don't think simple truths are any different here than they are in the 21st century anymore. We may not have pigs in the front yard and people who would kill us for doing what you and I do, but we have our own issues - global warming, HIV, uncertainties that can kill us the same as yours. It isn't safe for me to stay here. I have to go home."
Balian smiled. "Go to bed, Sam. I'll be in in a little while."
And he came to him with gentle sadness, and they held one another again, kissing, melding together like always. The feeling had never left Sam that Balian was somehow like Dean - not as precious to him, or as hard, or as strong, and certainly not as fucked in the head - but almost.
Almost - all of those things.
The first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes was the sweet smell of spring in the breeze from the open window.
He rolled from the bed and reeled as his feet hit the floor and felt solid wood instead of the cold stone floor of the hut. He stood there, blinking in the bright light of morning, and pressed a hand to his ear as the roar of a bus went by outside. He stumbled to the bathroom, and turned on the running water in the sink. Flicked the light switch several times - on, and off, and on, and off. Marveled at the way his razor crept over his stubble and at the softness of the towels on the rack.
He was home - in his own time - where his brother lived.
He could pick up a phone, if he wanted, and call him. If he could find the number - if Dean hadn't changed it a dozen times since the last one he'd had.
Still. It didn't matter. God, what a dream... except that there, on the back of his left hand, was a half-moon shaped burn, and his head still hurt just as it had in his dream.
He glanced at the clock, and grabbed breakfast, hurrying out the door and down the sidewalk to Art History class, which was first that morning.
He burst into the door and slid jubilantly into his seat.
Anxiously he awaited the sight of the slim, dark-haired companion in the next row, toying with how he'd tell him of his strange dream. Already anticipating his touch, and what they might do together - again.
The bell sounded as the hands slid forward to nine o'clock. The prof entered, and the lecture began. Sam fidgeted as he realized that Balian was going to be a no-show --and he wondered why several people stared wordlessly at him, and then turned quickly away when he caught their eyes, but not before noticing what appeared to be curious pity in their faces.
When the lecture was over, Sam caught the elbow of the girl who usually sat next to Balian, on the side opposite him, as she was leaving the classroom. She stopped and turned, and her two companions with her.
"Um, Stacy? Where's our friend today - do you know?"
She looked confused. "Who?"
"Um --you know, the smart alecky one."
She shook her head, backing away. "I --don't know."
One of the other girls smiled ruefully at him. "We're glad to see you're feeling better, Sam."
He cocked his head, but before he could say anything, they turned away and were gone.
The professor was locking the door behind him as Sam wheeled back toward the classroom.
"Um - Professor? Have you heard anything about Balian?"
The man stopped and looked at him quizzically. "Balian? Is that what you said?"
"Yes. Thomas. I think his first name was Thomas."
"I don't know of an artist by that name. Perhaps you could look him up, and report back to us about him."
Sam was dumbfounded. The professor walked away quickly, and Sam turned slowly and started walking to his next class.
He sat silently through the next few hours taking notes and avoiding the obvert glances and grim stares of his classmates. Really, twenty-first century people were so rude, he startled himself by thinking. Afterwards he went to the library. His head hurt slightly, so after a bit he packed up his work and went for something to eat.
It was beginning to grate on his nerves, how alone he felt. He decided to seek out some explanation for the strange looks he was getting, when his eyes were distracted by a television mounted above the lunch counter as he entered a small cafe. The noon news report was airing, but the first thing Sam noticed from the scrolling banner across the bottom was the fact that it was over a week since he last remembered noticing the date.
Had he somehow blanked out, or just not paid attention? Or was there another explanation, something perhaps tied to the strange dream he'd had?
Maybe he'd slept for several days. He'd been so tired... but that had been back then.
Surely there was some reason he was missing both a friend and several days from his memory. So, looking around, he spied a table where a few students he recognized from Art History class were seated. Squaring his shoulders, he approached their table, smiling shyly.
"Sam!" One of them smiled. "Come, sit down. How are you feeling?"
"I'm okay, thanks - how are you guys?"
"We're great, thanks. We were so worried about you."
Sam started, and made a face. "Worried? Wh--"
"Yes, of course. We heard about what happened. It must have been so --"
"Frightening!" Another girl interjected. They all nodded, their eyes large, staring at him.
Sam stared around the table at three concerned faces. He was afraid to say anything, so he stayed silent, and smiled faintly, nodding. A waitress appeared to take their orders, and as she moved off, the girl next to him leaned conspiratorially and said, "So, Sam... what was it like?"
Sam started, again, and looked at her, while her companions by turns shushed her and kicked her under the table. "Um... it was... enlightening," he managed, choosing the first word that came into his mind, not wanting to appear clueless, but having no idea what the girl was talking about, of course. His head buzzed, and his scalp prickled.
There was a cool breeze at the back of his head, and he noticed something felt... odd. the girls were giggling at his answer. "Heh, enlightening, that's hysterical, Sam," one murmured.
The waitress brought their drinks. Sam wished he'd ordered a beer. Something weird was going on, but he kept his mouth shut, and sat listening. If he listened, he'd hear something that would help him figure out what the hell was going on.
Surely it was a dream.... wasn't it?
The girls chatted companionably for the most part, and when their orders came the conversation shifted to talk of television and movies. Sam stayed quiet. Just listening. He had nothing to add, not having seen anything on a screen lately.
And so it was that he heard about a movie that had come out the previous week, based on a real-life reluctant hero named Balian, who started out as a blacksmith in France, inherited a barony from his absent soldier father, and fought during the Crusades in the twelfth century.
And the fact that it was general knowledge to everyone - except himself - that he'd been struck by lightning on the sidewalk outside the theater the previous Thursday night, and had been hospitalized most of the weekend, as far as anyone had known.
So that explained the burn and the headache, at least.
Sam walked home in a daze. He entered his apartment, tossing aside his books, and leafing through the mail. He played his answering machine, but there was nothing new.
Sat on his couch, leafing though his study notes. Hit the remote, flicked on some music, and read while haphazard thoughts followed the tumbling, flickering sounds.
He glanced out the window frequently, half-expecting to see a storm gathering, half-wanting and half-afraid there would be one.
Too many unanswered questions. Too many thoughts swirling in his head.
And as he laid down his book, he sighed, his eyes fastening on something. Leaning forward, he drew it out from its handsewn sheath that lay before him on the low table before the sofa.
Held it up. It was a knife, curved like an eagle's talon, sharp and glittering like diamonds where the light fell on the delicate, intricate etching along the blade, and near the hilt he read the word Balian, in a tiny but strong, bold script.
"So," Sam said aloud to no one in particular, "I guess there is more to life after all, than just - simple truths. I'll keep this thing and... wait... for whatever I'm supposed to use it for, I guess."
Somewhere a voice that held a smile within the velvet-sheathed silence of time whispered, "Nothing gets by you, Sam Winchester."
F I N I S
Here's a picspam I found of Orlando Bloom's hands Yeah, you're welcome.
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Balian (see Background/Summary notes), Sam/Dean UST implied.
Timeframe: Pre-series, Stanford era.
Thanks to:
blind_acrobat, beta darling.Written for
blacklid and blincolin, who both love Balian almost as much as I do.Word count: 7,632 words.
Prompt for spnmysteryyears Challenge #2: "It's hard at first to make friends at college. Sam hasn't been on his own before, and his social skills are pretty pathetic, but he finds that being a good listener is as good a way as any to get people to like him." Prompt #4: They're both in an art history class to pick up chicks, but Sam mostly finds himself listening to this man talk, and watching the way his hands move.
Also posted for un_love_you Prompt #25: You remind me of someone.
Background/Summary: Balian of Ibelin, main character from Ridley Scott's movie Kingdom of Heaven, was played by a highly pumped-up Orlando Bloom. The movie is set in the late 12th century, during the Crusades, where Balian starts out as a poor blacksmith in France & ends up a soldier in Palestine. If you haven't seen the film: Balian was a reluctant, but extremely capable hero - who almost became a martyr - and in his spare time was the lover of princess Sybilla, wife of his enemy. The parallels of his character to both martyr!kickass!Dean and Sam himself were just too tasty to ignore... he gets the crap beat out of him on a regular basis, loves working with weapons in his hands, and is a soldier par excellence who stood at the fall of Jerusalem and negotiated saving the lives of thousands, never asking for anything for himself, fully expecting to die at the hands of his enemies. The final battle gives new meaning to the words, "I choose to go down swinging."
Artwork by Irene. This is a piece of artwork, and is not a photograph of an actual person. This (manip) by Irene H. shows Balian going to the terrace of his house on the outskirts of Jerusalem to get some cool night air. Tasty, no? Sam thought so, too. Which is why he gets a little distracted when this guy in class not only reminds him of his brother temperament-wise, but physically resembles a character in a movie he may have seen recently... lots of hand porn in this story, and details about sword-making, because the premise is, Sam loves knives and bladed weapons, and this guy knows how to make them. They ostensibly bond over a shared interest, that descends into a parallel world that may actually prove the existence of time-travel - or not. It may only be a dream.
When no man had craft in minde
Then of craft had God in kinde.
When no techer was in Lande
Men had craft by Goddes hand.
They that had craft so He thenne
Taught forthe craft to other menne.
Some craft that yet comes not in place
Some man shall have by God's good grace.
--Walter Mapes, c. 1140-1209
"For he is like a refiner's fire..." --Malachi 3.2
“The focus of western and middle eastern art in the twelfth century was largely religious. Little record is preserved of daily life, however, outside of art. Craft was valued as a testament to the ability of man to infuse his soul into something tangible. There was a level of patience and pride in one's work that elevates even the every day to an art form. That's why we have decorations in the form of intricately woven tapestries that were made to hide ugly walls and hold in the sparse heat of open fireplaces, embroidered garments - including undergarments, even highly etched weaponry. By studying these embellished artifacts, canvasses and sculptures we seek to gain an understanding of daily life. In short, we look to discover things that transcend time itself: simple truths.”
Here the professor paused, spectacles perched above his hawklike nose. Sam shifted slightly, his pen poised above his paper, fingers taut around the hilt. The skin on his arm prickled, and he glanced up to see a pair of eyes fastened upon him, coffee-brown and warm above a slightly mischievous grin, framed by glossy curls the color of melted chocolate.
The eyes rolled and his face split into a full smile that matched Sam’s. Unconsciously Sam’s tongue flicked out to lick dry lips.
The professor continued but Sam took no more notes that day. Every time the dark-haired guy spoke, Sam's attention was arrested. Sometimes he cracked a dry joke, and often had those closest to him in stitches from a murmured, wry observation. He had a natural, casual charm, and it seemed like everyone was drawn to the guy's wisecracking good humor, which made Sam think of Dean, and how he'd so often done the same kind of thing to put both himself and his brother at ease in unusual or difficult situations. And several times Sam and this good-natured stranger had exchanged glances with what Sam thought a surprising level of camaraderie, that he put down to their being somewhat outnumbered.
They were both in an art history class to pick up chicks, but as the days wore on Sam mostly found himself listening to this man talk, and watching the way his hands moved.
They’re strong hands on what at first glance appear to be delicate, almost girl-like arms - until he followed them upward with his eyes and noted rippling muscles under the thin fabric of his loose-fitting shirt. Callused but supple, with an interesting scar in the shape of a half-moon across the back of his left wrist, the fingers blunt but powerful, causing Sam to blink against the confusion of memory.
Hands that would grasp the stock of a shotgun with cold calculation, the fingers fanned outward like the caress of a lover across the silken skin of his belly… oh, no.
He was doing it again.
He gulped and swallowed, clearing his throat with a slight cough.
He was in the library, lost amid treatises on ancient texts and the ramblings of dusty philosophers, gazing half-heartedly at pages and pages of depictions of warriors dressed for battle against Saracen and Turk alike.
How was this applicable to his time, or to anything? They had fought wars, and lost. There had been raids on villages and burnings at the stake. And for what?
The medieval period was lost to him in one big cacophony of clashing swords and dirty bodies, of smoke and waste. Of ignorance on the part of both Church and State. With the little people caught in the muck, downtrodden, fodder for armies.
Caught in the crossfire, as always.
He closed the books with a sigh, one by one, hearing the satisfactory thud as their pages clapped shut, cutting into the silence.
“Whoa, there,” a whisper sounded from behind, the merest breath ruffling the hair above his right ear. “You aren’t done with that, are you? It was just getting to the good part.”
“What - were you reading? Hey, have at it,” Sam looked quizzically up at the merry face above him, then chuckled as he recognized the guy from Art History class. “Oh,” he rolled his eyes. “It’s you.”
“Thomas Balian,” the guy stuck out his hand and Sam grasped it, closing his fingers over the rough palm and feeling a ripple he put down only to recognition in the soft fluttering of his heart.
“Sam. Winchester,” he managed, wondering where the idiotic urge to clear his throat came from, that always seemed to rise up and clutch somewhere underneath his collarbone, as if suddenly his neck weren’t large enough to gather breath for his lungs. “I was going to take a break, actually,” he finished more smoothly. “You’re welcome to any of these, that way I won’t have to put them back.”
“Sure,” Thomas slid into the seat across from him with an adept turning of his slim hips. Sam felt an inexplicably keen sense of loss as the coiled firmness of the other man’s body was now so close, but out of reach, and out of sight from mid-chest down. He rubbed his forehead in confusion, slanting a look sideways at his new study companion.
He’d fully intended to leave, but five minutes later was still seated at the table, trying to concentrate on the words in front of him. He heard the echo of the voice of the man across the table from a discussion in class the day before. His voice was soft, but with a heart of iron - vibrant, softly resonant - and Sam had found he had to listen, he couldn’t not listen, he was fascinated with the slight curl of British accent in the dropped r’s and soft pronunciation of the vowels.
He looked up, and found the man staring back at him, an unknowable expression in his eyes. He felt a connection to the person across from him that he couldn’t begin to understand, except when he glanced again, for what must have been the four hundredth time, at the man’s - Balian’s - hands. The rough, reddish patches over the knuckles. Blunt fingernails cut short. Capable wrists. A network of bluish veins that crawled over the backs of his hands evoking a sinuous mastery of whatever he touched.
Sam forced himself to look back up at his new companion’s eyes. The man lifted an eyebrow, once.
Sam shattered his inhibitions to bits, and nodded. Without a word, they began to pack up their things, and together they exited the library.
He only wanted to be touched by those hands, just for a moment. Just once. He hadn't thought beyond the moment, if he had thought at all. But as they walked down the street Sam felt his scalp prickling in anticipation, and his stomach rolled with a sickening, quicksilver lurch as the implications of what he'd just done hit him full force in the chest.
Was he going to let this fantasy become real? He'd never so much as considered anything of the kind before - at least, not with someone like this, someone he barely knew. The first few days of class it had been obvious that the guy was, like himself, attracted to women; Sam had watched his long eyelashes sweep downward in appreciation as a gorgeous pair of legs walked by on their way to find a seat, and he'd overheard at least two flirtatious conversations between Balian and female students.
So why this sudden telepathy - this quick sureness that left nothing to the imagination? And how was it that Sam was going along, quite happily, to where ever this thing led?
He had no idea what he was doing.
"Sam?"
He started, glancing over in shy determination, unwilling to let his rambling thoughts get the best of him, and yet wanting to remain open, honest, willing to learn. For somewhere in the depths of his mind he automatically reached for the threads of something fine and yearning that radiated out from this man, Balian. "Yeah," he answered, chin lifted, smile flickering at the corners of parted lips.
"Are you in the mood for coffee?"
Sam started at that, taken slightly aback by the casual nature of the question. He wondered if in his ignorance he'd read this completely wrong. He shrugged in answer. "Sure."
"Here, then," and Balian swept aside to open a dark green door to their right, and they were inside a small, cottage-like room filled with the scent of warm, freshly ground elixirs. They ordered and seated themselves with steaming cups at a table near the window, and Balian crossed his right leg over his left knee and leaned back comfortably against the cushion-lined banquette behind him.
Sam sipped his coffee. It was hot, but flavored and cooled to a drinkable temperature with generous dollops of cream. Balian's bright eyes ranged over the room and he lifted a hand in greeting to a couple entering the doorway. He seemed so sure, so comfortable, at ease with himself. Turning back, he nodded at Sam.
"So," he smiled. "How's your brew?"
"It's fine."
"Good. Coffee - and conversation. A good combination, wouldn't you agree?"
"Um - sure," Sam murmured, unwilling to say anything more at the moment. He shifted in his seat, tonguing his cheek nervously. Really, he had no idea where this was going, and he was unnerved with himself for his thoughts earlier.
"What do you think of the early Renaissance genre so far?"
"What? Oh, well..." Sam smiled again and gave consideration to the question. "I think they were painting what the Church wanted them to paint, and to hell with what Professor Radsen says about reality."
"Oh? So you don't agree with his statement about everyday life?"
"Hell, no. They're cardboard cut-outs. There isn't the slightest resemblance to what their lives were like in any of those depictions we've studied. Take the pieces we looked at yesterday, for instance. The pilgrims march along the road like so many faceless cockroaches. The nobility passes by farmhouses that look identical to one another. Tell me you buy that crap with the perfectly tended gardens, not a weed in sight. Even the barnyards don't have a speck of horse shit in them. We all know differently."
"Well, consider that the craft was in its infancy. Artists weren't sophisticated enough to depict realism - and the camera obscura hadn't yet been discovered to help them get proportions correct. It was enough for them to get ideas down. It was for later generations to add subtleties of shadow, color, and what you might call 'horse shit.'"
"Pfft. I don't buy it. Nobody wanted to see the horse shit - that's why it's not there."
Balian chuckled. "That's why I like you, Winchester. Nothing gets by you. I'll bet before the year is out you could tell us a thing or two about what's missing from those paintings."
Sam was surprised by this. "What gives you that idea? I was just going on common sense. They don't seem real because even what we know must have been there isn't, so how can we trust what is?"
His companion seemed animated by this remark. "Really," he quirked an eyebrow. "Are you quite certain you don't know anything? I'd have almost taken you for a history major, maybe even with a concentration in medieval studies, from the way you talk. All authority, no blather."
It was Sam's turn to laugh. "No, man. Pre-law."
"So that's it. Always asking the questions, presuming we aren't being shown everything. For argument's sake."
Sam relaxed perceptibly. "I just don't like being played for a fool, that's all."
Balian leaned forward, speaking in a low whisper, "No one - no sane, rational person, that is - would ever take you for a fool, my friend." He clapped Sam on the shoulder conspiratorially. "I think, however, that you try to seek out too much for yourself, and have a hard time taking other people's word for things. You need to experience things first hand in order to understand and accept them. No rules for you - unless you've made them yourself. Am I right?"
Sam's glance immediately shifted downwards to the hand that had touched him and was now withdrawing. His eyes widened as the other man let his fingers fall open, palm upwards on the table, the back of his hand resting calmly, quietly, on the smooth surface.
He felt his breath hitch in his throat, and slowly, he let his gaze wander upwards, from the tips of his fingers to the dark curls at his shoulders. Sam's eyes fastened for a moment on the sharp chin, slightly clefted, and the hint of pearl-like teeth behind pink lips, softly parted and ringed with darkening stubble. And finally, he met Balian's eyes once more, and he knew as he looked into them that only one other human on earth had ever seen this deeply into his soul, and that person was not here.
He had left him behind. The person who had raised him.
His brother.
Sam slipped the coffee past his lips, and stared boldly back at this stranger who'd dared to enter and to look so openly into his heart. He could be imagining it, but he didn't think so. So he chose to meet this head on, he was tired of being confused and reading impulses.
He swallowed once more, and set the cup down. "So," he canted his head a little to the left as he spoke, "You wanna tell me why you keep making eyes at me? 'Cause I could have sworn that before this week that neither one of us swung that way."
Balian's smirk was far too much like Dean's - halfway between cherubic and derisive - to ignore the implications. Not that Sam was in a mood to do so - now that he'd opened his mouth, he sat waiting to hear the answer.
"I've no idea, Winchester," Balian's eyes sparkled as he cocked his head to the side, another gesture so like his brother's that it was maddening. "I can tell you this - up to this past week, I had no problem with nearly always accepting things as they were presented. But you've caused me to question that. I think - you remind me of someone."
"Yeah? Who?"
"I don't know exactly. I almost wonder if it's someone I... knew in a dream once. You'll laugh when I say this, but... you look a bit like my father, when he was young."
"Really?"
"Yes, you do. Your lips, and the way you wear your hair, definitely. And you're big, like him. My father was huge. He's dead now."
"I'm sorry."
"S'alright, really. But I do miss him."
Sam shifted slightly, his attention focused, intent. "Were you close... with your father?"
Balian shook his head, expelling a slight sigh. "No, actually. I hardly knew him. He was a soldier, gone mostly."
"I see."
"But he was a good man, my father. He loved my mother, in his own way."
Sam nodded. They were quiet for some minutes. Then, inexplicably, he shrugged. "I was thinking of my brother, Dean. God, he's crazy. I don't know why I remember him so much lately. He practically raised me," he offered, not realizing how disjointed he sounded.
Balian smiled. "You miss him."
Sam glanced up once and back down at his hands, saying nothing.
They were silent again.
Balian coughed slightly after some minutes. Sam looked over at him, smiling a bit nervously, and cast about for something to say. His eyes lit upon the odd, half-moon shaped scar on Balian's left wrist. It was thick and deep, the skin whitened in the middle, like a burn.
"That's an interesting scar you have there - not to pry, but - well, it looks like it hurt." Sam winced a bit, not knowing really if it was kosher or not to ask about such a thing; except in his universe, warriors carried scars proudly. Certainly he'd seen Dean inspecting his own quite often... nothing much was ever said, but still, Sam's curiosity had gotten the better of him and he wondered if there was another side of Balian that would be like his brother.
The dark head bowed slightly. "Oh, that." He glanced up at Sam, eyebrows quirked. "I was - a bit careless with the fire that day."
"The fire?"
"Yes. It's a reminder, that's all. Not to get distracted in the forge. I could have lost an eye, actually. I was lucky the slag only hit my hand."
"Wow. I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about, though. A slag hit you?"
Balian chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling across the table in amusement at Sam's confusion. "No, a piece of slag. I'm a metallurgist. I make blades - sharp ones. Knives, actually. And I collect them. Would you like to see?"
Sam felt his breath catch in his throat as his eyes glowed. He loved blades. He loved the tactile heft of a perfectly weighted knife, fitted smoothly into a custom leather sheath. Yes, indeed. Sam wanted - appreciated - a sharp edge, especially rare, hand-crafted ones.
He happily accompanied Thomas to his loft, where he revealed an array of glittering implements, and allowed Sam to touch the blades, to handle them, and smiled as he murmured in appreciation over several - for each was fine in its own individual way, and further evidence of the link between one warrior and a craftsman.
Sam listened carefully as Balian pointed out the defining details of a copy of a twelfth century dirk, several small swords, each with historically accurate detailing, and gasped out loud as he was shown a curved middle-eastern blade that reminded him of a small version of a reaper's knife. Sam was taken with this weapon in particular, with its glittering hilt and the fine etching of figures along the blade. He lost track of time until it grew late into the evening. He had listened to Balian recount stories of battles and archaeological finds until his stomach began to remind him of the fact that they'd had no dinner. Thomas laughed as Sam's belly finally proclaimed this loudly, and picked up the phone to order takeout. They stepped around the corner and brought back boxes of hot spicy canton noodles and beef, their heads bent closely together as Balian continued to tell Sam all he knew about the lore of the weapons in his collection.
"You are fascinated with this stuff, aren't you?" he exclaimed after another hour had passed. "You're gonna let me go on all night about this, I do believe," he laughed.
"Oh, no," Sam murmured apologetically. "I'm sorry. You probably have things to do, and I have to get back. But I've enjoyed it - really, these were fascinating. Thank you." Sam wiped his hands and chin on a napkin and stood up, gathering the containers from the table, intending to clean up a bit for his host and then leave.
"Leave them," Balian commanded. "I'd - well - enjoy your company a bit longer, Winchester - if you don't mind."
Sam paused above the table, then shook his head and moved toward the kitchen. He was the neat one in the family, it always irked him when Dean left a mess, especially involving food. The least he could do to repay his host for such good company was to throw away the containers and wipe the table.
He heard the soft sound of a beer opening behind him, turned and looked down to see Balian's blunt fingers brushing his, a cold bottle proffered before him. "Thank you," said his friend. "You didn't have to do that. But since you did, here's your reward. And I'm sorry I talked your ear off."
Sam grinned. "You didn't talk my ear off. I enjoyed every minute of it. Okay, I'll stay awhile longer." His fingers grasped the cold neck of the bottle as he looked deeply into Balian's coffee-colored eyes with a smile. It was good to have found a friend, especially one who shared Sam's love of edged weapons.
He didn't know it, but the happiness reflected there was entirely mutual.
They stood by the counter in the dim reflected light from the small living room behind them, sipping their beers when suddenly a flash of lightning lit up the sky and the room all around them. Balian swung his head in the direction of the windows, then back at Sam.
"Oooops," he murmured. "Guess you're actually stuck here for awhile now."
"Oh, no," said Sam, "I shouldn't have stayed so long. I'm sorry, dude, I should totally go now."
"No, really, it's okay..." said Balian, but Sam had already taken long, loping strides toward the foyer and was shrugging into his jacket. Lightning split the sky again, followed by the immediate boom of thunder. And they heard the rain echoing incredibly fast on the roof and on the window sills.
"I can make it," Sam murmured breathlessly, turning. The air was sparkling all around him, and he found himself suddenly short of breath.
His heart hammered in his chest. Balian had opened the door and stood looking out into the searing blackness, streaked with white as the smell of hot ozone mixed with cool rain reached their nostrils. He turned back to Sam and shook his head, blocking the doorway. "I'm not sending you out in this," he said, and pulled the door closed again.
Sam stood stock still at the sight of Balian's fist on the doorknob. His fingers were so like Dean's, and he felt the thread of protection running through his friend just as it had in his brother.
Dean wouldn't have let him go, either... not unless Sam forced it.
And right now? Sam didn't want to force anything, anymore.
He was staring at those fingers curled protectively, possessively, he imagined, around the knob as the door slammed shut. He heard the turning of the lock and the slip of the latch on its chain before he let himself look again at Balian's face, where once again there was a mutually reflected feeling.
But this time, he did see it.
He dropped his guard, and bowed his head, as Balian stepped into his arms. Tentatively, his lips parted as they touched, and he stood frozen, immobile, as the thunder sounded once more, and explored what it felt like to be kissed by a man, and then what it felt like to kiss back.
And he marvelled at how the taste of him was smooth and rich, like dark syrup on his tongue, as his trembling fingers stilled as he touched Balian's face and he felt Balian's hands clenched into the folds of his jacket in mutual wanton, desperate need.
Sam's palms curled under the smaller man's jaw, cupping it gently as he felt and heard simultaneously a small sound escaping Balian's throat and gave an answering murmur from deep inside his own. His kiss was like the lightning, leaving quicksilver tingles along Sam's spine as his tongue darted and withdrew in an alternately slow coupling that ran along the seam of Sam's desire, stemming from somewhere deep inside his heart.
Outside, the storm raged, but inside as they stood there they shared a cocoon of warmth, testing and exploring for long minutes the strange but satisfyingly golden feelings that sparked inside their heads in response to this growing, daring discovery. This, thought Sam, was like nothing he'd ever found with any girl. It was more like an answer to a question he'd never known to ask: it was fulfillment tantamount to a glowing, banked fire that flares up as soon as it is fed dry, seasoned hickory.
Kissing Balian made Sam hunger for more.
His throat muscles worked as he drew in breath and dropped his chin, taking Balian's lips again in a deeper, searingly passionate embrace. He could feel the warm pressure against his belly of Balian's cock and an answering rise of his own sensitive nerve endings held in check. He wanted to go more slowly, and yet to engulf this man in the power of his own ability to give and answer the need to love and to be loved.
It wasn't like the object of his affection - his truest, deepest love - would ever accept this from Sam. Tears stung his eyes as he thought of Dean, and although he now realized he would give almost anything to kiss his brother like this, to touch him, to love him physically like he could feel Balian wanted to be, somehow it still seemed right to be with this strange man whom he'd only gotten to know that very day. As if it were almost pre-ordained, and the feelings that welled up inside Sam were meant to be explored here, now, and in this context.
And so he stopped, momentarily, resting his forehead against Balian's and looking deeply into his companion's eyes, looking for words that he could not say, living in the moment as he breathed softly in and out, his long fingers trailing down Balian's sides and finally grasping his waist and pulling him in more closely, where his answering ardor against Balian's cock couldn't possibly be missed or interpreted as anything other than what it was.
"I don't really want to go home," Sam murmured.
"I know," came the whispered response. "Would you --maybe --let's, um --shower?" The final word was spoken in a gruff, uplifted note, hesitant and yet filled with longing.
He followed Thomas down the hallway - having no choice, really, as he hadn't let go of Sam's hand - and stepped into the crystalline spray as soon as he was naked. It was dim, they kept the lights off by mutual unspoken agreement. In the shadows he could see Balian's face, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a lamp, and they stared for long minutes at one another as they stood under the spray, their hair dark, slick to their skulls, which only made the blades of Sam's cheekbones and the deep wells of Balian's eyes that much more fascinating to each other.
They kissed softly, silently, with tactile fingers stretching over wet ribcages and curling around taut muscle, their eyes exploring each other's bodies with rapt attention as naked need rose between them. With mouths fastened together they locked arms around each other's waists, holding each other up, and tentatively explored what the touch of another man's hand around one's cock felt like, and their quivering flesh responded as the heat bloomed between them, and their palms and fingers grasped each other, mirroring flesh to flesh in complete accord with their own desire.
Their blood sizzled like hot coals in their heads, and Sam felt his eyes still burning with unshed tears, but he refused to stop and think now about the consequences, or anything at all about the future. He grasped Balian's cock firmly at the base and bit his lips sharply as he felt the same pressure on his own, fingers and palms strong and sliding upward, pulling a keening response from both of them. He leaned forward and snaked his tongue along Balian's collarbone. Kissed his eyes, nuzzled his wet hair. The sharp tang of salty sweetness as he dared to lean down and press his lips against the head of Balian's stiff cock. The almost delirious joy as Balian licked the head of his own.
If he had never known it before, he knew it now: this was the thing he had always wanted to do for his brother, for Dean. To touch Balian like this was on some level like touching Dean, and as they rose again in answering powerful thrusts into each other's palms, their minds spun together out of the universe of understanding. Sam gasped aloud and let go, panting as he felt thick hot ropes of naked mutual response spurting up over their stomachs and down to their feet. They gasped together, and felt their legs give way a bit as they held each other up, giggling and laughing now in spent relief.
He had no idea how he got here. But did it matter, really, when the end result was discovering something new about himself?
And apparently, making someone else happy was part of that.
They noticed the rain was over as they toweled off, and Sam left Balian's apartment soon afterwards. But at the door, he felt the cold touch of something hard against his sleeve, and turned to find Balian pressing something into his palm.
He glanced down, and saw it was the blade, glittering and curved like an eagle's talon, and the case that had held it was in Balian's right hand.
"What is this?" Sam asked, not understanding.
"Take it," his friend nodded. "You'll need it someday."
"I can't take this," Sam said. "You made this. It's the copy of the Saracen's reaping knife that your Dad carried. It's beautiful, but as I remember, it's priceless. Plus, it must mean more to you because of the connection to your father."
"No, take it, Winchester," Balian urged. "In some cultures, they may say it's bad luck to give something with a sharp edge as a gift. Says it cuts the friendship. But, I don't think the same holds true between warriors and fighters. Which, even though you haven't said anything, I can see that you are. You appreciate this. I appreciate you. And I want you to have it."
Alarmed, Sam stared, chewing his lip. But Balian's equally committed stare brooked no opposition. So Sam thanked him, tucked the knife reverently back into its sheath, and put it safely inside his jacket.
Nodding his head once, he turned and left the apartment.
It was late when he returned home, and exhausted, he fell asleep almost as soon as his damp head hit the pillow.
In the morning, he heard the birds singing before opening his eyes, and smelled a scent like sulfur. He came awake suddenly at the sound of voices, and an axe chopping wood.
Overhead, dark, smoke-stained beams held up a roof of thatch, from which hung baskets and odd implements. A figure passed by him, whistling. Sam rolled out of bed, and stood in the open doorway of a tiny hut facing down a long road that wound through blue-shadowed hills, the end of which could not be seen.
The figure returned, stopped, and grinned at him.
"There's water in the pitcher on the table, and food in the iron pot on the hottle. Fill yourself and get out to the shed, Sam. Daylight's burning. Must be almost 6:00 of the morning."
"Balian?"
The figure stopped. "Yes?"
"Where am I?"
"The town I was born in. Where did you think you were?"
"How should I know? What --how --"
"Does it matter, really? They sent you here. I'd like some help, if you don't mind."
"They? Who?"
Balian shook his head. "Don't have the answer to that. Just --"
"But --Stanford. My classes. My life, dude."
"Stand ford? Oh, Stan-ford. School. Yes. Well, all I can tell you is --you're here, now, Winchester. My time. I came to yours. Now it's your turn."
"What?"
"Never mind." Balian looked him up and down, smiling bemusedly. "You'll get used to it. 'S not so bad, really. There are lessons here that you couldn't --wouldn't --learn at that school of yours. I do know that."
"Why?"
The dark-haired man shook his head. "Hell if I know. It just is." He shrugged. "Oh, and --get dressed. You'll find breeks and a shirt on the peg behind the door."
"Breeks? What are breeks?"
Balian laughed. "You wear them on your legs. I forget what they're called in your time. Keeps your arse from showing," and with that he turned and headed up the hill toward a low, open shed, where smoke rose from a huge chimney, leaving Sam to stare open-mouthed at the scene before him.
Pigs - several of them - grunted in the low pen before the door. As in, right before the door. There were a few dingy sheep as well, and a goose waddled by, picking at the sparse grass among the cobbles. An earthy smell permeated the yard, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. The road passed right in front of the house, and someone in a cart was headed towards him, so before Sam could be seen in all his shining nakedness he ducked back inside and shut the door.
The days passed in a blur of dirt and animal smells and heat surrounded by bitter cold. They worked in the smithy, up the hill from the cottage, shoeing horses and banging iron into rods and shafts and implements. Well, Balian worked, and was patient with Sam's attempts to learn. The shed was hot, smoky, and of necessity open to wind and weather. The rain dripped off the roof and in spots invaded their workspace, into pails and buckets set about to catch it. There were also pitch-lined casks of oil, which Balian used to finish his metalwork, which was everything from long swords to iron rings, depending on what was needed, and by whom, and what could be paid in either barter or trade.
At first, Sam was skeptical and tended to wake up each morning believing it was all a dream, and he'd find himself in his own time again. He was disappointed. He tried to remain positive and learned how to tend the fires as an apprentice might, but it was difficult, exacting work, requiring a patience that he had never cultivated. He was constantly uncomfortable, his cheeks had ruddy places on them where the skin had chapped, his nails were torn, and the skin on his back and thighs itched from the rough wool and worn leather of his clothing. There was no explanation offered for why Sam had woken up one morning in twelfth century France, so eventually he stopped asking.
It was certainly no weirder than watching Dean take out a banshee or going head to head with a fire-starting poltergeist. And he thought that somebody obviously wanted him to learn to live more simply, without electricity or running water or a paycheck when he thought he needed it. So he fed the fires and and watched his friend in spite of his irritation, and found himself absorbed in the process of making fine implements - swords, harnesses, horseshoes - from scorching heat and hunks of twisted metal.
He learned to operate the forge at the precise temperature needed, and Balian started to show him how to make the simplest items - nails, hooks, and latches.
It was the first time since he'd left home that he felt as if he were part of a team - and he found that he liked it, more than he remembered.
Few neighbors stopped by the shed except on business, trading food or household articles - bowls, wooden shelves, or furniture - for the metal work Balian and his apprentice were able to fashion. If anyone noticed the tall, broad-shouldered assistant had come out of nowhere, he or she accepted Balian's statement that Sam was a distant relation on his father's side, come to stay for the winter to help out and earn his keep.
And in the interim, the nights Sam and Balian spent together were their own, and no one was the wiser. Their minds and bodies connected through some shared spiritual need that neither wanted to examine too closely, and besides, the way they made each other feel was too damned good to spoil by too much thinking. The same things amused them, they laughed as much as talked, and even though Sam missed his brother and the life he had begun to build for himself at Stanford, and the work was hard, overall he was content.
Companionship made all the difference. Besides, he was learning. He learned patience and understanding, and to know that no matter how the elements seemed to be stacked against him, he could still depend on himself to build a fire, cook his own food, and repair the shelter that he and Balian shared. It was enough, for the time being.
The forge was especially hard to heat up one morning, and Sam had fed it all the dry wood in the shed. He pulled hard on the bellows chain over and over and over, his muscles straining in the cold and his back weary. A pain in his head that had bothered him for what seemed like weeks was threatening to turn into a migraine.
Shit, he muttered as he watched the small flames sputter and die after releasing the bellows for the umpteenth time. He knew there was a core of heated coals at the heart of the forge, and that the air passing up through them from the force of the bellows needed only a bit more fuel to catch and burn. He threw back his head in annoyance as he released the bellows and cast his eyes around the shed, looking for more wood. He spied the open pail that held the oil Balian used for finishing the finest swords, and in a sudden burst of frustration he grabbed it up and tossed the oil into the center of the burning wood.
A roar seeming to come from hell itself filled Sam's ears as the oil flared up at the same instant that air from the bellows rushed back underneath the coals and hurled soot and ash into his eyes, blinding him for a moment. But it was the fierce, searing slice across the back of his hand that made him cry out in pain, and brought Balian running from the other side of the shed. He dashed Sam's hand in a bucket of water. The fire had subsided into merrily burning coals by this time. In disgust, Balian bound up his hand, but said nothing.
They sat staring into the fire that evening, and eventually Sam felt tears rising in his throat. He lifted his head, feeling his hair falling dank and sticky across his brow. He couldn't remember when he'd last bathed, it had ceased to matter weeks ago how clean he was past bathing his face and hands. He felt dirty, sick, alone, and hurt.
And he just wanted to go home. Or - to what passed for home, and the possibility that he could one day see his family again.
He caught Balian's eyes in the flickering firelight. "Can I just ask - again - why?" he ground out. "Why am I here - why did this happen?"
"Not for me to say, Winchester. I just did as I was told."
"Told? By whom?"
Balian shook his head. "Can't say. But if it helps, I'd say that - up until today - you were doing fine. And maybe this last lesson was a bit harsh - but you needed it. There are rules to be followed in this world - and the strong don't always make them. Sometimes... sometimes, Winchester, you just have to do what you know is right. No shortcuts, be patient, and what is meant to happen will happen."
Sam shook his head. "It's not about that. I know there's something more. To hell with rules - to hell with you. I just wanna go home."
Balian crept closer, so Sam could see the reflected light, ruby red in the depths of his eyes. "I'm not the enemy, Sam. What is home, to you --really? I mean - you've told me you left the only one you ever knew. And for what? An education, ambition? What good will that do you, if in the end, you still don't have patience? To wait while things work themselves out in their own time? To try to force things to your will? You poured oil from a bucket stored in a leaky-roofed shed, where rainwater had probably been dripping for weeks, into a hot forge, merely because you couldn't wait for the bellows to blow enough oxygen to heat the coals. You could have gotten us both killed."
Sam's jaw was clenched, his raw cheeks reddened more with seething emotion. "So what are you saying, really, Balian? 'Cause I'm sure there's a metaphor here, but I'm really too tired to get it right now."
"Sam," Balian breathed. "Sometimes, you have to wait. To be patient, just wait it out. Keep doing what you know is right. Don't stop, don't give up. It'll pay off, in the end."
He is like unto a refiner's fire...
Sam hung his head. "I just wanna go back," he whispered. "I miss my family... my brother." Dean. Snarky, irreverent, irascible Dean. Precocious, precious Dean. Where was he? Would he ever see him again? Even without being able to touch him the way he and Balian had been, Sam realized he would give almost anything to be able to just hear his brother's voice and see his face again.
He had moved beyond the need to feel anything other than the purest love for his brother. It was like emerging on the other side of a desert, being cleansed and fulfilled after being denied water.
"Is it so bad, really?" Balian cocked his head. "You and I - we've been happy here, in our way."
Sam smiled, and put a hand on Balian's shoulder. "Yeah, that part has been good."
"But you are ready to move on. Maybe you have learned, after all."
"I've tried. I know I haven't learned much. But... I'll try to do better. You've been a good friend to me, you've been patient, and I appreciate that," Sam pressed Balian's knee as he spoke in earnest. And Balian understood.
"What man is a man... that does not make the world better," Sam repeated the words etched into the rafters of the blacksmith shed, and smiled at his friend.
Balian smiled. "That's right."
Sam shook his head. "I wanna go back, Balian. Can you help me do that, or not? I miss my family. And - just so you know - there's a lot of hypocrisy and fear in this world, just like there is in mine. I don't think simple truths are any different here than they are in the 21st century anymore. We may not have pigs in the front yard and people who would kill us for doing what you and I do, but we have our own issues - global warming, HIV, uncertainties that can kill us the same as yours. It isn't safe for me to stay here. I have to go home."
Balian smiled. "Go to bed, Sam. I'll be in in a little while."
And he came to him with gentle sadness, and they held one another again, kissing, melding together like always. The feeling had never left Sam that Balian was somehow like Dean - not as precious to him, or as hard, or as strong, and certainly not as fucked in the head - but almost.
Almost - all of those things.
The first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes was the sweet smell of spring in the breeze from the open window.
He rolled from the bed and reeled as his feet hit the floor and felt solid wood instead of the cold stone floor of the hut. He stood there, blinking in the bright light of morning, and pressed a hand to his ear as the roar of a bus went by outside. He stumbled to the bathroom, and turned on the running water in the sink. Flicked the light switch several times - on, and off, and on, and off. Marveled at the way his razor crept over his stubble and at the softness of the towels on the rack.
He was home - in his own time - where his brother lived.
He could pick up a phone, if he wanted, and call him. If he could find the number - if Dean hadn't changed it a dozen times since the last one he'd had.
Still. It didn't matter. God, what a dream... except that there, on the back of his left hand, was a half-moon shaped burn, and his head still hurt just as it had in his dream.
He glanced at the clock, and grabbed breakfast, hurrying out the door and down the sidewalk to Art History class, which was first that morning.
He burst into the door and slid jubilantly into his seat.
Anxiously he awaited the sight of the slim, dark-haired companion in the next row, toying with how he'd tell him of his strange dream. Already anticipating his touch, and what they might do together - again.
The bell sounded as the hands slid forward to nine o'clock. The prof entered, and the lecture began. Sam fidgeted as he realized that Balian was going to be a no-show --and he wondered why several people stared wordlessly at him, and then turned quickly away when he caught their eyes, but not before noticing what appeared to be curious pity in their faces.
When the lecture was over, Sam caught the elbow of the girl who usually sat next to Balian, on the side opposite him, as she was leaving the classroom. She stopped and turned, and her two companions with her.
"Um, Stacy? Where's our friend today - do you know?"
She looked confused. "Who?"
"Um --you know, the smart alecky one."
She shook her head, backing away. "I --don't know."
One of the other girls smiled ruefully at him. "We're glad to see you're feeling better, Sam."
He cocked his head, but before he could say anything, they turned away and were gone.
The professor was locking the door behind him as Sam wheeled back toward the classroom.
"Um - Professor? Have you heard anything about Balian?"
The man stopped and looked at him quizzically. "Balian? Is that what you said?"
"Yes. Thomas. I think his first name was Thomas."
"I don't know of an artist by that name. Perhaps you could look him up, and report back to us about him."
Sam was dumbfounded. The professor walked away quickly, and Sam turned slowly and started walking to his next class.
He sat silently through the next few hours taking notes and avoiding the obvert glances and grim stares of his classmates. Really, twenty-first century people were so rude, he startled himself by thinking. Afterwards he went to the library. His head hurt slightly, so after a bit he packed up his work and went for something to eat.
It was beginning to grate on his nerves, how alone he felt. He decided to seek out some explanation for the strange looks he was getting, when his eyes were distracted by a television mounted above the lunch counter as he entered a small cafe. The noon news report was airing, but the first thing Sam noticed from the scrolling banner across the bottom was the fact that it was over a week since he last remembered noticing the date.
Had he somehow blanked out, or just not paid attention? Or was there another explanation, something perhaps tied to the strange dream he'd had?
Maybe he'd slept for several days. He'd been so tired... but that had been back then.
Surely there was some reason he was missing both a friend and several days from his memory. So, looking around, he spied a table where a few students he recognized from Art History class were seated. Squaring his shoulders, he approached their table, smiling shyly.
"Sam!" One of them smiled. "Come, sit down. How are you feeling?"
"I'm okay, thanks - how are you guys?"
"We're great, thanks. We were so worried about you."
Sam started, and made a face. "Worried? Wh--"
"Yes, of course. We heard about what happened. It must have been so --"
"Frightening!" Another girl interjected. They all nodded, their eyes large, staring at him.
Sam stared around the table at three concerned faces. He was afraid to say anything, so he stayed silent, and smiled faintly, nodding. A waitress appeared to take their orders, and as she moved off, the girl next to him leaned conspiratorially and said, "So, Sam... what was it like?"
Sam started, again, and looked at her, while her companions by turns shushed her and kicked her under the table. "Um... it was... enlightening," he managed, choosing the first word that came into his mind, not wanting to appear clueless, but having no idea what the girl was talking about, of course. His head buzzed, and his scalp prickled.
There was a cool breeze at the back of his head, and he noticed something felt... odd. the girls were giggling at his answer. "Heh, enlightening, that's hysterical, Sam," one murmured.
The waitress brought their drinks. Sam wished he'd ordered a beer. Something weird was going on, but he kept his mouth shut, and sat listening. If he listened, he'd hear something that would help him figure out what the hell was going on.
Surely it was a dream.... wasn't it?
The girls chatted companionably for the most part, and when their orders came the conversation shifted to talk of television and movies. Sam stayed quiet. Just listening. He had nothing to add, not having seen anything on a screen lately.
And so it was that he heard about a movie that had come out the previous week, based on a real-life reluctant hero named Balian, who started out as a blacksmith in France, inherited a barony from his absent soldier father, and fought during the Crusades in the twelfth century.
And the fact that it was general knowledge to everyone - except himself - that he'd been struck by lightning on the sidewalk outside the theater the previous Thursday night, and had been hospitalized most of the weekend, as far as anyone had known.
So that explained the burn and the headache, at least.
Sam walked home in a daze. He entered his apartment, tossing aside his books, and leafing through the mail. He played his answering machine, but there was nothing new.
Sat on his couch, leafing though his study notes. Hit the remote, flicked on some music, and read while haphazard thoughts followed the tumbling, flickering sounds.
He glanced out the window frequently, half-expecting to see a storm gathering, half-wanting and half-afraid there would be one.
Too many unanswered questions. Too many thoughts swirling in his head.
And as he laid down his book, he sighed, his eyes fastening on something. Leaning forward, he drew it out from its handsewn sheath that lay before him on the low table before the sofa.
Held it up. It was a knife, curved like an eagle's talon, sharp and glittering like diamonds where the light fell on the delicate, intricate etching along the blade, and near the hilt he read the word Balian, in a tiny but strong, bold script.
"So," Sam said aloud to no one in particular, "I guess there is more to life after all, than just - simple truths. I'll keep this thing and... wait... for whatever I'm supposed to use it for, I guess."
Somewhere a voice that held a smile within the velvet-sheathed silence of time whispered, "Nothing gets by you, Sam Winchester."
F I N I S
Here's a picspam I found of Orlando Bloom's hands Yeah, you're welcome.
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Date: 2008-08-15 11:53 pm (UTC)I love that, and the whole scene. So erotic :)
Thanks so much, this is so wonderful. I love you for it ♥♥
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Date: 2008-08-18 10:53 pm (UTC)