Chapter 2: Marked

Dean stood in the motel bathroom, in front of the mirror, and regarded his reflection for the first time in months.

He had lost a few pounds and looked a hell of a lot weaker than the last time he checked. He face was sunken, cheek bones sharp, and he saw many more injuries and such than before.

The man in the mirror seemed foreign to Dean. A ghost of his former self. A lot had changed since that fateful day in the fields of Lawrence. Dean watched while the man winced with pain as he raised the bottom of his standard grey shirt, revealing discolored skin black, blue, and pink with newly formed bruises and scars. Alastair was to blame for most of them, but Dean couldn't say it was all his fault. Dean did have a part in it too.

When was the last time he didn't hurt?

'At the Road House,' Dean thought nostalgically, almost able to smell their trademark greasy, unhealthy food a thousand miles away. He had been eating burgers, having a few beers, and unsuccessfully trying to get into Jo's pants that day. A whisper of a smirk made its way on Dean's face, recalling the first time they met; Jo had pointed a shotgun at him, and he, not taking that seriously, ended up with a punch to the nose. Sam was there too, laughing every time Jo burst Dean's bubble.

Sam.

It was too difficult to think of Sam. 'That damn kid. He was still so young at twenty seven. He always saw the best in people'

'Sees,' Dean corrected, angry at himself.

'I'll get him back. I have to. I've been taking care of that boy since he was in diapers, he ain't getting rid of me that easy,' Dean promised. 'And no one, not even the Devil, can stop me.'

Oh how wrong he was.

But until then, Dean was stuck in god-knows-where with some god-knows-who demon. Somehow, even after going through the purchasing process, Dean still had no idea who his new master was.

Dean looked at the door wearily, thinking about his master. Ever since they had walked into the motel room, the demon had been sitting on the old chair in the corner; he seemed distracted and had been muttering unintelligible things.

Compared to what he was sure would come, Dean figured that this was as close to paradise as he'd get. And it would be a while before he got a chance like this again. He should spend it wisely. There was no telling the next time he'd have a peaceful moment.

Dean heaved a sigh. It was time to take inventory of his injuries. He needed to know his limits before he started to work, and if he ever attempted to do what he fully intended on doing.

Dean started canvassing his skin, taking in all of it. He began treating his wounds, cleaning them; a luxury he hadn't had for the last several months. Slowly losing himself in the constant task of cleaning and binding, with strips of his shirt, Dean's mind wandered and he thought back to what happened little over an hour ago…

…Dean stood on a small platform behind what he assumed to be a stage. He was last in line, and watched as slowly each slave was taken forward, through the opening in the side of the curtain. It was honestly a very tedious process. Dean had been to seven auctions so far, and still here he was.

'I'm never gonna be bought,' he thought grimly, 'and while I'm here rotting, Sammy could be layin' dead in the street.' Great. Dean remembered the sick, awful son of a bitch, and how he had laughed when Dean knocked out four guards trying to get to Sam. He had freakin' laughed!

The bastard.

They had finally gone through all the slaves before him, and now it was Dean's turn. None of them had been brought back, which wasn't surprising considering how many there had been left. Alastair had been dragging them all across the country, slowly selling all the slaves he had until he ran out. If Dean was right, this would be his last auction before turning back to get a new shipment. Which made Dean the last slave.

They had saved the best for last.

Two men, no sorry, demons came to get Dean. They grabbed either arm and began leading Dean to the stage. They only walked a few yards before Dean could see a dim triangular patch of light which he assumed was the club.

"Back straight." Dean stood up taller, straightening out his slumped back.

"Chin up." He pointed his chin up.

"No eye contact." Dean would remember that.

"And most important, be proud." He was, with a little arrogance mixed in there as well.

Dean heard the oft repeated phrases in the soothing voice of Mary Winchester. That was what she always said with the demons. Dean remembered, even though he was four years old the last time it was said to him. And he heard it before each auction. Dean idly wondered if she knew how much he was using the advice, years later. But he highly doubted she had seen this future for him.

He passed the blue-black curtains, and was bombarded by the smell of sweat and alcohol. Oh, what he'd do for a beer. A pudgy, short demon and Alastair stood in front. A hundred non-human faces looked up at him with distaste.

He was on stage. Let the bidding begin.

Alastair came up to Dean, grabbed his chains, and started offering. It was a rather pitiful sight. They had been standing for a few minutes now, but no one wanted him. It was so horrible, that Alastair was offering to give him for only $200. That was it.

It was disgusting.

Dean was used to the looks, the disapproval, the lust, the greed, the glances at his extra, 'bad behavior' shackles and scars. He expected that. What he didn't expect was the man in the trench coat.

In that one moment when Dean slipped up and looked down, he saw him. There he was, separate from everyone else, yet still a part of them all. He just stood there. But he wasn't looking at Alastair, or the shackles, or the bruises. No. He was looking at Dean. He was staring at Dean.

Staring into Dean's soul.

And Dean, going against the rules. returned the favor. He looked into the demon's eyes and marveled at their raw beauty. They were blue. A lush beautiful shade of blue that just somehow made the stars dull by comparison. They stood out. Shining brightly in the crowd of black holes that surround them.

Dean just continued staring and so did the demon. They shared a moment, a moment in which, without any knowledge of it, their hearts beat in sync. Their souls, one bruised and scarred, the other twisted and molded, connected. It was instantaneous and spontaneous. And great.

And all too soon Dean felt himself sever that connection.

As they broke eye contact their private world shattered. Dean broke free of the trance, and internally cursed at himself for being so stupid.

But then the craziest, most impossible thing happened.

Dean Winchester was bought…

A strained hiss escaped Dean's clenched teeth.

He was brought out of his revere by a sharp, burning pain traveling down his left arm. He glared at the torn sleeve, scared to see the damage, but determined to face it.

Time to deal with it.

Dean began to peel the wet, bloody sleeve off of his tender skin, grimacing with pain. The whole time he looked away; he had no food in his stomach to throw up, but he tasted bile in his mouth.

When it was finally over, and the ruined piece of cloth was no longer stuck to Dean's arm, he turned his head to the left and opened his eyes, ready for the worst.

And, of course, he was shocked by what he saw.

There on his arm was a hand print, burned into his very flesh. The angry red mark stood above the surrounding skin. And the exposure to air was making it burn more. Dean had never seen one before, but there was only one thing it could be:

A brand.

He had been branded. And the information made him dizzy, and nausea rolled over him in waves. He grabbed the edge of the sink and stared at the brand in the mirror, unable to look at the real thing.

A brand was a special, specific mark a master gave their slave. But only extremely powerful demons had the ability to mark their slaves. It was an undeniable show of ownership, which meant that the slave could never have another master. They could never enter the slave market again. If they were to ever run away, there were only two options left for them: to be hunted down or to be killed.

Dean took a few shuddering breaths. He needed to calm down. Or else he'd have a panic attack and that wouldn't end well. He slowly lowered himself to the cool, tiled floor. He sat, legs pulled up to his chest, rocking slowly.

Breathe.

The real desperation and sick cruelty of his current position came crashing down on him. It finally hit him. He was a slave. An animal. Not a human. Not a person. An animal. Nothing more, nothing less.

And that was all that he could be. He was stuck here. Forever.

Unless…he could get away.

He could do it. Find Sam. Run away. It was possible. All he had to do was make it to Wyoming. To get to the Devil's Trap, the last human place left. Dean knew a bit about hunting, whatever he picked up as a kid from his father. It was enough. He could do it.

And without another sound, Dean stood up from the floor. He picked up all the tattered cloth and cleaned the blood off of the counter. He glanced at the brand, as long as he could, and decided not to touch it. He couldn't do anything about it.

But it didn't make sense to walk around with it showing. He took the largest, most clean cloth he could find and wrapped it, like gauze, over his brand. He wouldn't mention it, who knew what his new master was like? He threw away all the extra cloth and checked to make sure that he hadn't forgotten anything. He hadn't.

Until he knew more about his master he was gonna play it safe, and not do anything too reckless.

And with that thought Dean turned to the door, and reached out his hand. He faltered before touching the knob.

What did he expect behind that door?

There were so many ways this could go wrong, and not a single way this could go right. But never the less, Dean grabbed the knob, twisted it, and pushed the door open with a creak.

He had no idea what would happen, but at least he knew that he hadn't given up.

And he stepped forward.

Author's Note:

I'm so sorry for not posting this earlier. I've been really busy and honestly i can never focus on one thing. Thanks for being awesome and reviewing. You know who you are. Please continue to review if you have bothered to read this.

Obviously as you might have realized the anatomy of angels and demons are a little different from canon. For example angels have actual physical wings. Demons still have to possess their bodies, but they usually stick to one or two bodies. But there are special cases.

If you have any questions please ask! And the pov will usually stay the same throughout the chapter, but i might jump around sometimes. *cough* next chapter *cough*

I promise to post the third chapter soon, i won't take nearly as long as i did last time. Thanks again.

DFTBA. Fight the faeries. Jack.