A/N: This will be a lengthy story. It will NOT contain rape, sexual assault, gore, graphic torture, or slash. But there will be a fair amount of action, general violence, and some swearing, along with newfound friendship, hurt/comfort, and bromance. I'll try to keep the angst on a leash. No promises. Time period: Season 6. Being an AU, events prior to season six may be mentioned but with different outcomes than in the show.

The stench of the warehouse was only lessened by the winter chill just beyond the doors. Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust as he made his way through the crowd. It wasn't easy with the horde of stick-up-their-ass hunters and assorted creeps who'd been invited to this year's gathering. Hell, if parking was a nightmare at the state fair, it was a catastrophe at the black market. Hundreds of vehicles were dispersed over a wider area to divert suspicion from the local authorities.

Or anyone else who'd dare to crash the party.

The warehouse was located beside a wide channel that cut directly through the city. As it was Saturday night, no one noticed a few extra strangers walking the streets. Even if those strangers had eyes that darted around with wary alertness, trigger fingers twitching whenever a car backfired or raucous laughter broke out. If Dean had learned anything after the death of his dad five years prior, it was that people were either unobservant or apathetic. They just didn't care.

That would work in his favor tonight. No feds to infiltrate the scene. Usually he couldn't stomach the presence of the douchebags the black market attracted – half of them deserved to be arrested, or worse - but these were desperate times and they all knew it. Why else risk crossing a bitter enemy or being tailed once they left? The check-your-weapons-at-the-door rule only went so far, even if it was emphasized by assholes pacing the warehouse perimeter with semi-automatics.

He remembered how they'd scared him as a boy, how his dad brought him here to retrieve a Giver for someone he was working for. Dean was too young to understand what was happening, but there were details that stuck with him. Vivid flashes, here and there. The hopelessness in the Giver's eyes, for one thing.

Just a little longer. He clenched his jaw. Just a little longer and he'd have what he came for.

The distant commotion on the loading docks heightened his resolve. Muffled though it was, Dean heard the shuffling footsteps of Givers. A foot-long cord between their ankles prevented escape. It also made them easier to subdue once a deal was made.

The mere thought of trading cash for a human sickened him, but his recent hunts had been ineffective death marches. He'd done little more than extend his condolences. In the past two months, he'd been shot, stabbed, and bludgeoned over the head. It was all par for the course, but he felt himself getting sloppy. If he continued on this path, he'd be dead in less than six months.

As Givers were led into the warehouse and surrounding conversations quieted to a low mummer, Dean found himself eying the shipment and feeling like the scum of the earth. It was almost impossible to predict the gifts of individual Givers by simply looking at them. But he tried.

There were sure to be Givers who controlled others by suggestion, but they were a risky purchase and not what he was looking for. Those with super strength, while useful in the hunting business, would also be risky.

No… what he truly needed were visions. The eloquent version of a "heads-up." Something – someone - to provide a compass for future cases and keep him alive. Someone who wasn't a reason for him to be on guard 24/7.

He scanned the Givers as they were each led to a separate area of the warehouse. They went quietly, if somewhat indignantly. Which made sense. This first round of bidding would be for Givers who'd willingly signed over their lives at some point, in exchange for the freedom of a Giver taken by force. They would be more cooperative and higher in demand.

Unwilling Givers would be brought out after deals for the willing were reached. They would be dangerously feral, frightened, and undisciplined. But they would be the only remaining choices for buyers who hadn't made a deal during the first round.

Dean would make a deal. He wouldn't cross the final line between himself and the monsters he hunted by enslaving an unwilling Giver, no matter how valuable their Gift. The line between willing and unwilling was a fine one, and he knew that. After all, decades of service could render a willing Giver bitter and angry. But when they committed themselves, it was for life. They were aware of the terms going in.

He wandered the perimeter of the warehouse, where Givers had been put on display like pieces of meat. They stood under spotlights beside cheap folding tables, where the black market version of an accountant quietly notarized bids and changed the digital numbers before him accordingly.

It wasn't the chaos one might expect when attending a black market. Interested parties were more likely to whisper a figure or slip the accountant a note than to yell out a bid. But these were cash deals. It wouldn't be wise to shout out how much someone could pickpocket you for.

As he passed Giver after Giver, Dean noticed distinct similarities between them. They were all barefoot. Another means to prevent permanent escape, he was sure. All were freshly showered, water still dripping from their hair. The men were shirtless and the women wore low cut shirts. Not for the sake of perversion, but for practicality. After those in the crowd had followed whichever Giver first appealed to them and the first bids were placed, accountants marked their respective Giver with a tar letter over their heart.

C for Control.

S for Strength.

V for Visions.

Further movement from the crowd accompanied these declarations. Dean sought out a Giver with a stark V on his or her chest. It had been one hell of a day. He was ready to buy and then drive at least 100 miles to safety before checking into a motel.

He tried to keep his mind off the fact that these were actual people before him. People with their arms hanging limply by their sides, wearing expressions of humiliation, defiance, or numb defeat. The next round would only be worse.

Let there be a Giver with visions somewhere in the lot…

There.

There were two of them. One woman with distant eyes, clothes hanging from her frame, and a man who couldn't have been much younger than Dean. Neither of them were untouched, but the man had fading bruises all over his chest and old scars that suggested his previous owners were less than kind. Dean didn't want to think about what he would look like if he turned around.

But even with the man in far worse condition than the woman, there was a startling difference in their prices. What the…

Then he saw the small FR tarred just below the V on the man. Oh.

Flight risk.

That explained the lower price. And the scars. Damn it.

A muscular Giver would be more useful during a hunt than some willowy chick who'd need rescuing every five seconds. Dean would need more than detailed descriptions, after all. He would need the eyes of the Giver there with him, to instantly recognize and react to whatever situations followed visions.

And if that weren't enough reason to go for the man, Dean's wallet wasn't as thick as it used to be. It was difficult to hustle pool or run credit scams while unconscious from a bullet wound. Or a stab wound. Or a-

Nevertheless… the man had a tense, cold air about him that warned he'd be trouble. Shoulders back, his eyes scanned the crowd, as if challenging someone to step forward and fight. His poorly-veiled anger meant two things: one, he'd willingly signed himself over a long time ago, and two, the line between willing and unwilling had just thinned even more. He didn't belong in this round, not really. He belonged in the next one.

Dean glanced over at the woman, torn and undecided. The next surge in her price made the decision for him.

"Sorry, honey," he muttered.

Dean turned his attention to the accountant behind the price he could still afford. As he stepped closer, he felt the Giver's eyes on him and looked up to meet them.

Go on, they seemed to dare him. Place a bid.

Dean outwardly smirked, even as he felt his heart pound harder with adrenaline. Oh, yeah. Definitely dangerous. Awesome.

He broke their gaze and stepped up to the table.

"Dean Winchester. $12,500."

The accountant peered up at him over the rim of his spectacles before making the notation. Ass hat. The previous bid was less than ten thousand. With little time remaining, unless the red flag FR disappeared from his chest, this Giver was as good as his.

Sam inwardly swore when he saw the accountant look up at the smirking jerk.

They only did that when the deal was all but sealed.

He swallowed hard, wondering what the man could want with him. The throbbing behind his eyes was distracting, but he tried to avoid wincing. The last thing he wanted to give these bastards was a show. They could get their kicks during the next round.

Sam shivered just thinking about it. The screams and whimpers from Givers who'd been snatched off the streets for this very night echoed within his mind. The pain they felt was still fresh. He felt it as he lay beside them during the journey here. It permeated the air, weighing it down, pressing against him, invading his mind.

He longed for the days when visions hadn't been a part of his life. Or even when they had been, years before crowded settings began to overwhelm him with transferred emotion.

How long had it been now? It seemed like a lifetime. But no… it'd only been six years since the visions began. Nightmares at first. His girlfriend Jess had been there to comfort him when he woke up yelling…

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Sam steeled himself. Jess. She'd discovered her own gift, the power to heal people, only months after his visions began coming true. Between one day and the next, she was taken from him. Abducted by these animals, to be sold at the next auction. The only reason he'd known is because he was called by a man the day after Jess disappeared. If Sam agreed to give himself over to a lifetime of service, they would release Jessica and never bother her again.

Too many drinks later, he'd worked up the courage to just do it before he lost his nerve. Go through with the trade. Before someone pointed out the obvious: the abductors were probably just luring him into a trap. But there was a cold, hard truth to face.

He had nothing left to lose.

Never let it be said there's no honor amongst thieves. True to their word, Jess was released. He even snuck phone calls to her during those first few years, before the life of a Giver wore him down. The only thing he wanted was for her to be free and happy. She couldn't be happy if he surprised her with a phone call every now and then. It was cruel.

Hi, remember me? The love of your life, who sacrificed his freedom to keep you safe? Oh, I'm doing great, except for the whip lashes across my back. Yeah, I didn't know people still used whips either. This experience is teaching me so much.

To avoid such conversations, Sam hadn't contacted her in years. But it was worth it. She was worth it. Wherever she was now, he hoped she'd moved on and found a man who treated her like royalty.

A shout rang out over the crowd, announcing the end of bidding. He was abruptly jolted back to the present: the warehouse around him, the eyes studying him. If he hadn't been daydreaming about Jess, he might have had time to brace himself for the incoming emotional tidal wave.

Sam felt his mental barriers begin to give way under the weight of the fear and relief of Givers around him. He felt the victory of winning bidders and the satisfaction of the cash collectors. But there was one emotion that overwhelmed him more than any other.

Rage.

Givers were few. Bidders were many. He felt their anger and resentment toward their loss, carefully concealed though it was. No façade could seal their emotions inside them. It was a suffocating fog, hanging densely in the air. It crept inside him with every breath, making his heart pound like that of a wild animal.

Sam felt Lenor's eyes on him from where she stood bound under her own spotlight. She emitted little more than emptiness, but there was pity too. As though she knew what he was about to do.

His head whipped in her direction and a low growl rose in his throat. What did she know about emotion? She'd scarcely done more than breathe since the moment he'd met her. And the rest of them-

His breath came faster as he glared at them, all of them. The man handing cash to the collector, eying him warily. The guards with guns, parading around as if they could control the crowd. As if they could control him. His vision blurred with pain and anger.

"Now, now," a voice tsked behind him. "We've been through this before, Sam."

Sam swiftly turned to see three Enforcers, led by a Doper. Their job was collection and distribution, by any means necessary. Already, he saw Lenor in his peripheral vision, being injected with a syringe and then carried away. She didn't so much as struggle, going with them like a meek little lamb.

Bitch.

He felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. His hands clenched into fists. She was a disgrace to their kind, nothing but a living, breathing doll.

"Get away from me," he snarled at the approaching Enforcers. It was a warning for their protection. But they smiled as if he'd just thrown them a bone.

They spread out around him, allowing him plenty of room while blocking any escape. Sam felt the surrounding atmosphere change. It became charged with the sick excitement of the Enforcers and the crowd's realization that he wasn't about to go quietly. Perhaps if the emotional change occurred sooner, it would've doused the delicious rage burning inside him.

But it didn't. Sam felt his entire body tense, knees bending and shoulders hunching defensively.

"Nice and easy now," the Doper reminded the Enforcers. "Remember, he's freshly purchased."

They began moving in as a group. Sam's senses sharpened with adrenaline. He heard the shuffle of his own bare feet and denium jeans as he slowly turned in a circle, ready to knock out whoever reached him first. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and he tossed his head as perspiration dripped into his eyes. The sting of salt only fueled his anger.

Though rage from the crowd was fading, his own fighting spirit had been stirred. Enough was enough. He wasn't merely a Giver, he was Sam, damn it. He had a name. Not just a price.

"Come on, man," he distantly heard. The voice was tired, and maybe a little disappointed. "Don't fight."

Like hell.

The Enforcers were so close that he felt their body heat. Then they were on him.

Two of them lunged for his upper arms, and he let them. It allowed him to bring both feet up and plant them in the chest of the third man. Thrown off balance by the push, Sam and the two men holding him tumbled to the floor. He gasped when his left ribs hit the concrete with enough force to crack them. His head bounced too, but not hard enough to slow him down.

The crowd pressed in, jeering at him and cheering him on.

Laying on his side, Sam sensed a fallen Enforcer approach him from behind. He turned on his back, following through with a punch to the jaw. A second Enforcer grabbed his wrist, trying to pull it back, but he went with the motion, elbowing them in the chest. By the time the third Enforcer approached, Sam literally swept him off his feet. He finished by kicking the man in the face with both feet.

By now, other Enforcers and guards were running toward the commotion. Sam knew he didn't stand a fighting chance, but his anger drowned out any common sense. He rolled backwards to rise to his feet. But before he could stand, a knee planted itself against his spine and his arm was twisted behind his back.

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his stomach, the concrete cold against his chest. There was a weight on his back, putting pressure on his injured side. He let out a half-yell, half-growl of pained frustration. The taste of copper filled his mouth. Sam realized he'd bitten his tongue when he hit the floor. His chin burned, probably with a fresh scuff.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the man holding him snapped. It was the same voice that told him not to fight earlier.

With an apologetic mumble, the Doper's shoes came into view. He knelt down, the light gleaming off a needle in his hand.

Sam went wild at the sight of it. He struggled, he bucked, but nothing he did could break the iron hold that tightened as he thrashed. His side was on fire and a gray haze settled over his vision, but he couldn't give in. Not now. The man on top of him shifted, using his free forearm to pin Sam's shoulders.

"You've made your point, pal," the man strained. "Just relax. Stop fighting us."

The needle was thrust into Sam's arm, and he knew the battle was lost. He never stood a chance to begin with, but he was human, wasn't he? He had a breaking point. And he could blame it on emotional transference, but the truth was, he was tired. Tired of this life.

So very tired…

Sam blinked as the room grew hazy. The Doper's shoes, the recovering Enforcers, even the crowd beyond the spotlight faded out of focus. As the tension left him, he felt the pressure on his injured side ease and then disappear altogether. His arm slid from his back to the warehouse floor, limp beside him once more.

"If you can't take down one Giver without hurting him, you have no business selling them," he distantly heard.

"We don't sell Givers, sir. We sell their Gifts."

"However you want to spin it, pal." A pause. "Why isn't he out?"

The Doper's footsteps grew closer. His leather shoes strained as he knelt down. A penlight shone into Sam's eyes.

"Uh, well… he seems quite resistant. I can up the dosage if you like."

"Never mind." The man's voice was disgusted. "Just get him in the van. Think you can handle that?"

"Of course, sir."

Fingers snapped. A moment later, hands worked their way under Sam's arms and pulled him up. Head falling back, he was treated to a dizzying view of the warehouse ceiling. As his head lolled forward, he caught another glimpse of the man who'd purchased him. Had it not been so quick, so blurred, he might have sworn he saw concern in the buyer's eyes. But genuine concern was too much to hope for. No buyer showed concern behind closed doors.

His feet dragged behind him as they made their way toward the exit. The tops of his feet were scraped and caked with grime before they reached the door. The hands holding him never loosened their bruising grip, but he couldn't expect anything less after his outburst.

Crisp night air helped rouse him when they stepped outside, though he was shivering in seconds. Still, he managed to lift his head in time to see fellow Givers loaded into a line of vans. Doors slammed as the one before him slid open.

His buyer entered first, squatting on the carpeted floor, arms held out to receive him.

"Don't touch me," Sam tried to say. But all that escaped was a pathetic mumble. He was turned around and tugged backward. When the hollows of his knees hit the edge of the van floor, the grip on his arms constricted even further. He was lowered until hands cradled his shoulders, forearms jostling his head. The starry sky disappeared. A van ceiling took its place.

The buyer behind Sam shuffled backwards. His tethered legs were lifted into the van. Then the door slid shut with ominous finality. The buyer settled him so that his head was on the floor.

Two hollow thumps signaled the driver to get a move on. There were other Givers to distribute after the second round of bidding, after all.

"Just take it easy," the buyer absently murmured as the van lurched forward. He peered down at Sam curiously. Beyond his drug-induced stupor, Sam felt something more than transferred curiosity. He felt… fear wasn't the right word. Caution? Guilt? If he hadn't been doped up, he might've been able to pinpoint it.

"I'm parked at fifth and Jefferson," the buyer suddenly barked. He was talking to the driver, but Sam jerked at his words. A hand absently found his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "I'll be expecting my weapons."

"You'll get them," came the monotone answer. Sam couldn't be sure if the driver was truly that cold, or if the drugs were messing with his head. He was so exhausted-

"Sadistic douchebags."

That woke him up. Sam stared up at the buyer with disbelief.

What does that make you? Who are you?

As if sensing his gaze, the buyer glanced down at him again. "Look, uh, you probably can't understand me through the crap they injected you with, but you're safe. I only need your help. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you."

If Sam had the strength, he would've scoffed. Instead, he was reduced to closing his eyes. It was childish and stubborn, but it was the only card he had left. The van turned, jostling his head to the side. A hand gently picked up his wrist to take his pulse.

Don't touch me. The physical contact introduced an array of emotions that were dizzying in his current state. He couldn't separate one from another. Anticipation or impatience? Concern or fear? Anger or disgust? Get off, get off.

The van slowed, and the buyer lowered his wrist to crawl forward. Sam released a long breath. A weight had been lifted from his chest. He could finally breathe, despite the dull pain in his side. When the door slid open, he felt the van rock as the buyer hopped out. A car door opened and then hands roughly grabbed his ankles, yanking him forward.

"I got it," the buyer snapped.

"Just doing what they pay me for, man."

In a blur of motion, Sam found himself hauled over a beefy shoulder in a fireman's carry. His stomach lurched from the onslaught of agony, vision graying out from lack of oxygen. He couldn't breathe… couldn't…

Sam jolted awake and looked around in confusion. A hand was squeezing his upper arm. The van was gone and he was sitting in the front passenger seat of a car.

"Hey, dude, you with me?" he heard.

Head swimming, Sam could barely make out the features of a man-

Oh. It was still the buyer. Great.

"That wasn't a vision, was it?"

Sam shook his head, immediately regretting it. The world was spinning enough as it was. Moonlit shadows swirled around vaguely familiar shapes until he swallowed to avoid being sick.

"Look, we need to hit the road. We'll stop at a motel when I'm sure we aren't being followed."

Did his eyes keep darting back to Sam's side?

It wasn't until the buyer was guiding his head back that Sam realized he'd been leaning further and further out of the car. That would make it difficult to shut the door.

The car slightly rocked with the motion. A moment later, the man was in the driver's seat.

"I'm Dean," he spoke, turning the key in the ignition. There was a pause, as if he was waiting for a response. "But I guess we can work on the introductions later."

Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head against the passenger window.

Damn straight.

A/N: Buckle your seatbelts, it's going to be a long ride. I hope to post once a week. I'll never post less than twice a month. And, like most authors, I love reviews. Support, constructive criticism, storyline suggestions, anything really.