What Dean had been, it hadn't been weak. He had never been weak, he had been strong. When people had needed him, he was there. Whatever he had been needed for, he could do it. Sure, he had had an attitude and manner to him that some people didn't like, but, damn, he had been his town's superhero. The best part about it had been that they never saw him break down, because he had been smart like that. People, they didn't take well to seeing their leader turn into a sissy.

And people had needed him to be strong. His little brother, Sammy, who grew up and went off to Stanford (he was smart as fuck), had needed him most. But then he had left. Then there had been Jo and Ellen down at the bar who had him pick up odd hours for them. But then they'd died at the jaws of a rabid hound. Neither of them had been able to react fast enough, though Ellen had been killed dragging that damned dog down with her.

Chuck had needed him, once upon a time, to spin ideas off of for his series of books called 'Supernatural'. But then he had just disappeared one day, never to be seen again. Not a note left behind, not one sign of a struggle, and he hadn't taken anything with him. There had been a word document open on his computer and a half-empty glass of scotch next to the keyboard, as if he had intended to come right back.

Adam, the younger half-brother he hadn't even known he had had, was killed in a sicko cannibalistic home invasion with his mother. Dean hadn't known him well, but he'd still been broken when he realized the truth. Big brothers should always protect their little brothers. Always.

Bobby, the man who had practically raised him and Sam like his own, got included in an accident that forced him into a wheelchair. Some months later, he committed suicide. A note on his desk had read: 'To whatever idjit gets to me first,

Nothin' personal. Just thought I'd get to walk around in Heaven… or wherever the hell I'm goin'.

Bobby'

His little brother's fiancé, he had failed her too. She was murdered in her apartment, a victim to a brutal rape and homicide. He knew he had been too far away to actually do anything – them being about three states away – but he had known that it was still his fault.

Big brothers should protect their little brothers. Always.

Sam had disappeared off the map after that, dropping college and everything else without telling anyone what he had been planning to do.

What Dean had been hadn't been weak. He had been… he had been desperate. He had looked around himself and realized that he was a curse. Everyone he ever loved left him in the end. He had been alone. And he had been both frantic to stay that way and to never be alone again.

Then he had stepped into his life, a glorious golden man with swirling tawny eyes and he had driven Dean to his knees with need and hope and so many other emotions.

Dean had been too broken to realize that his tawny eyes had been cruel and hard. "Hello," the man had said when he had come into the bar Dean had taken over for Ellen and Jo, as stated in their will. Just like Bobby had left him his scavenge yard. "My name is Michael." He had looked right through Dean to what his needs had been, like a predator to a weakness, and he had boldly overtaken Dean, destroying his spirit with one swift attack. "And, for as long as I want you, I will never leave you."

~ :: ~

'Ring, ring, ring… Ring, ring, ring…'

Dean limped as fast as he could to catch the phone before it stopped going off. He grimaced with every step he took.

He would have to remember not to piss off Michael while standing at the top of the stairs. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Sadly, his limp made him miss the call by one single tone.

Zachariah's voice came on the messaging machine. "Michael, if you're playing with your little one right now, I beg you to stop. I thought you understood how important tonight was? Ruby has been asking for this, a long time incoming, and if she doesn't get the message now… well, I don't know when we'll next get the chance." He hung up.

Dean didn't question what exactly they were going to do to this 'Ruby' chic. Whatever it was, it would most likely be very unpleasant. He did briefly wonder what she had done to piss off Michael and his gang of self-righteous bast – …

He looked carefully around him before finishing that thought. Michael didn't like it when he insulted his gang. Even when Dean did no more than think about it, he seemed to know.

Luckily, his Master wasn't present.

Maybe he was still sleeping. If that was the case, he would most likely want breakfast ready when he got up.

So Dean got to work on that. His cooking skills hadn't been great before meeting the gang leader. He had lived off of diners and restaurants, so he hadn't thought it important to learn. Like with most things, Michael had taught him otherwise.

Just as he pushed the last sunny-side-up egg onto his Master's plate, the golden-haired figure appeared in the kitchen. Already, he was dressed in misleadingly casual clothes. Dean knew for a fact that they were all brand names, no matter how worn out they appeared. Michael's self-importance wouldn't let him wear anything from the second-hand store or Wal-Mart.

Sometimes, it wasn't such a bad thing. Sometimes, he didn't like Dean dressing from the second-hand store or Wal-Mart either. If that was the case, he took Dean out shopping and Dean could get some gentle treatment. Because Michael didn't hurt him in public.

Michael sniffed the air delicately, eyes sliding in their sockets to pin Dean down where he stood. "You didn't cook the eggs long enough."

The Winchester flinched. Of course he hadn't. To him, they looked perfect – possibly the most perfect thing he had ever cooked. But he wouldn't know, would he? Michael knew best, not him…

He swallowed back the defiance that was always just there in the tension of his shoulders and nodded like the good little bitch he was. Now that he was looking at the eggs, he could see that they were a little soupy… maybe… "Yes…"

"Yes, what?"

"… Yes, Master."

"Don't bother making them again," Michael went on, pulling on his sneakers. Again, they looked deceptively cheap. Again, they cost more money than Dean could make in a night at the bar. "I'm going out." His eyes found Dean again, turning him to cold stone. "Don't leave the house."

He stared down at the eggs. The longer he stared at them, the waterier they got, so, yeah, as it turned out, Michael always was right.

His master took long strides toward him, snatching him by his throat in a suffocating grip and tilting his face upwards. "Don't leave this house," he repeated softly, lips unbearably close to his.

He had to say it. Like a good little soldier, a good little cock-slut. "Yes, Master."

"Yes, Master, what?"

"I won't leave the house, Master."

"When will you be allowed to leave this house, little one?"

"Not till you tell me to, Master."

Michael pressed a brief, hard kiss to Dean's mouth, eyes at half-mast. "Good boy. I'll be back soon, don't worry. Would I ever leave you alone for long?"

No, he wouldn't. The longest Michael had ever left him alone in their two years was nine hours and that had been after Michael had sent him off to bed. Whenever Dean was awake, he was gone at the longest for five hours, sometimes five and a half. Even when Dean was working, whether at Bobby's or Ellen's, Michael would keep him company.

The reminder of Michael's loyalty killed the rebellion he felt in his heart, reminding him that he really had no right to deny the other's abuse. Michael could leave anytime he wanted. But he stayed.

That was more than Dean could have ever asked for.

As his Master left, Dean cleaned up the kitchen and then repaired the steps from his last night's fall. Then he changed the sheets on their bed 'cause there was nothing else better to do and he didn't really like the blankets being so sticky and bloody and – if he had had it in him, he would have gone outside to burn them.

Instead, he threw them in the washer and turned it on scolding hot.

He wasn't allowed out of the house anyway.

~ :: ~

Everyone had always told him that he had a good heart. They said he would do great and wonderful things, things that everyone in the world would remember him for. He would be an inspiration. He would be irreplaceable to planet Earth.

He wondered just how close they would consider their visions to his reality.

In his career, he had saved over one hundred and thirteen lives. He only knew that because his superior, Gabriel Loki, reminded him of it every so often. When he thought of numbers and his job at the same time, the only thing that came to mind was thirty-two.

Thirty-two people had died because he hadn't been fast enough. Smart enough, resourceful enough, strong enough… they died at sea and he would be dragged back into the overseeing helicopter empty handed.

Being part of the Coastal Guard wasn't that great. At one point, he had thought it would be worth it. Dropping college and letting go of his social life, knowing ahead of time that he would have no one… he had mindlessly dropped himself into training and had then thrown himself into the shrieking metal birds of the sky only to cascade into freezing waters. Burning ships, drowning men, overturned rafts, and punctured lifeboats…

All of those horrific images were flashing behind his eyelids as he popped a few more pain meds, just wanting to dull the memories. They were painful, so weren't the meds supposed to help? Numb it, drown it, kill it, just like the sea had done to the thirty-two people who hadn't survived?

He was part of the SAR, 'Search And Rescue'. He fearlessly dove into raging waters and shrill winds, just to save the lives of others. And it sounded heroic and important, like those he saved would always remember him and he would grow to be a folklore god, the thing myths were made of. Except it was nightmarish and, most times, he had to ponder whether or not it was worth it.

Thirty-two… Thirty-two people of which he had had to make the personal decision to leave behind. Some of them hadn't even been dead yet. They had looked at him with dazed, hopeless eyes. Deep in their souls, they had been wishing he would drag them to safety. Sometimes, it wasn't that easy. Choices had to be made. Storms weren't that cooperative to let him save everyone. Neither were the sinking ships.

When he was up in that helicopter looking down, he was an angel to the rescue. The moment he plunged into the water, he was fallen.

And he always fell so damn hard.

He chased down the pills with some hard alcohol, blaming the sting of tears on its strong aroma. He stared at the bulletin board across from him.

There were thirty-two faces on it.

~ :: ~

Michael had been testing him again.

He did that sometimes. He just wanted to make sure that Dean still had what he wanted, which was complete submission to his will.

He kept Dean locked up in their house for three days before he let him out. The Winchester didn't complain about how the sun prickled his cold skin or how it burned his green gaze. He didn't whine about how he couldn't stand being confined for so long.

He had had worse. One time, last year, Michael had tied him down to the bed and left him there for a week. That had been the ugliest week of his life. Why? 'Cause Michael hadn't let him off the mattress for anything, and though he had kept him company as such promised, he had never cared for Dean's needs.

He had starved that week. He became dehydrated and he had lain in his own filth.

So, for the sake of that week, he didn't say a thing as Michael graciously returned his limited freedom to him.

Dean just wanted to open the bar. Maybe he could even work on the Impala back at Bobby's yard. Yeah, it was the same Impala his dad had ridden, but it was Dean's baby now and he wanted to give her a few tune-ups and maybe a new paint job. She'd like that.

Bobby would have approved and Sam would have helped. He wasn't sure what John, his dad, would have thought. He most likely would have been too drunk to even think.

Dean didn't say any of that either. Michael didn't like him having a car, he felt that that was an invitation for Dean to leave anytime he wanted. So they had had to compromise.

Dean got to keep the car, but there was no gas in the tank. A gleaming hunk of beauty that he couldn't even drive. But he'd rather that than have his Master swear him off the Impala entirely.

He took the bar first, flipping over the sign on the door to 'OPEN'. Despite his absence and the strange hour, people weren't too far behind him and they trickled into the tavern. They didn't ask where he had been and he didn't say anything about it.

The Dean who had been strong wasn't with them anymore. And they, so different from what he had once been, weren't going to sacrifice themselves to save him. They all knew something was wrong, it wasn't like Dean could cover up all the bruises or stop wincing at the slightest movements. They couldn't always ignore how he flinched when someone shifted a certain way or when they spoke in a soft, low voice.

They have met Michael, though, and Michael had a way with words that could defeat the most stubborn of minds.

So Dean's scrubbing glasses behind the counter while they're ignoring his shattered being to revel in finally having the bar open again. Some of them even looked accusingly at Dean, like it's his fault that they were denied beer and roughhousing.

Maybe it was. He'd be hard pressed to believe them unless his Master told him directly, though.

He did his job for two hours, three hours, four hours… five hours, six hours…

By the seventh hour, he was shaking uncontrollably. A glass slid from his unsure fingers and splintered into a thousand pieces on the tiled floor. His throat felt too tight, all muscles in his body constricting.

No Michael. No Michael, where was Michael?

Eight hours, nine hours… He was having a panic attack, telling one of the patrons to take over for him behind the bar. It was a small town, he trusted the man to not steal from the register. He knew he'd do the job right.

Dean just wasn't sure of himself, that was all. He was shaking so bad, like he was having a withdrawal, and his body hurt, hurt because of tension and fear and how hard Michael had fucked him that morning and the night before.

He wanted to hide but then, what if Michael came? His Master wouldn't be able to find him.

He finally decided on getting some fresh air out back 'because Michael always came through the back door and no one else ever did. He crouched down on the gravel and he hyperventilated, black tinting his vision. His fingers speared through his cropped brunette hair and he keened a sound awfully like an animal in great distress.

Nine hours, ten hours… the bar was only getting rowdier behind him, more customers filtering in and the counter changing hands a few times.

He was alone. But Michael had said… he had promised…

And then he realized his mistake. He hadn't made Michael want him enough. If Michael wanted him, he'd stay. He would never leave, not unless Dean did something to kill his interest.

Maybe… Maybe Michael had been testing him earlier, when he had let Dean outside. Like a dog. He had let him outside and now he was waiting to see if he'd come back home.

…

He needed to close the bar anyway.

Author's Notes: This will be a multi-chapter story. Expect it to get more fucked up and even stranger.