DCBB Black Glass pt.10
Part 9
Part II: Wilderness
Wilderness was fluid as water, clinging tight with a pressure that, when released, could render its prey drunk and dumb. Years went by, months went by, days, hours, minutes, seconds, and yet Dean’s separation played over and over in Cas’s eyes as clear as crystal as he wandered. They shot him, like a man putting down a rabid dog. Dean was not dead, Cas didn’t feel him die, he still saw his life when he walked backwards in the stars and heavenly bodies, but it was as if he was. The sun shone too brightly, the birds too cheerful, the green of the earth too fertile…he was going west. He had never been lost before, but now he was. He was lost forever with a girl that was not his and a newfound voice that belonged to Dean and Dean alone. He had words now, words he did not want. Words meant he was no longer an animal and he was no longer dumb. There were advantages to being dumb, but now he was human.
-o-
With the Empire’s technology, it was simple to heal the forester man his soldiers brought back. He was an alluring creature, large yet his bulk was like a rock in the riverbed, made smooth by the current but still just as strong. He had not yet seen his eyes, but he imagined them to be a forest green to match his homeland. His skin was dark from days spent under the sun and in the reflective snow, and his numerous freckles were made darker as well. His lips, though…Michael wondered over those lips, pondered over them for hours as he sat by the man’s bedside with a guard just outside the door. He touched them, numerous times. He traced his fingertips over the rosy flesh and sometimes-if he was daring enough-he dipped them into the slack jawed mouth. His teeth were smooth, white and straight, and his tongue…Michael shuddered over the things he could make the man do with that tongue.
He highly anticipated the day the man woke. He couldn’t wait to interrogate him, to…learn him. Michael would learn from him, just as the man would learn from Michael. Michael was going to be the ruler of the Empire; no one would deny him his right to the man. As far as he was concerned, the forester was a spoil of conquest, and as such, his property. He would mold the forester into the perfect possession, he would and no one would stop him. That was, of course, after he discovered the truth about what exactly happened by the river that day.
His soldiers had said the winged man spoke, which should have been impossible if he were truly the Unholy Prince. Almost all of the soldiers there that day swore that he spoke. He only said one word, rather unintelligible under the sound of the river and gunshot, but a word nonetheless.
Had he been mistaken? Could he have not been the Prince? He had wings, he was of the proper age…but there were plenty of winged bastards running around in the Empire to this day. He could easily be the unfortunate offspring of some lowly minister’s daughter and one of his foolish cousins. Perhaps…but he would not call off the hunt on a hunch. Simply because this search did not pan out did not mean future searches would not.
The day the man woke it had been raining, the skies were thick with heavy clouds, and the people were sure another wet season was upon them. But when the man opened his eyes, revealing the brightest green Michael had ever seen, the rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. The clouds rolled out with a strong western breeze and the sun beat down onto the Basilica’s tiled streets brighter than ever before as it baked away the damp. It was a good sign.
The man worked his mouth, lips smacking and sticking, he must have been parched. He gazed around the room, not yet seeing Michael, yet he saw the tall glass of water waiting perched at his bedside table. He reached for it, painfully slow, and would have knocked it over if Michael hadn’t intervened. He plastered on his best disarming smile when the man licked his lips and regarded him with wide, panicked eyes. Michael could get lost in those eyes. They were fathomless, ethereal. He was unused to seeing such a color in the Empire; he wanted to keep it all to himself.
“Do you know where you are?” Michael asked softly, frowning in a-what he hoped to be-concerned manner. The man shook his head, opting to ignore his gaze to settle on the sweating glass of water still in Michael’s hand.
“Can you tell me your name?”
The man was almost whining for it, but Michael stubbornly held the glass away. The man would learn swiftly enough that he would be rewarded if he followed commands. It was simple, and it was all Michael would ask of him. Obey. He opened his mouth and seemed to struggle for a moment before he coughed and tried again.
“My…my name is Dean,” he broke off to cough for a moment, and continued, “Dean Winchester. May I please have some water?”
His voice was a curious drawl that couldn’t possibly be masked by his rough and cracked throat. It was thick, southern, yet…not. He was south of the border, definitely, but just enough to not be considered northern. His soldiers had dragged him back from a refugee camp by the Great River, just south of the border. He wore the clothes of a traveler and certainly did not belong with the pampered party of deserters by the river. Still such a mystery he was, one Michael was eager to explore. Dean was still looking up at him hopefully and Michael nodded, smiling again.
“Of course, Dean.” He placed the glass against Dean’s cracked lips and raised it ever so slightly so the cool water could trickle into his mouth easily.
“My name is Michael, but you must call me ‘Lord Michael’ or ‘your grace’, understood?”
“Yes, Lord Michael…” Dean murmured. Already the drugs were taking hold, making him sluggish in mind and body. There would be ample opportunity to see Dean at his peak of physical movement and power later. The drugs would loosen his tongue enough for interrogation and loosen his body enough for conditioning. It saved him the trouble of breaking him. He never liked to do it himself, and professionals he had hired in the past seemed to like breaking his slaves’ bodies rather than their minds. That wouldn’t do, not with this one.
Dean sighed and let his head fall back onto the pillow when the glass of drugged water was finished. His emerald eyes were half-lidded in obvious contentment and he smiled lazily up at Michael as he stretched his body. He was naked, a fact anyone aware enough would instantly notice in the presence of another man. The lines of his body weren’t well concealed by the thin cream colored sheet and Michael allowed his eyes to wander.
“Thank you, your grace.”
Michael smiled and chuckled to himself when Dean gasped at his touch. He had placed a hand over Dean’s shoulder, rubbing, soothing the sore, newly regrown muscle. Michael may have introduced him to a small dosage of aphrodisiac as well, just to be sure. Michael prided himself in being thorough. Dean must have had a predisposition for sex, there was no other explanation for the noises he was making. They got under Michael’s skin and echoed there. He uttered half whined sighs that were short and almost panted when Michael caressed him harder. Michael still had the presence of mind to stop; he couldn’t take his slave now, he would have to wait till he got what he wanted from him first. Dean writhed so prettily against the cream fabric, panting harsher now, his breaths sounding reedy like air whistling through a metal pipe. He was half hard under the sheet, and Michael was tempted, oh so tempted, to partake. But he left him alone. He stood and left the room and it took more will power than he thought he possessed.
“No one is to enter this room, understood?” Michael snarled to the guard outside, who simply nodded, yet snuck a peek inside. Dean certainly was a rare creature in the Basilica, a thing of raw, vulnerable and bare beauty. Both women and men in the Basilica relied on face paints and makeups and elaborate costumes of clothing to achieve anything close to what Dean held, naked and freshly washed as he was. Michael sat through two minister sessions, not absorbing anything they told him, thoughts only on green eyes and golden freckled skin, and winged bastard sons.
It hurt Sam to learn how the townspeople disliked both himself and his kin. He and Gabriel were dragged into the town like a spectacle, and they were greeted with jeers and shouted slurs and hate from the men and women both, children tried to throw refuse at them but thankfully the soldiers shooed them away before they could.
“Where is my daughter, you monster?!” Lisa’s mother screamed from the roadside, clawing and fighting against her husband and the soldiers who held her back. Her husband was stone-faced and pale, staring spitefully at Sam as he was pulled by.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Sam wanted to scream at them, ‘Dean and Cas took her, I don’t know where she is now!’ But Sam would not take a side against his brothers, he couldn’t.
“Where is she?! Your brother planted the seed of the devil in her and stole her away; you give her back to me!”
Gabriel squeezed his arm as best he could and Sam ducked his head in shame. He truthfully did not know what became of Lisa, or his brothers. How he prayed he knew now.
“Townspeople!” The leader of the soldiers yelled from a raised step in the center of the town square. “We, the militia of the Empire under the royal command of his grace, Lord Michael, take this town as land of the Empire and heretofore take its possessions and goods for the Empire’s usage. You may go about your business; if your services are required you will be called upon. That is all.”
The people grumbled in complaint, but they were used to the Empire’s displays of territorial power. Everyone was, Sam assumed. The Braedens were the last to go, led away by the soldiers when they refused to leave on their own. Sam and Gabriel were left with the horses, bound, awaiting their fate.
“What is going to happen to us?” Sam asked sullenly, already quite resigned to his fate.
“They’ll bring us to the Empire…I think…” Gabriel mused, keeping a wary eye on the soldiers surrounding them. “We’re still of some use to them, you being the son of a former Saint and all…and my ancestry will undoubtedly be revealed soon. I can clip my wings off, but…genes are genes. I look too much like my father.”
Sam nodded. The fact that his father used to serve the Empire was probably the only thing keeping him from under the sword.
“Besides,” Gabriel continued, “you’re well educated, they could hardly dispose of a great mind like yours. The Empire is constantly looking for young souls to mold to its will.”
“I will not yield.” Sam hissed.
“Good,” Gabriel said, eyes twinkling.
“They say there are wolves where you lived, Dean,” Michael said one evening, lavishing in his chambers as Dean patted his body with a soft cloth, drying him from their earlier bath.
“Yes, my lord,” Dean replied softly, straddling Michael’s hips to reach his other shoulder easier. Michael chuckled and rolled his hips, loving the soft gasp that spilled from his slave’s lips.
“Have you ever killed one before?”
“No…though I have seen them.”
“I think I shall call you my wolf, what do you think? Like a wolf, you are a creature as rare and as fine, here, in the north.”
Dean had long since stopped drying his body.
“Whatever-ah!-whatever pleases your grace…”
Michael slipped into his willing body with ease, his opening still stretched and wet from their time in the baths, filled and almost leaking with his lord’s fluids. Dean sunk onto his rigid member slowly, with a grace Michael thought him incapable. Yes, Dean was truly accustomed to sex, to being taken as he was. Dean’s soft cries and the sound of flesh slapping flesh filled Michael’s chambers and he loved it, how every time he drove balls deep into his slave the man’s eyes seemed to blaze with a lustful flame and he rode him harder than before. What Michael didn’t like, however, was how Dean would look through him in those moments, as if he were seeing someone else, far away.
Michael snarled and flipped them, pulling out and thrusting back in harder as he did so. He pinned Dean to the bed and rode him harsher than he ever had before, growling at every snap of his hips. He held his slave’s arm down, immobilizing him completely with the other pinned underneath him, and curled a hand around the man’s throat. Choked stutters of Michael’s title, then his own name fell upon deaf ears as he drove harder and harder. His slave was no longer aroused, his cock nestled limp in its bed of still wet curls, and that alone made Michael take pause.
“Do you not appreciate my attentions, mutt?”
“N-no! Lord Michael please, I could not breathe…” His wolf’s voice was raw and cracked, deeper perhaps than Michael’s at that point.
“Be gone from my sight, I’ll deal with you in the ‘morrow.” Michael sneered, detracting himself from the slave’s body, not missing the wet squelch from his slave’s opening and his soft, dejected whimper.
“I shall leave, my lord, and I apologize…” Dean murmured as he rose from the bed and, despite the abuse his body took, stood straight and proud. Michael glanced at him petulantly, taking in his demure expression and downward cast eyes. His hands were clasped behind his body, like he had been trained to do, revealing himself for his lord’s scrutiny.
“Wait,” Michael sighed, “I have not been properly dried yet, stay with me a while longer.”
Dean nodded eagerly and slipped back onto the large bed, taking up the cloth from where it had been forgotten earlier and continued patting Michael’s body dry. The lord hummed in contentment and shut his eyes, enjoying his slave’s gentle yet firm handling. The first time Michael had him do this the slave was too heavily drugged and could hardly lift the cloth, too content to nuzzle into his lord’s flesh instead, lapping at the beads of water with his tongue, lazily humping against his leg like a bitch in heat. Michael couldn’t tell which version of his slave he enjoyed more, but as Dean hummed a song under his breath and began to caress Michael’s skin with his now soft hands…he found he enjoyed a lucid slave far more than a drugged one.
Dean wished he was truly a wolf, so that he could rip into Michael’s throat, tear it and bathe in his blood. He fought to keep his breathing and his voice clear of waver as he massaged his captor’s body. Michael was as vicious as Dean had imagined him, and far more offhandedly cruel in bed than in court. It was no secret that Michael enjoyed his reciprocations, and Dean fought his better nature to tend to his owner’s body. He was owned now, fully and truly. The only thing separating him from the dogs in the stables was the bed he slept in and the lack of a collar around his throat, a visible one anyway. Dean, already so privy to what gave his lord pleasure, leaned forward and lapped at the younger man’s neck, tasting the bath salts and oils and the man’s own distinct flavor. It was nothing like Cas’s. The man’s hands came forward and cradled his ass, kneading the flesh, alternating between gentle strokes and harsh pinches. Dean bit back a snarl, turning it into something resembling a moan and he pushed himself down Michael’s body. Michael could so easily be swayed by pleasure it bordered on pathetic.
The man was a pig, Dean couldn’t wait to snap his neck in his sleep, but he had not yet earned the right to share a bed with him, let alone the room. He slept with the other slaves, and without Michael’s knowledge he had been shared around by the guards like some common street whore. Dean morbidly hoped he had caught something from them and it would pass onto Michael through their frequent couplings. He was surprised the overly possessive man hadn’t noticed it yet. There was no possible way Dean could have been so stretched and wet after only one coupling that day. Michael was a fool.
Dean always drew upon what Cas used to do to him, he was always more skilled when it came to matters of the tongue, and he tried to copy it. He remembered how Cas would nuzzle against his engorged flesh, breathing deeply and hotly over his length, licking at it like a child with a treat. Dean caught himself moaning in remembered pleasure, but he stopped himself. He would not become aroused for this monster. Almost as soon as Dean sucked him into his mouth, Michael exploded hot and wet down his throat. He swallowed it all as it came, obedient like the dog he was. He could pretend with Michael, it was easy. He just had to last long enough without letting his act slip.
Not even his drugged actions were real. Living in the wild with Cas as long as he had, building up an immunity against most of the natural world’s toxins had been a fortunate consequence, and he had been taught to recognize the scent and appearance of poisons and aphrodisiacs. He knew their side-effects as well. Michael underestimated his past. Foresters from beyond the Empire were not to be handled lightly.
It was two years before the soldiers decided to set back to the Empire. Following the main road, Sam calculated, would take even longer than the wait. He had seen his father’s map before, still marked from the man’s journey southward. John hadn’t stopped for long at the Empire outposts, too focused on fleeing than resting. But Sam knew these men were determined to stall their return to the Empire as long as possible. The two years spent waiting in the town hadn’t been too difficult for Sam and Gabriel, so long as they kept their heads down, didn’t wander, and didn’t ask for too much.
Either the soldiers forgot their reason for being there in the first place or they simply didn’t care. Sam and Gabriel were prisoners, yes, but they weren’t treated poorly, they were ignored more often than not; which allowed Sam to eavesdrop on conversations that probably should have been confidential.
“Did you hear about the southern mutt Lord Michael got himself?”
“Aye, a pretty little thing, I heard. His grace won’t let any soul touch him; butchers anyone who dares.”
“Ha! Wonder what’s between the lad’s nethers what’s got our lord so transfixed.”
“You’re dreaming if you think Lord Michael lets the wolf on top. Only one thing to do with a little bitch like that…”
The two trailed off into lecherous laughter, falling to silence for a few more moments.
“What was the wolf’s name again?” The first soldier asked.
“Why do you ask, man? Wishing to woo the mutt into your bedchambers come our return?” The other laughed it off before finally replying, “The bitch said his name was Dean, Dean Wincher…Wester, something like that.”
Sam bristled and his restraints clinked and groaned under his struggles. His brother, his older, precious brother, had been taken by the Empire’s tyrant ruler. Gabriel had heard as well, and laid a warning hand against Sam’s shoulder, trying to stop him. Sam glared at him and nearly growled in suppressed hatred. He had never had any reason to hate the Empire till then, and the thought frightened him. What had happened to Cas? To Lisa, and the child? So much time had passed, the child was sure to be walking, talking, and without a father now. If Dean was with the mock emperor, then Cas was sure to be dead. There was no way Cas would allow Dean to be taken, Sam knew, Cas would kill them both together if that was what it came to.
But now he knew he had been taken, and without mention of Cas, or a child. And the way the men were speaking of him, such language, so openly crass and crude it left only one thing to mind. Dean had been taken for slavery of the flesh. He was to be the plaything of some highborn lord till the man tired of him, or worse, Dean would succumb to a disease or over usage. Dean may have been his brother, but he had seen he and Cas in the throes of pleasure, and knew why a highborn man would take interest in him. He and Cas had forged their sensual bond at an early age, they had seen it in each other before anyone else. Sam wanted to believe that Cas was alive, he did, but again, the mere fact that Dean was in the hands of another man was proof enough. Either Cas was dead, or he was too far away to take his mate back into the folds of his wings and arms.
Part II: Wilderness
Wilderness was fluid as water, clinging tight with a pressure that, when released, could render its prey drunk and dumb. Years went by, months went by, days, hours, minutes, seconds, and yet Dean’s separation played over and over in Cas’s eyes as clear as crystal as he wandered. They shot him, like a man putting down a rabid dog. Dean was not dead, Cas didn’t feel him die, he still saw his life when he walked backwards in the stars and heavenly bodies, but it was as if he was. The sun shone too brightly, the birds too cheerful, the green of the earth too fertile…he was going west. He had never been lost before, but now he was. He was lost forever with a girl that was not his and a newfound voice that belonged to Dean and Dean alone. He had words now, words he did not want. Words meant he was no longer an animal and he was no longer dumb. There were advantages to being dumb, but now he was human.
-o-
With the Empire’s technology, it was simple to heal the forester man his soldiers brought back. He was an alluring creature, large yet his bulk was like a rock in the riverbed, made smooth by the current but still just as strong. He had not yet seen his eyes, but he imagined them to be a forest green to match his homeland. His skin was dark from days spent under the sun and in the reflective snow, and his numerous freckles were made darker as well. His lips, though…Michael wondered over those lips, pondered over them for hours as he sat by the man’s bedside with a guard just outside the door. He touched them, numerous times. He traced his fingertips over the rosy flesh and sometimes-if he was daring enough-he dipped them into the slack jawed mouth. His teeth were smooth, white and straight, and his tongue…Michael shuddered over the things he could make the man do with that tongue.
He highly anticipated the day the man woke. He couldn’t wait to interrogate him, to…learn him. Michael would learn from him, just as the man would learn from Michael. Michael was going to be the ruler of the Empire; no one would deny him his right to the man. As far as he was concerned, the forester was a spoil of conquest, and as such, his property. He would mold the forester into the perfect possession, he would and no one would stop him. That was, of course, after he discovered the truth about what exactly happened by the river that day.
His soldiers had said the winged man spoke, which should have been impossible if he were truly the Unholy Prince. Almost all of the soldiers there that day swore that he spoke. He only said one word, rather unintelligible under the sound of the river and gunshot, but a word nonetheless.
Had he been mistaken? Could he have not been the Prince? He had wings, he was of the proper age…but there were plenty of winged bastards running around in the Empire to this day. He could easily be the unfortunate offspring of some lowly minister’s daughter and one of his foolish cousins. Perhaps…but he would not call off the hunt on a hunch. Simply because this search did not pan out did not mean future searches would not.
The day the man woke it had been raining, the skies were thick with heavy clouds, and the people were sure another wet season was upon them. But when the man opened his eyes, revealing the brightest green Michael had ever seen, the rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. The clouds rolled out with a strong western breeze and the sun beat down onto the Basilica’s tiled streets brighter than ever before as it baked away the damp. It was a good sign.
The man worked his mouth, lips smacking and sticking, he must have been parched. He gazed around the room, not yet seeing Michael, yet he saw the tall glass of water waiting perched at his bedside table. He reached for it, painfully slow, and would have knocked it over if Michael hadn’t intervened. He plastered on his best disarming smile when the man licked his lips and regarded him with wide, panicked eyes. Michael could get lost in those eyes. They were fathomless, ethereal. He was unused to seeing such a color in the Empire; he wanted to keep it all to himself.
“Do you know where you are?” Michael asked softly, frowning in a-what he hoped to be-concerned manner. The man shook his head, opting to ignore his gaze to settle on the sweating glass of water still in Michael’s hand.
“Can you tell me your name?”
The man was almost whining for it, but Michael stubbornly held the glass away. The man would learn swiftly enough that he would be rewarded if he followed commands. It was simple, and it was all Michael would ask of him. Obey. He opened his mouth and seemed to struggle for a moment before he coughed and tried again.
“My…my name is Dean,” he broke off to cough for a moment, and continued, “Dean Winchester. May I please have some water?”
His voice was a curious drawl that couldn’t possibly be masked by his rough and cracked throat. It was thick, southern, yet…not. He was south of the border, definitely, but just enough to not be considered northern. His soldiers had dragged him back from a refugee camp by the Great River, just south of the border. He wore the clothes of a traveler and certainly did not belong with the pampered party of deserters by the river. Still such a mystery he was, one Michael was eager to explore. Dean was still looking up at him hopefully and Michael nodded, smiling again.
“Of course, Dean.” He placed the glass against Dean’s cracked lips and raised it ever so slightly so the cool water could trickle into his mouth easily.
“My name is Michael, but you must call me ‘Lord Michael’ or ‘your grace’, understood?”
“Yes, Lord Michael…” Dean murmured. Already the drugs were taking hold, making him sluggish in mind and body. There would be ample opportunity to see Dean at his peak of physical movement and power later. The drugs would loosen his tongue enough for interrogation and loosen his body enough for conditioning. It saved him the trouble of breaking him. He never liked to do it himself, and professionals he had hired in the past seemed to like breaking his slaves’ bodies rather than their minds. That wouldn’t do, not with this one.
Dean sighed and let his head fall back onto the pillow when the glass of drugged water was finished. His emerald eyes were half-lidded in obvious contentment and he smiled lazily up at Michael as he stretched his body. He was naked, a fact anyone aware enough would instantly notice in the presence of another man. The lines of his body weren’t well concealed by the thin cream colored sheet and Michael allowed his eyes to wander.
“Thank you, your grace.”
Michael smiled and chuckled to himself when Dean gasped at his touch. He had placed a hand over Dean’s shoulder, rubbing, soothing the sore, newly regrown muscle. Michael may have introduced him to a small dosage of aphrodisiac as well, just to be sure. Michael prided himself in being thorough. Dean must have had a predisposition for sex, there was no other explanation for the noises he was making. They got under Michael’s skin and echoed there. He uttered half whined sighs that were short and almost panted when Michael caressed him harder. Michael still had the presence of mind to stop; he couldn’t take his slave now, he would have to wait till he got what he wanted from him first. Dean writhed so prettily against the cream fabric, panting harsher now, his breaths sounding reedy like air whistling through a metal pipe. He was half hard under the sheet, and Michael was tempted, oh so tempted, to partake. But he left him alone. He stood and left the room and it took more will power than he thought he possessed.
“No one is to enter this room, understood?” Michael snarled to the guard outside, who simply nodded, yet snuck a peek inside. Dean certainly was a rare creature in the Basilica, a thing of raw, vulnerable and bare beauty. Both women and men in the Basilica relied on face paints and makeups and elaborate costumes of clothing to achieve anything close to what Dean held, naked and freshly washed as he was. Michael sat through two minister sessions, not absorbing anything they told him, thoughts only on green eyes and golden freckled skin, and winged bastard sons.
It hurt Sam to learn how the townspeople disliked both himself and his kin. He and Gabriel were dragged into the town like a spectacle, and they were greeted with jeers and shouted slurs and hate from the men and women both, children tried to throw refuse at them but thankfully the soldiers shooed them away before they could.
“Where is my daughter, you monster?!” Lisa’s mother screamed from the roadside, clawing and fighting against her husband and the soldiers who held her back. Her husband was stone-faced and pale, staring spitefully at Sam as he was pulled by.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Sam wanted to scream at them, ‘Dean and Cas took her, I don’t know where she is now!’ But Sam would not take a side against his brothers, he couldn’t.
“Where is she?! Your brother planted the seed of the devil in her and stole her away; you give her back to me!”
Gabriel squeezed his arm as best he could and Sam ducked his head in shame. He truthfully did not know what became of Lisa, or his brothers. How he prayed he knew now.
“Townspeople!” The leader of the soldiers yelled from a raised step in the center of the town square. “We, the militia of the Empire under the royal command of his grace, Lord Michael, take this town as land of the Empire and heretofore take its possessions and goods for the Empire’s usage. You may go about your business; if your services are required you will be called upon. That is all.”
The people grumbled in complaint, but they were used to the Empire’s displays of territorial power. Everyone was, Sam assumed. The Braedens were the last to go, led away by the soldiers when they refused to leave on their own. Sam and Gabriel were left with the horses, bound, awaiting their fate.
“What is going to happen to us?” Sam asked sullenly, already quite resigned to his fate.
“They’ll bring us to the Empire…I think…” Gabriel mused, keeping a wary eye on the soldiers surrounding them. “We’re still of some use to them, you being the son of a former Saint and all…and my ancestry will undoubtedly be revealed soon. I can clip my wings off, but…genes are genes. I look too much like my father.”
Sam nodded. The fact that his father used to serve the Empire was probably the only thing keeping him from under the sword.
“Besides,” Gabriel continued, “you’re well educated, they could hardly dispose of a great mind like yours. The Empire is constantly looking for young souls to mold to its will.”
“I will not yield.” Sam hissed.
“Good,” Gabriel said, eyes twinkling.
“They say there are wolves where you lived, Dean,” Michael said one evening, lavishing in his chambers as Dean patted his body with a soft cloth, drying him from their earlier bath.
“Yes, my lord,” Dean replied softly, straddling Michael’s hips to reach his other shoulder easier. Michael chuckled and rolled his hips, loving the soft gasp that spilled from his slave’s lips.
“Have you ever killed one before?”
“No…though I have seen them.”
“I think I shall call you my wolf, what do you think? Like a wolf, you are a creature as rare and as fine, here, in the north.”
Dean had long since stopped drying his body.
“Whatever-ah!-whatever pleases your grace…”
Michael slipped into his willing body with ease, his opening still stretched and wet from their time in the baths, filled and almost leaking with his lord’s fluids. Dean sunk onto his rigid member slowly, with a grace Michael thought him incapable. Yes, Dean was truly accustomed to sex, to being taken as he was. Dean’s soft cries and the sound of flesh slapping flesh filled Michael’s chambers and he loved it, how every time he drove balls deep into his slave the man’s eyes seemed to blaze with a lustful flame and he rode him harder than before. What Michael didn’t like, however, was how Dean would look through him in those moments, as if he were seeing someone else, far away.
Michael snarled and flipped them, pulling out and thrusting back in harder as he did so. He pinned Dean to the bed and rode him harsher than he ever had before, growling at every snap of his hips. He held his slave’s arm down, immobilizing him completely with the other pinned underneath him, and curled a hand around the man’s throat. Choked stutters of Michael’s title, then his own name fell upon deaf ears as he drove harder and harder. His slave was no longer aroused, his cock nestled limp in its bed of still wet curls, and that alone made Michael take pause.
“Do you not appreciate my attentions, mutt?”
“N-no! Lord Michael please, I could not breathe…” His wolf’s voice was raw and cracked, deeper perhaps than Michael’s at that point.
“Be gone from my sight, I’ll deal with you in the ‘morrow.” Michael sneered, detracting himself from the slave’s body, not missing the wet squelch from his slave’s opening and his soft, dejected whimper.
“I shall leave, my lord, and I apologize…” Dean murmured as he rose from the bed and, despite the abuse his body took, stood straight and proud. Michael glanced at him petulantly, taking in his demure expression and downward cast eyes. His hands were clasped behind his body, like he had been trained to do, revealing himself for his lord’s scrutiny.
“Wait,” Michael sighed, “I have not been properly dried yet, stay with me a while longer.”
Dean nodded eagerly and slipped back onto the large bed, taking up the cloth from where it had been forgotten earlier and continued patting Michael’s body dry. The lord hummed in contentment and shut his eyes, enjoying his slave’s gentle yet firm handling. The first time Michael had him do this the slave was too heavily drugged and could hardly lift the cloth, too content to nuzzle into his lord’s flesh instead, lapping at the beads of water with his tongue, lazily humping against his leg like a bitch in heat. Michael couldn’t tell which version of his slave he enjoyed more, but as Dean hummed a song under his breath and began to caress Michael’s skin with his now soft hands…he found he enjoyed a lucid slave far more than a drugged one.
Dean wished he was truly a wolf, so that he could rip into Michael’s throat, tear it and bathe in his blood. He fought to keep his breathing and his voice clear of waver as he massaged his captor’s body. Michael was as vicious as Dean had imagined him, and far more offhandedly cruel in bed than in court. It was no secret that Michael enjoyed his reciprocations, and Dean fought his better nature to tend to his owner’s body. He was owned now, fully and truly. The only thing separating him from the dogs in the stables was the bed he slept in and the lack of a collar around his throat, a visible one anyway. Dean, already so privy to what gave his lord pleasure, leaned forward and lapped at the younger man’s neck, tasting the bath salts and oils and the man’s own distinct flavor. It was nothing like Cas’s. The man’s hands came forward and cradled his ass, kneading the flesh, alternating between gentle strokes and harsh pinches. Dean bit back a snarl, turning it into something resembling a moan and he pushed himself down Michael’s body. Michael could so easily be swayed by pleasure it bordered on pathetic.
The man was a pig, Dean couldn’t wait to snap his neck in his sleep, but he had not yet earned the right to share a bed with him, let alone the room. He slept with the other slaves, and without Michael’s knowledge he had been shared around by the guards like some common street whore. Dean morbidly hoped he had caught something from them and it would pass onto Michael through their frequent couplings. He was surprised the overly possessive man hadn’t noticed it yet. There was no possible way Dean could have been so stretched and wet after only one coupling that day. Michael was a fool.
Dean always drew upon what Cas used to do to him, he was always more skilled when it came to matters of the tongue, and he tried to copy it. He remembered how Cas would nuzzle against his engorged flesh, breathing deeply and hotly over his length, licking at it like a child with a treat. Dean caught himself moaning in remembered pleasure, but he stopped himself. He would not become aroused for this monster. Almost as soon as Dean sucked him into his mouth, Michael exploded hot and wet down his throat. He swallowed it all as it came, obedient like the dog he was. He could pretend with Michael, it was easy. He just had to last long enough without letting his act slip.
Not even his drugged actions were real. Living in the wild with Cas as long as he had, building up an immunity against most of the natural world’s toxins had been a fortunate consequence, and he had been taught to recognize the scent and appearance of poisons and aphrodisiacs. He knew their side-effects as well. Michael underestimated his past. Foresters from beyond the Empire were not to be handled lightly.
It was two years before the soldiers decided to set back to the Empire. Following the main road, Sam calculated, would take even longer than the wait. He had seen his father’s map before, still marked from the man’s journey southward. John hadn’t stopped for long at the Empire outposts, too focused on fleeing than resting. But Sam knew these men were determined to stall their return to the Empire as long as possible. The two years spent waiting in the town hadn’t been too difficult for Sam and Gabriel, so long as they kept their heads down, didn’t wander, and didn’t ask for too much.
Either the soldiers forgot their reason for being there in the first place or they simply didn’t care. Sam and Gabriel were prisoners, yes, but they weren’t treated poorly, they were ignored more often than not; which allowed Sam to eavesdrop on conversations that probably should have been confidential.
“Did you hear about the southern mutt Lord Michael got himself?”
“Aye, a pretty little thing, I heard. His grace won’t let any soul touch him; butchers anyone who dares.”
“Ha! Wonder what’s between the lad’s nethers what’s got our lord so transfixed.”
“You’re dreaming if you think Lord Michael lets the wolf on top. Only one thing to do with a little bitch like that…”
The two trailed off into lecherous laughter, falling to silence for a few more moments.
“What was the wolf’s name again?” The first soldier asked.
“Why do you ask, man? Wishing to woo the mutt into your bedchambers come our return?” The other laughed it off before finally replying, “The bitch said his name was Dean, Dean Wincher…Wester, something like that.”
Sam bristled and his restraints clinked and groaned under his struggles. His brother, his older, precious brother, had been taken by the Empire’s tyrant ruler. Gabriel had heard as well, and laid a warning hand against Sam’s shoulder, trying to stop him. Sam glared at him and nearly growled in suppressed hatred. He had never had any reason to hate the Empire till then, and the thought frightened him. What had happened to Cas? To Lisa, and the child? So much time had passed, the child was sure to be walking, talking, and without a father now. If Dean was with the mock emperor, then Cas was sure to be dead. There was no way Cas would allow Dean to be taken, Sam knew, Cas would kill them both together if that was what it came to.
But now he knew he had been taken, and without mention of Cas, or a child. And the way the men were speaking of him, such language, so openly crass and crude it left only one thing to mind. Dean had been taken for slavery of the flesh. He was to be the plaything of some highborn lord till the man tired of him, or worse, Dean would succumb to a disease or over usage. Dean may have been his brother, but he had seen he and Cas in the throes of pleasure, and knew why a highborn man would take interest in him. He and Cas had forged their sensual bond at an early age, they had seen it in each other before anyone else. Sam wanted to believe that Cas was alive, he did, but again, the mere fact that Dean was in the hands of another man was proof enough. Either Cas was dead, or he was too far away to take his mate back into the folds of his wings and arms.