Chapter Text
A sweet spring breeze caressed all those who were in attendance that clear May morning, moving through the crowd like a playful house cat. Jared, like many of those not present by choice, was oblivious to the beauty of the day. He was far too preoccupied with keeping the terror that threatened to consume him at bay. Terror that had been building ever since the untimely death of his former owner. Terror that any slave faced with such an uncertain future would be perfectly justified in feeling, but in his case, even more so.
The county auction, held on the grounds of the courthouse, was pretty much the bottom of the barrel as far as selling outlets in the slave trade went. As a general rule, only the dregs ended up here; the old, the sick, the damaged, the rebellious. Slaves not good enough for the reputable dealers with their discrete showrooms and polished, high end goods. Not even good enough for the briskly efficient mid-level markets, catering mostly to factories and farms needing large numbers of warm bodies.
No, the slaves who ended up here, for whatever reason, could be sure they had almost certainly reached the end of the line. And, unless you were very, very lucky and were bought by a family or small businessman who simply couldn't afford better, your remaining time on this earth was likely to be as short as it was brutal.
Seventy thousand dollar body slaves, for the most part, got quality care when injured or ill, just as the wealthy took care of their expensive Lamborghini and Bentley. Regular food and rest, the basic necessities of life were provided as a matter of course. Seven hundred dollar slaves, on the other hand, tended to be ridden into the ground until there was nothing left.
Jared knew exactly which category he belonged to. He'd been unbelievably lucky the last time he'd been sold. The odds of hitting the jackpot twice in one lifetime were depressingly low, especially now that he had left small and cute behind him with his childhood. He was still on the smaller side, it was true, and he'd been told his face was “pretty” more than once. When it was invariably followed by a regretful or derisive “if only...,” however, the complement didn't mean all that much.
No one would want him for a body slave. He wasn't physically capable of hard labor and didn't have the education or training for any kind of more cerebral occupation. This left a tiny pool of uses a potential owner would have for someone like him, uses which were almost universally unpleasant, to say the least.
When it was finally, finally his turn on the block nerves prevented him from noticing very much of his surroundings. Jared had a confused impression of a large mass of people milling around him; men, women and children mostly of the lower classes, most of whom were ignoring him completely. That wasn't a huge surprise. What did surprise him were the few looks of pity he saw directed his way.
Maybe there was hope for him yet.
Maybe someone would feel sorry enough for him that they'd buy him in spite of his problem. He really wasn't as useless as most people thought, after all, and he was a hard worker. He was slow and clumsy, true enough, but surely a willingness to prove himself was worth something?
The auctioneer called out a loud, ringing, “Sold!”, banging his gavel on the podium with such force that Jared was startled out of his reverie. He stumbled, then, to his horror, felt himself falling face first onto the rough wooden stage.
He ignored the crowd's jeers and laughter as he got to his feet again as quickly as possible, helped by the overseer standing nearby. Oddly enough, the guard seemed almost kind as he did it, the grip on Jared's forearm nearly gentle. Jared knew him, of course, from the few days he'd spent in the holding pens waiting for this very moment. Like most of those charged with keeping order in the pens, the overseer hadn’t been physically abusive to the slaves in his care, no doubt to keep their anticipated low sales price from being driven even lower by extraneous marks and bruises. Then again, he wasn't exactly nice either.
Which made what he did next such a surprise.
“Here, kid,” he said as he led Jared away from the stage towards a holding pen, pressing something into his hand as they walked. Jared didn't look at it, didn't dare, but then again, he didn't need to. It was obvious what he held in his hand.
It was candy. A round piece of hard candy, as rare and precious as gold to the common slave. His former owners, the Harrisons', had been generous with their slaves compared to most. Even so, they were only given sweets at Christmas, and even then it was only one small bag of peppermints. Most of the others managed to make theirs last all year long, doling them out one at a time, as careful as any miser with his treasure. Jared's allotment somehow never lasted past Valentine's Day.
“Sir?” he queried softly, forcing the word out past stiff lips.
Because here, as with most places, very few freemen gave a slave a gift out of the goodness of their hearts. Some of the overseers were notorious for trading small comforts and privileges for sexual favors. If that was what this was all about...
The guard looked back at him then and must have read Jared's question on his face because he smiled grimly. “Just take it. No strings attached.”
Jared nodded and clenched his fist around the candy, even as his mind raced. He didn't have long to speculate on the implications of the small kindness, however, as they were now at the pen.
Mitty, the only other slave from his former household who had remained unclaimed and unwanted at the inquest, was waiting for him there. While she had been sold prior to him, it seemed she had yet to be collected by her new owner.
It was foolish, he knew, to be so overjoyed at the prospect of spending a few more minutes with someone he loved when they'd already said their goodbye's earlier - just in case - but he was. In his first few months at the Harrisons', when anger had fought with grief and sometimes won, she'd been a true friend. The former nanny of the household now rendered mostly useless by crippling arthritis, she'd been put to work in the kitchens to help as she was able, which in truth, wasn't much. Jared later suspected she was as lonely as he was but at the time all he'd seen was a gentle smile and a willing ear.
“Could you see who bought me?” he asked the minute the door closed behind him. “I didn't see, did you?”
Mitty didn't answer right away but another slave, one who he knew only from his time here at the auction house, did.
“Man, you are fucked,” the man drawled, eyes raking down Jared in a way that had him wrapping his arms defensively around his torso
“What do you mean?”
Mattie touched his arm softly, rheumy eyes glimmering in the dappled sunlight.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured.
“Please, just tell me. Was it the mines? Or a brothel? It's not, is it?” These were his worst case scenarios, although he couldn't imagine either place wanting someone like him. There were rumors of hospitals and doctors buying mostly worthless slaves for experimentation and testing, but he was pretty sure those were made up to scare the gullible.
“No, it's not the mines or a whorehouse. It's worse,” the other man said, whose name he was pretty sure was James. “It's Ackles. Master Jensen Ackles, and you'll be praying for the mines before it's over with.”
“I don't understand,” Jared said, his voice sounding faint even to his own ears.
“He buys little idiots like you so he has an outlet for all the sick and twisted things he can't do to the slaves he actually wants to live out the week,” the slave laughed, a sound totally devoid of humor. “Man, you are literally fucked.”
Jared turned stunned eyes to his friend, hoping for confirmation that this was all a macabre joke. “Mitty?” he asked.
“I'm so sorry, baby. It's true. That man is the devil and that's the truth.”
“He goes through them like tissues,” James added, the sangfroid palpable in his tone. “Sends his agents out all over, looking for them. Cheap, disposable slaves that no one else wants. They never last long so he has to keep a steady supply coming in. Some make it a month or two, some only a day. Or so I've heard. One thing is for sure. None are ever seen again. They aren't sold off, they aren't given away - they just... disappear.”
Jared leaned back on the weathered wooden post behind him and concentrated on remaining upright.
“I'm so sorry, baby,” Mitty repeated helplessly, patting his hand the same way she'd done all those years ago, sitting at the kitchen table together while waiting to be locked up for the night. Jared took her wrinkled hand in his own.
“Did you go to someone good, at least?”
He knew there wasn't exactly a huge market for elderly, arthritic slaves who had almost no other training than caring for children, but he'd hoped she'd go to a young couple who needed a nanny and couldn't afford any better.
“I'm sure they are very nice,” she said, even as James answered, “It was the Hoffman’s.”
This meant nothing to Jared. At his sharp look James sighed and, at last, showed some sign of human decency. “Haven't heard anything bad about them.”
Off in the distance he heard the announcer call off the last auction of the day, which meant they'd all surely be collected by their various new owners soon. For the first time since he was first sold, back when he was young and stupid and didn't know any better, Jared's mind raced with crazy, idiotic plans for escape, because maybe a few hours of precious freedom followed by a quick death was better than what fate apparently had planned for him. Of course it was useless. Even if he was able to somehow get out of the enclosure and past the guards, his tattoo plainly marked him as property. Without a convincing explanation he'd be returned within minutes.
When Mitty's new owner came to collect her – a tired looking mother with three small children swirling around her feet like miniature tornadoes and another on her hip – Jared had reason to hope his friend would be fairly well treated, if most likely overworked. Before she left his last act of friendship was to press the piece of candy – that he now understood was due to the guard's pity after seeing who his buyer was – into her gnarled old hand.
Mitty always did love her peppermints almost as much as he.
Then she was gone. The last vestige of his former life gone, just the way it had been that awful day so many years ago.
Jared felt even more alone now than he had back then, the wisdom of age not being always kind. He now understood exactly how bad things could get.
*
Master Ackles' agent turned out to be a big burly bear of a man, as muscular as he was tall. He barely glanced at Jared before leading him out of the market area to his car in a nearby parking lot.
“I'm Alan,” he said brusquely, once they were on their way and had made it out of city traffic. “You're Jared, right?”
Jared answered with a respectful, “Yes, Sir.”
Alan grunted as he swerved to change lanes. “When we get to the estate, Carla will take charge of you. She's one of you,” he said and turned to look at Jared briefly, eyes flicking over his slave tattoo, “but you'll treat her with respect. If you don't, you'll answer to me. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir,” Jared repeated, hoping this was a good sign. Would they bother assigning him to an overseer if he wasn't expected to live out the night? Surely not. It was a flimsy straw to grasp onto but then again, a little hope is infinitely better than none.
He glanced over at the now silent man next to him. Someone of his physic could do substantial damage to Jared with very little effort. Jared wondered if he was used as a disciplinarian or if Master Ackles preferred to do that all by himself. Master Harrison had been the only one allowed to punish slaves in his former household on the rare occasions that a whipping was deemed necessary, although in truth his beatings had never been all that terrible. Oh, it had hurt, as it was intended to, but from what he'd heard of other owners, Master Harrisons' whippings were nothing in comparison to what could have been administered.
Mr. Alan was as different from Master Harrison as a pit bull was from a house cat.
Maybe that was how all those other slaves died. Beaten to death by Mr. Alan while his employer watched. Maybe Master Ackles got off on that. Sometimes Colin had liked to shock him by showing him pictures or vids of weird sex stuff just to laugh at his reaction. So Jared was well aware that people got off on all sorts of things, including some that baffled him. Like someone else's pain and fear.
Jared mentally shook himself, knowing that to give in to wild speculation was to fan the flames of terror that he'd been able to keep mostly banked. Fear was dangerous. Fear led to panic and panic led to stupid mistakes. For the remainder of the trip he concentrated on keeping his mind still and projecting an air of quiet obedience.
Not that he was entirely successful. Independent of his will, Jared's traitorous brain would start drumming up scenarios of what might be awaiting him in the very near future, scenarios that became more and more horrific the closer they got to their destination. By the time they pulled up to the front door of what appeared to be an impressively large mansion, the terror he'd worked so hard to control was a hairsbreadth away from overtaking his good sense completely.
As he got out of the car, following Mr. Alan at a respectful distance, his legs felt disconcertingly weak and shaky underneath him. He really hoped he wouldn't fall – a bad first impression could literally mean life or death in his case.
The front door opened as they neared and the promised Carla was summoned to meet them in the entryway. She was, surprisingly, nearly as tall as Mr. Alan, but so thin he wondered if the slaves here were kept on restricted rations. It was a stupid thing to worry about, maybe, in the overall scheme of things, but Jared's mind latched onto it as a concern that was more manageable than the alternatives.
Food at the Harrisons' had been plain and not overly plentiful but no one could say they were starved.
He followed her as she turned briskly on her heel without a word to either of them and left, dimly noting Mr. Alan wasn't coming along, as they went through a confusing maze of rooms and hallways. Jared barely registered the overly ornate surroundings – gold and white and obscenely expensive looking – before he was ushered into the back section of the house, which was much plainer and clearly meant for the use of the household slaves.
“This is your room,” Carla said plainly, without preface, opening a door to reveal a small room complete with bed and dresser. “The morning alarm will go off at six, breakfast is at seven. I'll be back then to show you the way. There are clean clothes in the dresser, be ready when I get here.” She eyed Jared distastefully as she added, “And don't forget to shower. The bathroom's at the end of the hall, you can use it anytime.”
Jared nodded and stammered out his thanks, to which Carla nodded briefly before leaving him standing there in the doorway.
He peered inside the room cautiously before stepping inside. It was a real bedroom, like a freeman had, not the cold, dark basement cell furnished only with a canvas cot many household slaves were given. It was traditional for larger households to keep the majority of their slaves safely locked away at night in either basement or attic, but then again, his new owner was clearly far above his previous owners in wealth and, most likely, status as well. Maybe that was the difference. Maybe it wasn't fashionable anymore for the well off to keep their slaves locked up at nights.
He carefully kept himself from thinking about his early days with the Harrisons', when he'd shared Master Colin's bedroom most nights and had foolishly believed he always would.
Jared stepped inside hesitantly and eyed the bed. Plain and small, it looked like something sent from heaven to his exhausted body. He suddenly, desperately wanted nothing more than to lie down on it and rest, as he felt the adrenaline he'd been running on most of the day ebbing from his body. But he was sure the others who must be sharing this room with him would be showing up sooner or later and the bed would be reserved for whoever held the senior position in the group. Which would most assuredly not be him. After all, the new guy was always low man on the totem pole. To presume any rights to the bed was to invite trouble, which was the last thing he needed right now.
His best shot at making it through this, so far as he could see, was to keep his head down and try and integrate himself into the household staff. If he could prove himself useful in some way, show himself to be someone worth keeping, there was a chance the Master wouldn't … do whatever he was planning.
Jared wasn't stupid. More than one visitor to his old household had commented on how kind and generous the Harrisons' were to keep Mitty. Some had said the same about him, even though Mitty had told him to pay them no mind. Every disturbing comment, wrapped in a thin veneer of cloying concern, had reinforced the idea that their situation was unusual.
He had been careful not to ask what happened to other slaves who had outlived their usefulness, so sure that hard work and loyalty and above all Master Colin's protection would keep him from joining their ranks.
More fool him.
He could do this. He could prove himself. He could be whatever was needed and show Mr. Alan, who had judged him a throw away; show his new owner, whom he had yet to meet, that Jared had value and purpose in this world. Even if that “whatever” turned out to be a body slave. If that were the case, he could only hope the rumors of his new owner's perversions would turn out to be false, but even if they weren't, maybe it would be something he could live through. Stranger things had happened.
In the end Jared got tired waiting for his bunk mates to finally show themselves, and sank down in an out of the way corner to rest for a few minutes. As sleep sucked him inexorably under it belatedly occurred to him that his owner could send for him this very night. Carla's words and attitude had implied that he wouldn't but that meant nothing, really. Too exhausted to be kept awake by even this troubling thought, Jared fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He startled awake the next morning to the sound of a long, loud klaxon, sounding out in the hallway. He blinked, stretched, then suddenly remembered where he was and stood quickly, stumbling a little in his haste.
The room was empty. No one had shown up during the night to take the bed, which might mean it was intended for him. That this room was intended for his use and his alone.
He'd never had a space of his own before. Not even before he'd been sold.
He didn't have time to reflect on this, however, as a glance at the clock on the wall told him he needed to hurry. There was simply no way he could be late for breakfast and show himself to be a lazy slave who couldn't follow simple directions.
The large white tiled communal bathroom was, predictably, crowded with people. Men and women mingled freely in various states of dress and undress, mostly ignoring one another though there was some good natured ribbing and jostling for position. No one was being molested or attacked – that was an excellent sign of a well run household. Jared tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible nonetheless, slipping in and out of a shower stall as quickly as possible and hurrying back to his room to get dressed. He was pretty sure he felt eyes on him but was careful not to engage with anyone; he was too unsure of the lay of the land and his position here to want to just yet.
Would they know what he was or what he'd presumably been bought for? If so, they were one up on him. Maybe he'd meet someone more approachable than the icy Carla who wouldn't mind giving him a heads up.
Clean clothes were in the dresser, as promised. A range of sizes, ready to accommodate a variety of slaves who might need them. They were standard slave fare - simple cotton tunics and loose drawstring slacks. The household color was thankfully easy on the eye, a soft dove gray. He hoped it hid dirt well. He had a feeling Master Ackles would be no more lenient about stained uniforms than his former owner.
He was ready now, with a full seven minutes to spare. Jared checked the room for any sign of disorder, straightened a bed cover that was slightly askew, then stood in the center of the room waiting.
He was ready.