Chapter Text
His cell was dark, the musty smell of dirt overloading his senses as he woke. There was a sharp pain in his side and blood pouring from the gaping wound between his ribs. It sat thick in his palm as he lay on it. The smell was cloying and ill, his stomach turning as though he’d vomit. Maybe if they fed him something substantial he actually would. Cramps were beginning to seize up and down his back, spreading excruciatingly sharp into his wings. They'd chained them again, hundreds of pounds of steel clanking noisily when he tried to sit up. It took every shred of willpower available not to scream. Not for them—they didn't deserve it. Besides, if he screamed, they'd just collar him again with the shocker, and the last time he wore it he got burned severely.
All he could think was that maybe one day someone would shoot him in the right place, and he'd finally be free.
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Dean sat in the passenger seat of a company semi truck, his fingers tapping absently at pages he was no longer reading. He and Balthazar had been stuck in the cab for three days, driving down highway after highway in an effort to make the auction on time. Fields and trees turned into suburbs, which then melted almost seamlessly into one of the better looking cities. Some of the buildings were still pretty badly damaged, but the men running around in paramilitary uniforms didn't look too trigger-happy, so Dean counted it as a partial win.
The closer they got to the center of the city, the more his thoughts were consumed with the object of his five year search. Most times, he'd reached the owners just after they'd resold or returned the slave. Other times they were convinced they could break him, and their pride got in the way of the inordinate sums of money Dean was blatantly throwing in their faces. Idiots. Each and every one.
The Winchester family was known widely in the Allied Provinces of North America. They were practically royalty in the APNA, and any time one of them went to an auction, it was big news. The one Dean was headed to currently was relatively small, and most of the people up for bid had very low asking prices. Dean’s query in particular had one of the lowest. He didn’t know the name of the angel he was set to buy, only what little he could dig up since hearing about him five years ago. Unsurprisingly there were only official reports about behavior, and nothing of the man behind the serial number.
While it wasn't uncommon to find people who had soft spots for angels, they didn't all usually spend their personal time looking for bad cases and getting them off the market. Most people wrote their province rep and bribed some legislation through the council. Sam was incredibly fond of doing just that, though he also had that trusty law degree that gave him a bit more credibility when he started waving the checkbook that direction.
No one outside their family, adopted or blood, knew why the boys had such a fondness for the beings. It had started with their dad shortly after their mother died, and when he passed away almost eight years ago, it was only heightened. They were lucky that Bobby and Ellen ran their company until they were old enough to take over, that way they didn't blow their entire account on sob stories. They didn’t buy often, and when they did it was usually someone specific, someone they'd spent time searching for. Months later they’d be talked about at parties, usually a discussion on how their slaves were all well-behaved and loyal. Various theories floated around, some citing intensive training methods or even mind-altering substances to keep their purchases so docile and faithful. Neither Dean nor Sam answered anything straight, usually just saying it was something to do with the food. The simple truth of the matter was that the angels under their care behaved civilly because they were treated like people instead of objects, as most everyone else thought them to be.
Balthazar clicked the turn signal on and took their exit, signaling to Dean that they were quickly approaching the auction house. The nervous tension in his mind and stomach hadn't eased at all; it had gotten worse, hitting him harder and harder the closer he got. Maybe this time he'd actually find the angel before some dick came by and picked him straight out of the back room. He’d been through the guy’s papers about a dozen times over, adding new accounts with every near-miss. Whoever he was, he'd been owned by some of the worst humanity had to offer. Some of the reports listed made the story that had initially piqued Dean's interest seem like a severe tickling.
Said initial story was how the angel he was seeking had been shot in the abdomen while trying to keep himself from being raped by his former master. Of course, no one else really looked at it as rape—they all saw him as property. But it was rape; in Dean’s mind, you didn’t own people. It was a lesson his father had taught almost militantly before he’d died, and it was something Dean was sure to keep teaching his younger brother. That was why he’d spent five years obsessively searching the APNA top to bottom, holding out every hope that one day the search would pay off.
The angel was pure-blooded, four wings with black feathers hanging on his back. Even as abused and disheveled as they were, they seemed to steal the light from the flash of the cameras that had catalogued him. His hair was the same shade as his wings and seemed to grow in tufts that stuck up every which way. Though that could have also been due to rough handling. Dean liked to think it was something more innocent, but he also wasn't naïve. His eyes were a dark shade of blue, almost black-looking in some of the more underexposed black and white photos.
He stared at the images of the battered man, some of them obviously taken by professionals, others taken in more private settings. It was the blood that got to him most, a cut on the bridge of his nose in one picture making Dean feel like he'd be sick. How anyone could treat another living creature like that Dean would never know. The prints betrayed little about any scars on his skin, but they were also pretty low-res and probably doctored, so he didn’t trust them. Angels didn’t injure as easily as humans, but getting shot wasn’t going to leave anyone’s skin unmarked.
Angels were two or three times stronger than most humans, weighed less because of something to do with their bones. Dean never really could be bothered to pay attention to the medical jargon. Sam lapped it up, but that kid was a grade A nerd and a bit of a freak, so that didn't surprise his big brother any. What he took away from the talks was that even Gabriel, who was a scrawny little shit half a foot shorter than Dean, could probably kick Sam's ass from one Tuesday into the next without breaking much of a sweat.
Maybe that was what disturbed Dean the most when he thought about his soon-to-be charge. The guy had, more than once, been nearly killed by angered owners. He had a reputation for being more trouble than he was worth, and his record was filled with people who bought him and then gave him away, sold him, or paid the government to take him back. He’d been stabbed, whipped, shot, and beaten because he wouldn’t break, and Dean wanted nothing more than to get him the fuck out of the system and give him a stable home. He himself may have been a little crazy, and certainly most of the people he knew in high society told him as much, but it didn’t matter. A living, breathing person was being fucking tortured, and he was putting a stop to it, no matter how much it cost.
They pulled up to the side-entrance of the complex with all the other large vehicles, and Dean closed the manila folder, taking a deep breath to calm himself.
A steady hand landed on his arm and he looked over to see light blue eyes and a reassuring smile. “It will be alright, Dean, you’ll get him.”
Balthazar had been another special case. He’d been raised in the slave trade since he’d been small, and when Dean bought him the first thing Bal had tried to do was have sex with him, the behavior so ingrained in him that he didn't even think anything was wrong. The better part of the first year was spent with Sam teaching him how to be a person. That he wasn't a slave, that he had his own thoughts and ideas. Dean could still remember the first time the snarky little shit had actually displayed that propensity. He'd flinched on impulse as soon as the scathing remark on Sam's height left his mouth. The fact that he thought he was going to be hit for acting like part of the family forced Dean to take a long walk so Bal wouldn't think he was angry with him. Balthazar’s own line had human blood so he had two wings instead of four or six, but they were large enough that he’d still fetched a good price. Almost four hundred grand if Dean remembered correctly, though he barely paid attention to what private purchases cost for anything more than tax purposes.
Dean’s eyes flicked to the silver bracelet with a microchip and engraved name plate that read Winchester in fancy script before meeting the familiar eyes of one of his best friends.
“Yeah, I know, just hoping he's actually still here.” Dean sighed, smiling gratefully when the hand on his arm tightened and powdery bronze wings twitched sympathetically. “This is gonna suck if he refuses to trust me at least a little bit. Long-ass drive back home, man.”
Balthazar nodded, and his smile turned sad. “I know, Dean. That’s all the more reason to go in there and get him. We’ll get him home and rehabilitated. In my highly informed opinion, you’re the best person for the job. You and Sam taught me about freedom well enough, didn’t you?”
Dean smiled wider and nodded before unbuckling himself and tucking the closed folder into the glove box. He knew Balthazar could see how nervous he was; he could probably feel it, too. Angel brains were wired differently from those of humans, their senses heightened in a way that gave them a sort of sixth sense. Some freaky combination of sight, smell, and hearing made them eerily empathetic, which had some people accusing them of being telepathic or reading minds. They could smell pheromones, see minute body language ticks, and hear even the smallest changes in someone’s voice. Once their brains processed it, the information was turned into emotions that the angels themselves could feel and judge. All of this happening just as quickly as someone could speak to them.
Basically, it was damn near impossible to lie to an angel. Humans in law enforcement were actually genetically tested for angelic DNA. Angelic lineage usually gave way to some of these abilities, which had obvious uses in an interrogation room and on a crime scene.
Dean took a deep breath, swallowed, and ground his jaw before opening his door. Balthazar was going to wait in the truck, which had air conditioning and food, while Dean trudged in sweltering hundred and ten-degree heat to the first checkpoint. Damned southern summers were going to kill him if he was forced to keep searching. His face was recognizable enough that they didn’t even ask for his ID. He was in the building and past the first three checkpoints in under ten minutes, and from there he was promptly sent to the registration and purchases desk.
A stout man, likely in his mid-forties with a bald head and too-nice clothing stepped toward him with an insincere sales smile. Dean really didn’t want to deal with Zachariah today, but he didn’t exactly have a choice.
“Mr. Winchester, how very nice of you to come! Please, have a seat! Would you care for refreshments?” His voice had a friendly tone, soft and inviting, and if Dean hadn’t already known everything about this man, he’d be convinced. But he knew about Zachariah Adler and the way he treated his prisoners—because living beings weren’t for sale, they were imprisoned—and he didn’t care to be in the man’s company.
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Adler. I’m actually here to ask about making a private purchase.” The man in front of him smiled widely. Private purchases were usually negotiated for far more than the asking price because of the inconvenience of taking away competing bids.
“Yes, of course, who were you looking for?” Grubby, pudgy hands clasped expectantly on a desk that was probably an antique from before the last war.
“Case number S4 dash ANG dash 0583DMK.” Dean knew this number like his own social or Sammy's birthday; every day he said it to himself and made a promise to replace it with a name. “I’d like to see him and buy him before he has a chance to go on the block, if that’s possible.”
The excitement in the slaver’s face turned into anxiety and even a bit of terror at the mention of the unruly angel. Even with all the case numbers Zachariah saw and all the angels he cycled through the gears of the slave trade, that number seemed to stick with him like it stuck with Dean.
“Mr. Winchester, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. He’s a danger to everyone he’s near, including himself, and is only legally cleared for auction sale and private transport. If I could let you take him now, trust me, I would, but I’m just not able. I could lose my job and get this entire facility into hot water if I did. I’m sure you understand.” Dean wasn’t surprised to hear any of it.
He nodded tightly and cleared his throat. “Figured I’d ask, just in case.”
Adler nodded, trying not to show how tense he was at Dean’s prospective purchase. The asking price for the angel was only fifty thousand dollars, but it would be pushed higher, probably no more than one hundred thousand, and he’d probably be picked up by some self-labelled torture master if Dean didn’t intervene. The auction block was of no consequence; Dean wasn’t taking no for an answer. If someone really wanted to push it, his family was one of the wealthiest in the Allied Provinces and their corporation spanned the entire continent.
He squared his shoulders as he sat and gave the sort of smile that he used on rival CEOs during a merger. “In that case, can you get him slotted within the first ten? I know the auction isn't for another two hours, and I was hoping to be out of here kinda quickly.”
It was an unspoken rule of the provinces that you tried to accommodate the big name families. The Winchesters were the engineering and manufacturing backbone, and without them the entire continent would fall into disarray. Their companies were involved in the making of everything from weapons to toasters. You really couldn’t go much of anywhere in the APNA or allied countries without finding the name Winchester on something. It was like before the final world war broke out, and everywhere people looked they saw a sticker that said Made in China.
With a rough swallow, Zachariah picked up a small handheld device, touching the screen to reorder the line-up of the block. He was sweating, and Dean couldn’t help the twinge of amusement he felt at making Adler just as uncomfortable as he felt in the man’s presence.
“Done and done, he’ll be the seventh one brought out. Is that all, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean nodded and stood, shaking Adler’s hand and made a mental note to ask Balthazar for some disinfectant once he checked in with him, then headed back through the three checkpoints to the semi and trailer. He hopped in, and even without a recap, Balthazar knew what happened.
“Park us in the outgoing traffic lanes by the block. Had to fucking deal with Adler, and I feel like I need my soul scrubbed.” Dean made a show of shuddering, to which his friend chuckled. “He said that the guy is ‘a risk to everyone he is near, including himself,’ and gee I fucking wonder why, when you probably stun him every five minutes just for breathing the wrong fucking way.”
Dean rubbed across the arch of his brow and growled in frustration as Balthazar silently drove them to their new location. “Be back in a few hours, Bal. I take it you’d rather wait here?”
He didn’t blame Balthazar at all for not wanting to go near the blocks. He had PTSD from his time in the trade, and even seven years later he’d have nightmares that left him nearly unable to breathe because of it. God forbid he saw a former owner while Dean was out making a rescue purchase.
“Yes, I think I’ll call Sam or Jo and make plans to annoy Ellen once we’re back home.” He smiled conspiratorially and shooed his friend out of the cab.
Dean laughed and shook his head as he got out, earning odd looks from the people who kept their angels leashed and bound. Some of the sick fucks even cut the primary feathers to keep their angels grounded.
The Winchester estate had a five acre aviary that was caged at the perimeter. The more skittish angels were taken there to fly with another angel until it wasn’t a worry that they’d fly away and put themselves in danger. Angels who flew away to escape their masters were taken to a government facility, where their wings were broken at the joints to keep them permanently grounded.
While it wasn’t the same as flying untethered, the aviary on estate grounds had a small forest planted, complete with a small pond, and wild animals were frequent visitors. Everyone called it the Garden and seeing rabbits or foxes on a hike through it wasn’t uncommon at all. All in all, it was one of Dean’s favorite areas to sit and relax.
He walked confidently toward the outdoor block where rows of chairs were set up in front of tables lined with luxurious food and drink. The entire scene was completed by a low-set stage with a podium off to one side that had a small microphone connected to speakers beneath the wood-paneled floor. He eyed the food half-heartedly, waiting for someone to come around and give him a bidding flag. Maybe he’d pick some entrées out and take them to Balthazar for the road. He himself planned to spend the nearly three-day drive back to the estates making sure his newest arrival was comfortable. Well, as comfortable as he felt safe being.
A lanky, unremarkable young man came around and gave him a silver bidding flag made of hard plastic that was shaped like a diamond and outlined with a blue edge. It showed he was a priority customer. He tried to spot another one, if there was one, and swore aloud when he did see one other silver flag in the crowd. It belonged to Alastair Masters.
Out of everyone Dean had met, Alastair was one of the ones he made a conscious effort to loathe. His daughter, Meg, was a business rep that he had to deal with frequently; she was a cut-throat negotiator and a massive, seething bitch, but she was preferable to her father. Dean even had some professional respect for her despite his personal distaste. Her father was heartless, and known for having a chamber below his bedroom with what he called a rack and an assortment of knives and other instruments.
Usually Dean stopped listening whenever Alastair’s lisping voice sliced at his ears. He sighed, began picking out food he knew Bal would enjoy, and waited silently for the auction to begin.
• •
The first six purchases came and went from the block with no fuss. It was a low-stakes auction, and as of yet none of them had broken two hundred grand. He was thankful there were no children up—he’d have bought them just on the principle of the matter. Then the seventh item on the docket came out. Five men in body armor with long, metallic stun rods at their hips held his squirming form off the ground by the chains binding his wings. He was very obviously in pain, and Dean ground his teeth to avoid doing or saying something stupid.
His wings were even more beautiful than in the photos, but it was heart-breaking to see them in their abused and restrained state. They weren’t flat black; the evening sun that was setting behind them showed they were blue-black with silver ticking that damn near gleamed even when the feathers were unkempt, crumpled, and dried out from lack of proper care. Dean cringed when he could start counting ribs and scars, and could see the obvious dirt build up. He’d probably been kept in an underground cell, maybe only fed once daily, and he seemed like the kind of person who’d starve himself on principle. Upon actually seeing him in person, Dean was glad for the stocked pantry and the bins of grooming supplies in the trailer.
Adler was the auctioneer, and his demeanor shifted into unease when Dean’s intended purchase was wrestled out. “Seventh item on the docket: S4 dash ANG dash 0583DMK is up for purchase with an asking price starting at fifty-thousand dollars.”
Immediately Dean’s stomach turned when Alastair raised his flag and spoke. “Seventy-five thousand.”
Dean raised his in return. He and Alastair may have both been premium customers, but on a conservative guess Dean could confidently say he had his bank roll beat ten to one. Alastair’s business was mostly in antiquities, rare finds, and other things related to archeology. His frequent contributions to non-flesh auctions gave him his fortune, but it didn’t grow quite like Dean’s did. Especially when Dean’s family also had stakes in a fair share of the precious metals market in the APNA on top of their normal business transactions.
When he spoke everyone turned to openly stare. They obviously expected Alastair to bid, but not Dean. “One hundred fifty thousand.”
Alastair turned, a sneer on his face. It was clear he hoped Dean wasn’t going to press because he didn’t have the money to argue with a Winchester. Few people did. The angel on the stage stopped struggling when Dean’s voice rang out. Dean could see the curiosity on his face as well as the caution. Where before he'd been fighting, now he stared like Dean was some puzzle to figure out. Just like Dean, Alastair had a reputation, and it was clear which one he favored experiencing first-hand.
Alastair hummed and retaliated. “Two hundred.”
Dean smirked. It wouldn't matter what number was called out; he wasn't going to back off. “Three seventy five.”
Resentment showed on the older man’s face as he countered again. “Five hundred.”
Dean resisted the urge to laugh as Alastair approached the top end of his limit at these events. Dean had his own limit set around two million, but there was nothing he wasn't willing to spend to get the man he'd spent half a decade fixated on.
“Seven hundred and seventy five thousand dollars.” Every syllable fell from his lips perfectly enunciated, the sound flowing out to land like a blow against his bidding opponent.
Everyone gasped, gaping at him like a school of pampered fish. Even Adler was in shock, and Alastair turned away from Dean, his shoulders squared. He’d lost and he knew it. The black hair and wings remained still, blue eyes searching over his form as he tried to ask from across the yard why in the Hell he was paying so much for him. Luckily, there were at least three days ahead of them with no interruptions for Dean to attempt to explain himself. Suddenly he kind of regretted not letting Sammy tag along.
Finally the world caught up with him, and Zachariah cleared his throat, the audience half turning to him and half watching Dean watch the angel. “Seven hundred and seventy five thousand dollars for the purchase of S4 dash ANG dash 0583DMK going once… twice… and sold to Dean Winchester of the Winchester and Singer Corporation.”
The gavel pounded against the wood of the podium, seeming more like thunder than the signal of a closed transaction.
Dean called to the stage, setting his flag down on the table as he spoke over the rumor mill in front of him. “Have him brought to my truck immediately; I’ll sign all the forms there.”
Alastair was cursing, and the usually reserved whispers of high society weren't even attempting to hide themselves. Some were openly pointing, questioning expressions on their dolled-up faces. Dean didn't have to explain himself to them, though. He had already made his order on the food, and now all that he had to stick around for was the angel who was allowing himself to be dragged off-stage like an animal. Dean needed to play this very carefully to avoid injuring himself physically and to avoid tarnishing his first impression to this damaged man.