Sam huddled into himself, not only because he was so cold in his just about completely naked state, but also to try and make himself invisible in the back of the disgusting pen.

So far it hadn't worked: he had been pulled around by the chain at his neck at the hands of the auction-men at the request of viewers, forcing him to either crawl on his knees or stand as indicated. He was exhausted. And starving. And no matter how many of these things had he been through, he still felt the humiliation of being a nothing. A nobody.

A slave.

He had always been one: he didn't remember being anything but. He had never known anyone as family, or if he had a last name…or even if the name Sam had been given to him by his birth mother at all, or just his first long forgotten owner.

And he had had many of those. Most violent and abusive and sadistic: in fact… all of them had been, it seemed… since Mistress Ruby.

Sam had loved belonging to her. And he had stupidly dared to think that she had cared for him. She had certainly encouraged him, since he had been brought for her as an eighteenth birthday present by her friends, to think of himself as perhaps worth more than, with hindsight, he ever should have.

Before being hers, he had just been a boy growing up as an unpaid servant on his then owner's small-holding; learning simple basic skills such as cooking and cleaning or first-aid; running errands and fetching groceries; serving at the table; laughing in the kitchen with the few other slaves; feeling safe in his bed at night. Ignored as an individual, but accepted as a useful part of the household. Treated fairly, he realised too belatedly.

Then the daughter of a visiting friend of the family had taken notice and seen the potential in him, and so he had come into her best friend Mistress Ruby's ecstatic hands, to serve as a naïve, uneducated in every respect, personal slave.

During his nearly two years of life with her, his whole existence, his whole reason for belonging to her had been focused, with her encouragement, on taking care of himself physically; on working out and exercising constantly to keep himself up to her exacting standards; to stand tall behind her wherever she went, and with her influence he had steadily matured into an imposing presence that towered protectively always one step behind her tiny frame: the perfect accessory for the latest trend of flaunting wealth via the means of a well-fed, cossetted slave.

And she had taught him how to be a good and considerate lover, and that sex could be really good. Really good. Yes, Sam had really loved belonging to his tiny, dark-haired beauty of a mistress. He just couldn't believe how lucky he was: surely no slave had ever been so lucky. His life was perfect.

Until her attention had been transferred to an extremely wealthy young man who did not want, in any way, to be overshadowed by a mere slave. Especially once they had gotten engaged. The platinum and diamond ring went on her finger, and the cruel metal collar and chains went back around Sam's neck as he was forced to the nearest auctions and sold on the very next day.

And now he realised that all the effort she had encouraged him to do, working hard in her private gym every day, building up his body for her pleasure, came with a disastrous price. At first he had stood tall in the auctions, encouraging the viewers to notice his sheer size, in both his height and the span across his ripped torso, sure that he would find another owner like she had been, one who would be proud to show him off as a trophy.

But then he slowly… far too slowly… began to realise that that fad was already over: the next one in vogue was to be ever more miniature dogs carried around in baskets. And instead, his strength and impressive form now not only got him noticed as someone who could be worked hard, for far longer than was humane… so much that he had physically collapsed more than once with exhaustion… but also as someone that owners, sometimes women but mostly men, bought because they saw him as a challenge.

For his size and body meant that here was someone to prove themselves as masters and mistresses of. To dominate, even if it meant Sam were tied down and whipped to within an inch of consciousness. To break because it made them feel powerful to watch him sobbing and begging for it to end.

To abuse, just because they could.

To rape, until even to Sam, that atrocity now seemed normal.

And, once they had broken their latest 'plaything', each in turn had gotten bored with him and so Sam had found himself yet again back in the auction pens, waiting to be sold again. And again. And again.

By now he was under no illusion that his life would ever be anything but as it was now.

At somewhere around thirty years old… getting almost too old as a slave to be of much use to a buyer: the expected life span he had left simply wasn't worth paying serious money any more… he was still strong and firm through hard, enforced work, although now seriously mal-nourished and lacking enough weight to be healthy. And although the majority of his owners had left his face alone, his lack of clothing meant that potential buyers could clearly see the scars that now covered him: from numerous cigarette burns, to a couple of deformed fingers from them being broken deliberately, to slicing wounds from blades, and whips, and worse…

And so he huddled into himself at the back of this latest pen, hoping that no one would look at him, but also aware that, if nobody did, then there might be an even worse fate yet to come. For he would end up where all the dregs of slaves ended up… in the mines or the factories… for the last few weeks or months of their lives. And in some ways, in fact a lot of ways: Sam would welcome that.

Just for it to all finally be over.

Slowly Sam became aware that someone was watching him where he was slumped. Time, and too-many painful consequences, had taught him that it was ill-advisable to look directly at a would-be owner, but… he really did not like being watched! Eventually he couldn't resist peeking from beneath his shoulder-length straggling locks…

To see a man standing leaning calmly on the rail that surrounded the dirty pen, studying him with as seemingly little interest as he would have had in a cockroach. But at the same time, Sam somehow felt sure that nothing about him was being missed.

The man was probably about fifty years old, from the country rather than a city by his clothing: tough, used denims, layered shirts, workman's steel toe-capped boots, baseball cap; stocky figure; groomed moustache and beard; small but kind eyes.

Sam tried to keep quiet, tried to ignore his possible would-be new owner, but the feeling of resentment grew inside him. He wanted him to go away; he wanted him to at least say something. He wanted… to know what the hell he was doing.

Eventually, even though Sam was inwardly quaking as his own audacity…and probable stupidity… he had to break the silence. Because one of them had to. "Enjoying the view?"

The words were muttered, trying to contain the underlying snarl that he really wanted to use. But he didn't dare turn his head to see the reaction, and despite himself, he braced against a possible blow landing on his bare skin.

He was surprised therefore to hear a snort of definite amusement. The sound caused him to look around and up to meet the amused eyes of his observer. "I thought so."

Sam could only stare at him: what had he thought? But then the man was leaning over the rail a little so he could talk without them being overheard.

"You look like you've been through a lot. But there's still a stubborn streak in ya: that's good, it ain't been beaten out. Not fully. I need stubborn. I need bloody-mindedness. I think that might be you."

"What?"

The man sighed: his eyes turned sad. "My… friend and his son. Well, the boy's been more of a son to me than he ever was to John: the bastard thought of him as a soldier, never gave him the slightest bit of love, but Dean loved him. He'd have done anything for his dad, given anything… did give everything.

Anyway… they were in a smash. Truck deliberately took them out. They reckon John was killed instantly. Dean was thrown through the window, broke his back. But he still managed to drag himself to try and get his dad out. The car caught fire but he wouldn't give up trying. They had to physically pull him away but he was already pretty badly burnt…and he watched his old man go up in flames."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam knew he should feel sorry, but, hell: he had his own problems! And at least this Dean had had a family. And was free!

"Because he's suffering." The older man's voice gave away more than just his pain: there was genuine and deep love there as well. "His ma died that way as well, when he was a kid. He saw that as well. He's having nightmares every night, though he won't admit it. He barely sleeps. Flashbacks from the past; from the present; from… the rest of it.

I made him come and stay with me, but he hates it. He hates me having to help him; he hates being how he is; he's grieving; he's losing control. If there's any drink around, he's drowning himself in it. I'm worried one day he's going to just end it all. And he deserves better than that. If you knew him, you'd understand: he deserves better."

"And?" Sam couldn't contain the snarkyness in his voice: was this old man kidding him? What did he want?

He didn't realise he had spoken that last aloud.

"It's not what I want: it's what he needs!" The tone in the man's voice tightened just a little and Sam straightened up where he sat instinctively. "I don't hold with slavery, never have. Despise the very thought of it. Never thought I'd be here…but."

"But?" The younger man made sure to sound respectful this time: there was something about this man that had suddenly made him decide that it would be better not to get him angry.

"But." The steel-blue eyes stared down at him. "I can't watch Dean twenty-four seven. I need help. He needs help. He needs someone to push against, to get angry at. Someone to listen. Someone to be there for him, whether he wants them there or not. And as much as I'm trying, it's not working.

And I can't afford to pay for professional help, but it came to me that I could afford a slave."

Now Sam was listening.

"I've been watching you: you've certainly been through a lot yourself, I can see that. And yet… I knew when I saw you…there's anger there. Determination. Defiance. That's good.

Dean needs defiance. He needs arguing with and ordering around! He might even need beating-down occasionally, some sense being knocked back into him! What he don't need is prissying around…

So, boy. I'm thinking about buying you. Or trying to. But if I do, then you'll have to be prepared for him to shout at you, perhaps throw things at you: he might even strike out at you occasionally, I can't guarantee that he won't. He's angry and hurting and… he loved his damn dad just so damned much…

But I can guarantee that mostly you'll be treated well. You'll have decent food, somewhere safe to live. And, if you can get through to Dean, then you'll find that he's someone that would never let anyone ever hurt you again: seriously, he'd move heaven and hell to protect you. You have no idea!

So, I just want to know if you're interested. Or if I'm just wasting my time and money by looking at you."

"You're…" Sam was incredulous. Surely he was hearing this wrong? "You're giving me the choice? If I want to come with you or not?" He stared up at the man with disbelief.

"Well, as long as I can afford you as well. I have no idea what slaves cost. But, if I bid… would you be interested?"

The eyes met Sam's straight on without hesitation, and for some reason, the slave believed what he had just said. After all… why would the man lie? And why ask Sam at all? He would always just do what he was told anyway, he had to: he was only a slave…. Just a nothing.

But he was being given the choice.

And somehow that meant more to Sam that he had ever realised it could.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Please. I'll watch him for you. I do anything you want. Please…" He knew he was begging, but that was nothing new. "Please."

"Okay, boy. Let's just hope you don't go too expensive." And the man was straightening up and turning away from the rails. Then he momentarily looked back: "It might help if you can… make yourself as unappealing as possible to everyone else…"

And then he had gone.

Sam blinked a bit and tried to consider what he could have meant. Then…

He had been put in one of the pens at the back: one that had obviously been used to previously hold animals in for the alternate week's livestock auctions. There had been a definite aroma both in the air and from the straw in the far corner, not helped at all by the hot weather that came with the season, that he had been determined to try and stay well clear of.

But now he deliberately moved towards it, kneeling there to try and get the disgusting scent on him, grimacing a little as he picked a few stalks up in his left hand and started to rub them against his upper body, while hoping that he had no open sores anywhere at the moment that might become infected.

But… he had definitely already done far worse and far more vomit-inducing things in his life. And as he rubbed his long limbs against the smeared straw, Sam found himself hoping… praying… that the man might be actually telling him the truth.

That he might, for the first time in a long time, simply be safe. That was all he wanted.

Just to be safe.

Bobby had already registered as a buyer when he had arrived, but had nearly reconsidered his decision to be there, having been disheartened on seeing the state of most of the slaves at the auction: really, the term 'living-dead' was a misnomer. Most of them could only be classed as the dead-living! Was this really what a so-called sophisticated society thought of as acceptable?

Dean was going to be so angry at him for doing this.

But right now, Bobby would take that anger if it meant giving the boy something to focus on besides his own grief and self-loathing. He had even nearly decided to just buy someone, anyone, and hope they might become some sort of pet for his surrogate son! At least he would have the dubious satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten at least one slave away of what seemed to be a truly terrible existence…

Really, Bobby found himself wondering after wandering around the viewing pens: which ones, human beings or the supernatural creatures that he hunted, were the real monsters?

But there was something about that young man at the rear of the pens. Something that, even though he had hidden his face and didn't seem to even dare meet the eye of anyone, had caught Bobby's attention. He wanted to try and help him.

And if it meant that he could help Dean at the same time, then that would be a win.

Again he mentally ran through how much cash he knew he had in his pockets: he had no idea of the price of slaves. All he could do was hope that he could afford the one he wanted. If not he would just have to get what he could.

He had to control his smirk when the auction finally began and 'his' slave was led into the ring, dragged along by the heavy chains attached to that cold-looking heavy collar. Now the lad was standing up, Bobby could see all the scars that covered him, and he felt intense fury that anyone could treat another human being in this way. And he could see how thin he was: he might have been muscled and wiry, but there were too many prominent bones. And for god's sake, they could have let him have some clothes other than those old and very thin boxers, and probably worn-through sneakers!

But he knew he had picked correctly when the auctioneers couldn't help but wrinkle their noses and take a step away as the new-acquired aroma of the slave wafted over them. As did many of the bidders at the front of the crowd. Bobby didn't have to smell it himself to know that his hint had been picked up and acted upon: he had been right, there was an intelligence and speed of thought about this young man that was just begging to be nurtured. And he was holding himself in a hunched stance, and had an obvious 'long-term' limp that Bobby hoped had also just been invented.

Good lad.

All Bobby could do now was hope that he could afford him.

And hope that Dean didn't kill him when he returned to his house with a slave, because he knew his boy's opinion about them as well..

But to his relief, his chosen lot turned out to be a lot less expensive than he had been dreading: most of the other buyers having definitely been put off by the unappealing appearance in the auction ring, the only exceptions being a couple of local farmers who luckily didn't want to spend too much either. He hurried to go and pay for the young man so they could be on their way home: he was sure that his new purchase would be just as anxious as he himself was to get out of there.

And the boy desperately needed clothes, food and a good soak in a bath. Although probably not in that order. Which was another good reason for not hanging around the auction pens.

But mostly…

Bobby was desperate to get back because of the underlying fear that had been present at the back of his mind ever since he had left his house that morning… and indeed every morning for the last couple of months… that, in his absence, Dean might have chosen this day…

… as the day that he simply gave up on being alive.