Chapter Text
You wished you could see something. Anything. But the thick canvas bag over your head prevented any light from reaching your eyes. It was something you were practically used to by now. After spending most of your life with Alastair, you had just learned to accept it. Your wrists were shackled above you and you sat on the cold cement floor of the shed where Alastair liked to keep his slaves. He used to have several, but they came and went, being traded or killed until you were the only one left. You had been with him for a long time. And you were always his favorite. He liked the way you still fought against him sometimes. Most slaves gave up after the first few years. But occasionally you resisted, a reaction that he often tried to work out of you.
There were other times however that you simply let him have his way with you. Sometimes it was just easier than fighting. Plus the punishments weren’t usually as harsh.
Lately your will to resist had diminished. A few days earlier you had looked Alastair in the eyes and refused to comply with his perverted demands. It wasn’t the first time you had misbehaved, but he was still shocked by your sudden outburst and soon found great pleasure in using it to justify causing you pain. Not that he needed justification.
He commanded his demons to bring him something. At the time you couldn’t tell what it was from across the room as he pulled it from a long wooden box and placed one end in the fire. Several minutes later you realized what it was as he pulled it from the flames, the end glowing red hot and steaming. You had scrambled backwards on the floor but his demons held your limbs and forced your hand open as Alastair pressed the ‘S’ shaped brand into your palm. Your gut wrenching screams echoed in the hollow room. You almost blacked out from the pain and could instantly smell your own burning flesh. Alastair had removed the brand and tossed it to the floor before signaling for his demons to release you.
“‘S’ seemed appropriate,” he smirked, “To remind you that you are a slave. My slave, and I can do whatever I want to you.”
You couldn’t respond and only curled into the fetal position on the cold tile floor sobbing until your limp body was dragged out of the room and taken back to your chains.
Noises outside brought you back to the present. You trembled in fear. It was probably your master returning. If only you could see something through the thick fabric over your head. The smell of burned flesh was still slightly present, even though it had been almost three days since it had happened. You hoped it wouldn’t get infected. It would however leave a nasty scar. Your palm throbbed and you could feel your heartbeat under the burn. Twisting your wrist, you tried to press it to the cold metal of the shackles. Anything to relieve the still-burning sensation.
The noises from outside were getting louder. You couldn’t tell what was going on but you could sense the tension and aggression and cries and the sound of corpses hitting the floor. Someone was angry and you only hoped that you would be left out of it. And then there was silence. You didn’t know what that meant, but it made you terrified. You held your breath, straining to hear a sound that might tell you what was going on. Your whole body trembled, shivering out of fear.
Suddenly a door near you was kicked open, shattering the small windows and scattering shards of broken glass across the cold, concrete floor. Footsteps entered the room, the glass crunching under the heavy boots. You shivered and backed away from the sounds. Silent tears rolled down your cheeks and your breaths were shallow. The footsteps approached and a shiver went through your whole body. You pulled at your chains, inching away from the sounds and pulling against them tightly, cutting off the blood to your hands until they turned white. But you didn’t feel the pain. You were too afraid to notice. If only you could see something. See anything. You clenched your shaking fists and hugged the wall, whimpering softly. The footsteps came to a halt next you and the anticipation was almost more than you could bear. Small sounds of rustling fabric and shifting boots told you that whoever the footsteps belonged to had crouched beside you. Then suddenly water was being poured on your forearm. You flinched in surprise, expecting pain, but were relieved when none came. What was going on. Maybe Alastair was just having a bit of fun. Maybe he’d kill you this time and it would finally all be over. You held your breath in anticipation. Surely this was hell.
A hand touched your head. You frantically fought it off, exerting what little strength you had left. Apparently your branding had taught you nothing. You kicked and clawed at every movement, even though your wrists were restrained. Twisting your body frantically you tried to shrink away, your tears turning hot as they flowed from your eyes. The hand returned to your head and the sack was pulled off. The light seemed blinding to your eyes, even though it was well into the evening. You shut your eyes to the light and hugged the wall, quietly whimpering and pulled your legs in toward your chest as if making yourself less of a target might somehow protect you. You stopped moving but the tears still came and you were crying openly. You stopped fighting. Nothing could save you now.
The hand returned for a third time, and gently touched your hair. The touch didn’t seem aggressive or harsh, but still, out of reflex you flinched away from it.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” a calm, steady voice said, “My name is Dean and I’m gonna get you out of here.”
You opened your eyes slowly and let them adjust. Trying to focus on the figure in front of you, you weakly glanced up, but you couldn’t focus and all you could see was a dark shape before you. You must be hallucinating. A combination of pain and lack of food and water had probably messed with your head.
The stranger used a pair of bolt cutters to break the chains that held your wrists. His hands were quick as if he knew exactly what he was doing. When your hands were free they fell limply to the ground, blood pumping back into them causing an excruciation sensation in your palms like they were being stuck with a thousand pins. Your wound throbbed. The adrenalin you had felt while resisting just moments ago was now spent, and the fatigue you felt before came back even stronger. You couldn’t handle the pain. Your eyelids drooped closed and you slumped forward ungracefully onto the cold, hard ground.
When you came to, you felt movement. The hum of a motor and the soft vibrations of tires on the highway below you lulled you. Peering through your eyelashes, you glanced at your surroundings before showing any signs of consciousness.
Concentrating you noticed that the soft, padded leather beneath you was the backseat of a car. The vehicle was immaculate, as if the owner took great pride in it and always kept it clean. There were dings and scrapes of course. And a plastic toy soldier was impossibly crammed into the ashtray. You opened your eyes now and lifted your head slightly to look at the driver of the vehicle. His short hair was a dirty blond that matched the stubble on his chin. His eyes scanned the road carefully, and his hands rested on the steering wheel, maneuvering the car with ease. He noticed the movement in the back seat and turned his head to look back at you. You looked confused and frightened and he wished he had made it back to the hotel before had woken up.
“Here drink this,” he said, handing a bottle of water back to you. You took it cautiously, unscrewing the lid and sniffing at the liquid inside. It wasn’t uncommon for Alastair to drug your water, but the sight of wet droplets trickling down the side of the bottle made you forget about your concerns and you put the plastic to your lips.
“There are some granola bars in the seat pocket if you want them,” Dean added as you guzzled the water.
You normally would have refused, but you were famished. Your stomach grumbled at the thought of food and you pulled out a single granola bar, unwrapped it, and ate it in three bites. Washing down the last of it with the rest of the water, you settled your head back down on the seat. Your wrist and burn mark stung. Hopefully Dean hadn’t seen the brand on your hand and you made a mental note to keep your fist closed in the future.
Dean soon slowed the car and turned into a motel parking lot. Lifting yourself up onto your forearms you poked your head just high enough to see out the window. The place didn’t look hostile. But then you knew it was only a short stop. Who knew where this new man would eventually take you. Somewhere worse than Alastairs place possibly. You shuddered and didn’t let yourself think like that again.
When the car came to a complete stop, Dean was out the door. He retrieved a duffle bag from the trunk and you sat there unsure if you were supposed to follow him or not. He was so much less clear than your former master. Alastair had always been direct and never held back making his commands clear and his punishments even more so.
Dean shut the trunk and opened the side door. You sprang to attention and stepped out, keeping your head down and not making eye contact. That was always the safest process. He motioned for you to follow him and the two of you walked along the line of doors until you reached the one on the very end. You stayed two steps behind him, walking silently and keeping your eyes down. When he reached the correct door, Dean pulled a key out of his front pocket and twisted it in the lock. He entered and flipped on the light. You were close behind him.
He tossed the duffel on the nearest bed and turned to look at you.
He seemed a little unsure of what he wanted. You weren’t used to that.
“Why don’t you shower and get out of those dirty clothes. I have to make a phone call but I’ll be right outside.”
You nodded obediently, staring at the ground the whole time, and when he was finished, turned and walked toward the bathroom.
Showers were a luxury. Alastair had always liked you clean, but often it was more of a hose down rather than an actual shower. You removed your torn and dirty clothes and placed them on the floor.
This man was letting you take a real shower. So far he looked like he might be a better master than Alastair. You didn’t want to jump to any conclusions though. Turning on the shower you stepped inside, taking a deep breath as the cold water hit your skin. You didn’t dare use any hot water. Your former master had always forbade it to ensure that there was always hot water when he needed it. You didn’t know if this new master was the same, but you didn’t want to take any chances. This was a new start.
You quickly scrubbed the grime off your body, lost in your thoughts. You were afraid of any more punishment. You didn’t want any more whippings or any more brands to touch your skin. No more pain. This master didn’t know that you had always been a bad slave for Alastair. Maybe this was your chance. You could start over. Be a good slave from the beginning and maybe he wouldn’t hurt you. It would be worth a try. You knew you could bring him pleasure and hoped that if you tried hard it would be enough. Extending your palm, you let the cold water run over your burn. Although it had been almost three days, the skin was hot like it was still burning on the inside.
Afraid that your shower was going too long, you shut off the water and stepped out onto the mat. You pulled a towel from the rack on the wall and quickly soaked up the water that covered your skin, brushing through your hair with your fingers. You retrieved your tattered shirt from the floor and tore a strip off, wrapping it around your palm to hopefully hide the burn.
Now was your chance. It was time for you to show this Dean what a good slave you could be.
You emerged from the bathroom in nothing but a towel. But you figured Dean would prefer it this way. Alastair always had. Dean had evidently finished his phone call and was now sitting on one of the beds riffling through his duffle. His face was turned away from you as you approached silently. As you had been trained, you loosened the towel and let it fall to the floor, then knelt on the ground between the two motel beds. You waited in silence, keeping your head low, not saying a word, but staring at Dean through your lashes.
After a moment, he seemed to find whatever it was he had been looking for and turned around, only to find you beside the bed. Your eyes were cast downward and you didn’t dare raise them. That had always resulted in swift punishment from Alastair. He seemed taken aback at first and you simply bowed your head lower and waited for Dean to act. You were good at waiting. After years of putting your own feelings last, there was no situation that you couldn’t patiently wait out. But something felt different. Dean was not reacting as you expected him to. He didn’t touch you or pull you up, force you onto the bed, or hurt you in any way. You were surprised and wanted to know what he was doing. But you knew your place and kept your head down. It worried you though. You could feel his eyes glance over you as he noticed you're scarred back, face, and poorly bandaged hand for the first time. Did he find your broken skin disgusting? Perhaps he saw it as proof that you were a bad slave and was contemplating how to treat you as such.
But Dean’s actual reaction was the last thing you expected. You nervously watched his feet and kept your face to the ground. But then, slowly standing from the bed, he pulled one of his own shirts from his duffle and unfolded it. He clenched the fabric around the collar and then, kneeling beside you, he gently draped it over your shoulders. You didn’t understand. A slave was never to touch her masters clothing except when washing it. You weren’t sure at all how you were supposed to react.
Dean kneeling beside you on the floor also confused you. He should never lower himself to your level. Maybe it was some kind of foreplay. Alastair had let his demons get creative in the ways that they used you.
Dean let out a breath and put his hand on your shoulder. You shrank back slightly, but held your position. Dean noticed this and removed his hand.
Then he softly spoke, “Hey, you wanna tell me your name?”
You still hadn’t raised your eyes above his torso and when he spoke, your hands suddenly got clammy. He waited patiently for a response you couldn’t give.
“Come on, what’s your name?”
Your voice caught in your throat but after a long moment you managed to swallow the lump and whisper, “I don’t know.”
“Hey, look at me,” Dean coaxed after a moment of silence, “I want to look you in the eyes.”
You hesitated. Surely he was toying with you. Wanting you to misbehave so that he would have some excuse to punish you later. When you didn’t react, Dean slowly moved his hand to your face and encouraged you to lift your head. You gave in to the slight pressure he used to lift your chin, but your eyes remained fixed on the ground. Suddenly you felt ashamed. The scar that stretched from your brow to your jawline was now fully in view to Dean. It was just another sigh of your defectiveness and now that he saw it he would know. Perhaps your hopes for a fresh start were in vain.
He pulled his hand away and waited for you to meet his gaze. Slowly you lifted your eyes, letting them slowly travel upward until they met his own. You expected to see disgust in his expression. You were no beauty and now he had seen the long scars on your back and the deformity that graced your cheek, he was sure to regret taking such a disobedient slave as yourself from Alastair. But his eyes held something else. An expression you had never seen before. Not directed at you anyway. He looked almost sad. Not in a regretful sort of way, but more of an empathetic longing. Like he felt… sorry for you?
That was the last thing you wanted. Pity. You turned your face away to hide your disfigurement and closed your eyes so you didn’t have to see his expression. All you felt was shame.
Dean could see the shame in your eyes, but he had no idea how to approach it, especially when he had to coax you just to make eye contact. He had tried to not look so taken aback when he had seen the scars on your back, but hadn’t been able to stay as emotionless as he would have liked. What kind of sick bastard would do that to another person? He hadn’t gotten a good look at the scar on your face either until you had looked him in the eye. He could tell right away that you were ashamed of it. He thought is was probably a constant reminder of your life with Alastair. And one you could never wash off.
After a long moment, Dean still couldn’t think of a single thing to say. So he scooted forward slightly and tugged at the hem of his shirt on your shoulders. He held it out and shook it slightly, encouraging you to slip your arm inside the sleeve. You obediently reached your hand inside and let your fingers slowly run along the inside fabric. The cloth of the shirt was soft, like it had been worn and washed a hundred times, not at all like the texture of the coarse fabric that you had always worn in the past.
Dean coaxed your other arm in the opposite sleeve and you obliged, still keeping your right hand in a fist. Then he pulled the shirt together and fastened it with a few of the middle buttons.
After standing from the floor, he reached out his hand to you to help you up too. You shied away and kept your head down turned, standing up on your own and respectfully taking a step away from him.
Dean just sighed.
“It’s okay to let people help you,” he said.
You didn’t even know how to acknowledge that possibility. But if that was what he wanted you would try.
And that would be your reaction to everything. Serve master and do whatever he says. Your feelings didn’t matter. It would pay off in the end.
“Dean folded the blankets back on the bed farthest from the door. You can sleep here. I’ll take the other bed. You never know what might come through the door.”
You glanced at the clean sheets. This wasn’t right. Dean shouldn’t fold down the blankets. What a strange master he was.
You glanced from the opposite bed and then back at Dean.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather me sleep with you?”
“No, no,” Dean stammered, a bit flustered at how casually you suggested it. “You get your own bed now. Have you ever had your own bed before?”
You nodded shylee. Of course you had. There were times when Alister had been away. Or had been disgusted with you. Then you slept in the little slave shed, though usually on the floor because the only bed was often occupied.
Dean was still gesturing at the bed. You only wanted to please him. You shuffled around him and sat on the mattress. You kept your body rigid, sitting straight backed, and kept your bare feet on the floor. You glanced at his bed and Dean finally gave up waiting for you to lay down. He sat on his own bed and bent to take off his shoes, but you were there in an instant, tugging at the laces until the knots gave way.
“I can do that,” Dean said, embarrassed that someone was taking his shoes off.
“Please.” you said, looking into his eyes for a brief second. “I want to be useful.”
Dean didn’t protest further. He could see that you looked almost content for that moment you served him. He didn’t want to take that feeling away from you, but hoped that he might find better ways to bring it out in the future. He sighed quietly and lay down his bed. You stood from the floor again and walked over and turned off the light, then made your way back to your bed. You lay down and pulled the covers up, then rolled onto your side and stared at your new master. He seemed to fall asleep very quickly, but then it had been a long day. You didn’t dare close your eyes. What if he needed something in the night? You had to make sure that you would be there to prove that you weren’t a defective slave. Then Dean would be happy he brought you with him, and maybe he would be happy to let you serve him like Alistar had. You remembered how that was the only way that your former master could ever be pleased with you and you wanted to please Dean. Wanted to see the look in his eyes that told you you had done a good job. You could still be useful and wanted to prove it. And maybe that way he wouldn't hurt you.
The black of night was suffocating and seemed to provoke the twisted anxieties clouding your senses.
If only you weren’t afraid so of the dark.