Chapter 1: The Crossroads

A dark room filled with hundreds of bodies crowded together. Loud voices and euphoric laughter. The bittersweet smell of liquor and sweat. Heat radiating in waves off of humans and demons alike. The air was stuffy and hot. Then again, the only thing that needed to breathe was the merchandise.

It was easy to tell the owners from the property. Well, at least it was for Castiel. He had trained years for this post, and was the only one is his garrison who could pull off such a glamour. He could tell by the dark auras and the bright souls. The differences in the laughter, one unfeeling and cruel, while the other hysterical or broken. But most of all, he could tell in the way they acted. Demons were merciless; they never tired, never feared, never felt. Humans, on the other hand, were fragile, they died, they cried, they slept.

Castiel navigated through crowd, trying not to hit too many people; but between the size of the room and the number of people, it was practically impossible. Finally he managed to get to the bar, and sat down on one of the numerous barstools. He didn't drink most of the time, being an angel he was not tempted by sin. But occasionally he took a few drinks to keep up his appearance as a demon.

To any passerby Castiel would have black eyes and the same dark aura that surrounded other demons. It was a difficult task, even for angels, to mimic such strong faerie magic. He had the natural talent for it though, and mastered it in a matter of years. Only a few angels could ever fully and completely hold a glamour; those who could were very far and few. Castiel was one of these rare angels.

"Hey, pretty boy, what d'ya want?"

Castiel looked up and saw an attractive woman, most presumably the bar tender, standing in front of him. The brunette had a surprisingly deep voice. She was wearing a nice red blouse and a blue apron with the words 'The Crossroads' written in bold white. And, not to mention, she was a demon.

"A beer," Castiel responded. 'Huh, why not?'

"Commin' right up." He watched as she turned around and grabbed a beer from the icebox on her right.

"Here ya go," she put a cold bottle of beer, still wet with condensation, in front of him. Castiel picked up the bottle, and stopped himself from thanking her. He looked up. The bartender had made no move to leave; instead she had planted both elbows down on the counter in front of him and was looking at him expectantly.

"What?" Castiel asked.

"I haven't seen you in these parts before. Got a name?"

"Castiel," she looked at him, interested.

"Where d'ya get that from?" Not many humans know this, but demons often changed or made new names for themselves after crawling out of Hell.

"Took it from some angel," Castiel said nonchalantly. It wasn't uncommon, lots of demons, kind of in a way to mock them, stole the names of angels they killed. "You?"

"Meg." She turned her head to the left; a man had called her, well they had called the bartender. She looked at Castiel one more time and smirked.

"See you around Clarence." She grabbed a rag from under the counter and left. Castiel tilted his head slightly in confusion, 'had he perhaps told her the wrong name?' He shook his head. He had learned quickly not to question the actions of a demon.

He drank his beer alone. He didn't mind though, it was a great time to get more information. All around him, demons spoke of the latest news, the freshest gossip. That was really the whole point of the job: to collect information. He had been told to infiltrate, and he had. So now he was a mole, hurting them from the inside. He wasn't too important here; he was average and went unnoticed. And that was exactly what they wanted.

His thoughts though were cut short by a loud 'Welcome to the Crossroads' said in a thick Scottish accent. The auction had begun.

Don't get me wrong, Castiel hated the demon's enslavement of humans. It was disgusting, and Castiel utterly despised the trade. But he was told not to draw attention to himself; and thus Castiel could never act on his opinion.

Castiel watched from his spot on the barstool as a Scottish man in a tailored black suit stood on the stage, in front of the microphone, and introduced himself as Crowley, owner of the club. The stage wasn't too big, but it covered one entire wall of the six walled room. He also welcomed the slave merchant Alastair, a scrawny, tall demon with a remorseless face, who had been standing in the corner the whole time. Alastair greeted all the demons, all of us, Castiel corrected. He announced that the shipment this evening had come from Ilchester and there was a chorused cheer. Everyone knew that the capital, Ilchester, Maryland, was where Lucifer had risen twenty years ago; in remembrance it was declared the capital of his new country, Infernus Et In Terra, and he still resided there to this very day. Ever since the moment Lucifer had risen he was determined to raise Hell with him, hence the name.

The crowd buzzed with excitement, some of these slaves may have been in front of Lucifer himself. One by one, slaves were brought to the stage from behind the curtain, and auctioned off. They weren't ordered according to age, sex, race, or quality; Castiel had been to enough auctions to know that. They were instead lined up according to their numbers; each slave was given a branded number when they entered the market; it was burned into their flesh, on the left arm for males, and the right arm for females.

Slaves were never bought at the same price. Stronger, younger slaves were more expensive and sold quicker, while weaker slaves were bought cheap by halfhearted buyers. And for especially desirable slaves, demons bid until all but one was left.

Castiel took each slave, buyer, and purchase into account. Information was still information, not matter how important. Most slaves were either bought because of their strength by wealthy demons or as simple servants and laborers by lesser ones. He took special attention to a few purchases in particular, though. A strong muscular slave, Gordon, was bought by the Alastair. This surprised Castiel because merchants usually did not buy from their own auction. And Crowley, the club owner, bought an old, battered slave named Robert, whose eyes glittered with intelligence. 'Well, I guess it depends on what you're looking for in a slave.'

Surprisingly slaves were sold with names. It was an odd tradition, but demons, most commonly, bought a slave knowing their name, and then changed it in a show of ownership. 'Another despicable thing about the slave trade,' Castiel thought as the last slave was brought forth. He had to leave soon, to avoid the nightly rush. He stood from his seat and straightened out his well-worn trench coat. As he turned, about to leave, the last slave came out.

He was relatively tall, 6'1", only an inch taller than Castiel, but still tall. He had tanned skin, from long hours of labor, and a light brown, almost dirty blonde, hair that stuck up at the ends. He looked strong, but there were so many bruises and scars that he seemed frail and damaged. That also may have been why no one was eager to buy him. But he was strong, handsome, and young. A typical slave.

But there was something different about him, something that made Castiel stop and stare; it transfixed him. It was the way he stood. He was calm and his face betrayed no emotion; he stood tall, back straight, even with the weight of extra shackles around his neck and ankles. He didn't cower, like the rest. He didn't whimper in fear. He just stood there, looking straight forward, not meeting anyone's eyes. As if he was above them all.

"Anyone want this one?" Alastair asked the unenthusiastic crowd. He yanked on the slave's chains, probably hoping for a reaction, but still he remained quiet.

"Come on, Dean over here ain't so bad. He's young, and strong as a bull," Alastair pleaded. 'That's it,' Castiel thought numbly, 'they haven't broken him yet.'

"I'll give'm cheap, only two hundred," Alastair said, still trying to salvage the sell. The slave, Dean, wrinkled his nose, as if disgusted by the price. He turned his head slightly to the left, and his eyes strayed a little too low.

Dean looked down at the only person watching him. Castiel. Dean's emerald green eyes met Castiel's ethereal blue ones. Their gazes locked. That moment, that fraction of a second, felt like an eternity to Castiel. He stared into Dean's eyes intently, losing himself as he did. They had such depth, Castiel could tell, but all that was inside them lay behind an impenetrable wall.

Dean looked away quickly, trying to amend his mistake. But the damage was already done.

Without realizing it, Castiel's hand went up. It didn't ask permission from Castiel, it acted entirely on its own accord.

Everyone looked at Castiel in surprise. A shocked silence fell in the club. Why would anyone want a defective slave? No one had thought the slave would be bought. Even Alastair had begun to give up. He looked at Castiel, a foolish customer, with pity. 'Good luck controlling him,' he thought bitterly. He had tried himself, and got a scar out of that, none the less.

Alastair nodded slowly, and one of the staff brought, scratch that, dragged Dean off the stage to the back room. There were still a few forms to fill out.

Castiel went through the entire process numbly. Filling out information. Signing on one line after another. When it was finally done, he led Dean out of The Crossroads, holding him by the arm. His hand burned, and his mind raced. He only had one thought:

'What have I done?'

Little did he know that Dean's thoughts were along the same lines.

A Long Author's Note

A clarification if i may, the 'italics' are thoughts, and anything that is in italics without the apostrophes are just for emphasis. Yeah. Oh, and its spelled faerie NOT fairy. Learn how to spell people, come on.

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