Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Warnings: Some people get a little handsy, but nothing too bad. I prefer to not write sexually explicit material.
"Highest bidder?" Sam repeated. "What the hell? You can't sell me like property!"
The man smirked, the image of someone who knew they've already won. "Actually, we can. Been doing it awhile. Travel around the country, grab some kids that look like they can fetch a decent price—or are trying to play vigilante and catch us, in your case—then send them away to whoever wants them the most and is willing to pay."
Sam took deep breaths to keep his rising panic under control. If they sold him before Dean found him…
It was no longer a mystery why the kids who disappeared were never seen again. They were sold and sent away, the same fate awaited Sam if he couldn't figure out a plan.
The man laughed and left the room, the automatic door sliding back into place and a renewed sense of urgency filled Sam.
He got up and moved to the window, pulling on the bars keeping it blocked off. It might have been easier with his hands freed, but the bars were not rusted enough for their structural integrity to be compromised.
He checked and double checked the little bathroom, but these guys knew what could be within reach of their prisoners and what couldn't.
They were experienced, and that unsettled him more than any supernatural creature could. At least the behavior of the usual things he hunted could be excused by the fact that they were creatures driven by instinct and emotion. They wanted to survive, or to hurt others because they themselves had been hurt.
These were humans. They didn't have to kidnap and sell children, everything in their instinct was supposed to mark children as things to protect, not ruin.
He inspected every inch of both rooms twice before settling back on the bed that became more and more uncomfortable each time he laid down, feeling more helpless than ever before in his life.
John never trained them for something like this. What the hell was he supposed to do?
Dean lost Sam in a mall once, when the kid couldn't have been more than seven. Dean was just supposed to take him to the arcade to kill a few hours while John did a little investigating. One minute, Sam was trailing right alongside of him. The next, he wasn't. At the time, Dean thought that hour had been the worst of his life, but nothing could compare to how he's felt for the last forty-eight hours (forty-seven hours, twenty-three minutes, and fifty-six seconds, if he wanted to be exact).
They stayed at the same motel as Caleb, only a room away. One room, not two. They only needed two beds and that constant reminder didn't make it any easier on Dean. Hell, nothing could make Sam being gone—because of his mistakes—any easier.
John opened the door and stepped in. "Go to sleep, Dean," he said.
"Did you guys find anything?" he asked. He had been left in the room while his dad and Caleb tried to find a lead on Sam. He wondered if that's how Sam felt when Dean left him behind and hated that it took something like this for him to start understanding his little brother.
"No. We didn't."
"Then what do we do next?"
John looked over at him, but Dean couldn't find much more than exhaustion in his eyes. "Find a way to become bidders. See if we can find Sam like that."
Dean felt sick again. "We have to pretend to be… bidders? You want us to act like we want to buy a human child?"
John shrugged. "Caleb agreed to help out with it. Do you have a better plan?"
"Do you even know how to contact them for that?" Dean asked. "Jesus, they're just kids, Dad. We'll have to see what the bastards do to them."
"Are you afraid to see what they did to Sam because of your actions?" John demanded, each word strained with anger and worry. A break in his already unstable temper. "I might lose a son."
Dean bit his tongue and held back his words. He was afraid to see what happened to Sam, but he knew that they needed to find Sam at all costs because losing him was never an option. If John lost a son, it meant that Dean lost a brother.
He wondered for the hundredth time that night what possessed him to go to the bar and leave Sam behind. How could he have been so stupid? Why couldn't he have listened to John in the first place and left the 'case' alone?
Now he was sitting in a motel room that didn't smell of mold and rot, while Sam was out of reach and in conditions they could only guess at.
Dean promised himself that he would make all of this up to Sam once they found him, but where was he even supposed to start?
"Go to sleep, Dean," John repeated, back to sounded plain exhausted. "We're getting up early tomorrow. It's going to be a long day."
"Yes, sir."
Dean laid in the darkness and knew that sleep would once again elude him. It wasn't right for him to be safe and comfortable while Sam wasn't.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. If John heard, fine. If not, then maybe Sam would. Wherever he was. "I'm so, so sorry."
"An apology won't fix anything."
And didn't Dean know that.
Night was the hardest in that place, Sam learned. It wasn't because the building was haunted, in fact, he could've dealt with that just fine. It wasn't because of the darkness, he hadn't been afraid of the dark for years now. It wasn't because of anything in particular happening to him. It wasn't because of the chill that crept into the air with the sunset and the lack of warmth that the thin blankets lent.
It was the muffled cries that made it through the walls and into his room. The cries of the other children held there against their will, alone and afraid. Probably confused and uncertain about whether or not they'll ever see their families again.
Sam would be lying if he said he never shared some of those same thoughts.
He read once that isolation can cause a person to go insane, but it takes time. If they wanted to expedite the process, he would recommend adding the faint cries of children to the isolation because he felt ready to break with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to help them.
He wasn't cut out to be the hero like Dean was. He couldn't save himself, let alone others.
He wondered what Dean was doing. If he told John. If they were looking for him (they had to be, right?).
The only plan left to him was to thwart off potential bidders so he could stay in the same place long enough for his dad and Dean to find him.
They wanted him to be an animal with this collar? Fine, he would be an animal. He just wouldn't be the obedient pet they tried to condition him into.
If that back-fired, then he hoped that his family could at least make it in time to save some of the other kids locked away there.
John didn't need to wake Dean in the morning; he was already up. He had been up for hours, having spent the night restless and wrecked from tormenting what-ifs and guilt.
Only to be left in the truck while John and Caleb took point in this hunt and tried to talk their way into the human traffickers' circle as potential buyers. If he hadn't shown his face around where they hunted the children, Dean could have been involved. But they had to know him if they targeted Sam. They would have seen them together.
The feeling of being watched when he was alone was no longer the comfort he thought it had been when he left Sam alone. They stalked him and made sure their prey was vulnerable for as long as they needed to catch him.
Not being able to help was just another reminder that this was his fault and his punishment. His father knew what would hurt him the most without ever resorting to physical blows. He made Dean feel more like a toddler in constant need of supervision than the eighteen-year-old seasoned hunter he was, and the restrictions went against every bit of his need-to-be-free personality.
It felt like years passed by the time John and Caleb climbed back into the truck.
"Anything?" Dean asked.
Caleb shrugged. "Just being redirected to someone else, where I bet we'll be redirected again. Scum like these guys like to keep people running in circles. Try to weed out police and protect their hide."
"But we'll get through it eventually, right? We'll get to where Sam is?" Dean asked.
"Gotta, don't we?" Caleb asked. He shot a grin over his shoulder at Dean. "Someone has to teach these bastards that you don't go snatching children off the street and selling them like property, and I'm very willing to be that someone. Course I'd have to beat Johnny to it."
"They took my boy," John said. "That can't be forgiven."
Dean wanted to agree to that, but kept silent because he was the other thing that couldn't be forgiven and it was going to eat him alive. He joked that Sam had some freaky issue with always feeling guilty over things that weren't his fault or that he couldn't control. But if anyone in the family had guilt issues, Dean would put money on himself.
Caleb was right in that the next guy sent them to speak with yet another guy on the other side of town.
Who sent them to yet another guy.
And by the time they pulled into a diner parking lot for dinner, they weren't much closer to finding Sam than they had been that morning.
Caleb told them something like this would take patience, but neither John nor Dean were known to be patient men.
Dean didn't really taste the food placed in front of him, only wondered if Sam was being fed at all. And those thoughts were better to focus on than the dead silence at their little table (clink of silverware excluded). What were they supposed to say to each other? They were trying, but since John had last night, no one else wanted to bring up the possibility that they might not find Sam before he's shipped away.
"Maybe we're just not looking the part," Caleb said, he looked between Dean and John from across the little table. "I mean, the guys we talked to today had one of two looks. One: they were trying to hide their identity. The shady type. Two: they were confident and didn't bother. Suits and all, like they felt there was no way they could be busted."
Dean knew how far confidence could take a person in their lifestyle, but the idea of playing the part of someone who wanted to buy a human slave (a child, no less) didn't sit right with him. But if it was the best way to get Sam back as soon as possible, he'd swallow the rising bile and do it. At this rate, his esophagus was going to be burnt through with how often he felt acidic stomach juices trying to climb it.
"So you're saying you want to play dress-up with us, Caleb?" Dean asked with a shit-eating grin—that quickly faded from his father's withering glare.
"If you think that will work, Caleb," John said. "I'm willing to try anything at this point."
Sam didn't have much to do besides lay around and pace. The door opened regularly, but only long enough to toss in a tray of food (cold slop) and then collect it later. Since they told him that he'd be shipped to the highest bidder, he hadn't been in extended contact with anyone.
Until the man with his knee in a brace struggled into the room on his crutches. Harold, the other man called him.
Sam couldn't bite back his laugh, which earned him a few seconds of muscle-quacking electricity sent through his body.
Harold grinned at him as he caught his breath, now able to breathe again. "Not so tough now, are you?" he asked.
"Toss the remote for the collar and we'll see how tough I am," Sam said.
Harold reeked of sweat and body odor, like he had run a mile in the middle of a summer day before he got there. Each breath he took was more of a raspy gasp. But Sam imagined that with his out-of-shape body, walking on the crutches probably felt like running miles in the heat of summer.
Sam was tossed a few towels and a set of clothes.
"Get cleaned up," Harold said. "Gotta look presentable when bidders come through."
Sam was about to refuse, throw the clothes to the ground, and rebel, but Harold must have seen his intentions because he added, "Get cleaned up, or I'll call in some of the other guys and they will gladly clean you up."
Harold stepped closer (or hobbled, really) only to pull a knife out and cut the zip-tie around his wrists. He didn't think of it, but it'd be impossible to change clothes with his hands bound.
Sam felt the touch of phantom hands on his body, rough and violating. He shook his head and made his way to the bathroom, shutting the door to create a barrier between himself and Harold, but he still felt like there were eyes on him.
Even the shower curtain keeping him separated from the rest of the bathroom couldn't shake the feeling. The paranoia, and he wondered if he was starting to lose his mind there.
They gave him some shorts and a sleeveless shirt, confusing but making him infinitely glad that he wasn't a girl because he could only guess at what they received for clothing. He washed up and dressed, if only to avoid strangers forcibly doing the tasks for him.
He didn't have a mirror to look in, but now he was almost glad for that. He didn't want to see how he looked as their property, groomed and waiting to be sold.
Running a hand through the length of his hair, he wondered if they would be cutting that off. Taking another piece of his identity away, right after it was starting to grow back after he cut it from losing a bet with Dean.
Dean knew how much he hated having his hair short, and if he made it out of this and back to Dean, he wasn't going to let it be cut short ever again.
When he left the bathroom, he was alone in his room again. Harold must have left once he was sure that his orders were being followed. It was a simple fact, but brought both relief and fear with it. Harold forced him to become presentable, but to whom was he being presented? If they found a buyer for him already and Dean was still looking…
He could be shipped anywhere in the world and even Dean would have trouble following a trail like that.
He didn't know how long he spent pacing, looking at the automatic door locking him in every minute or so. But each stride across the tiles, counting how many steps it took to get from one side to the other, escalated his anxiety as his mind cycled through ever-worse possibilities about what comes next.
Then he heard voices grow louder as they moved down the hallway outside, and his door slid open.
Dean adjusted his hat again, hating the outfit his father and Caleb picked out for him, but it was the only way he could help in the hunt. They gave him baggy clothes, including a hooded sweatshirt that he had to pull over a baseball hat, and some sunglasses. One look in the mirror and he thought that he would be better suited to go record the next hit rap album, with the addition of a few chain necklaces, rather than go talk to human traffickers.
He spent the night researching what he could about trafficking, but each article only reinforced the weight of the guilt settled in his stomach. And if he went to bed, only nightmares about a bloody, empty motel room awaited him.
So he drank more coffee than his father and Caleb combined and trekked through the city with them. If the situation were not so serious, he would have had a field day making fun of their outfits as well. But he couldn't tap into that humor anymore without Sam around. Without knowing that Sam was safe.
Their first stop was tucked away through a series of back alleys, and Dean expected nothing less. He watched where he stepped, careful to avoid the abandoned needles and shards of glass on the cracked concrete ground.
Caleb slipped money into the hands of someone leaning against the corner of a brick building and they were waved through a door nearby with a knowing nod. Dean wanted to beat the man unconscious for nodding like he knew that they were just another set of scumbags that he directed to the right place to buy themselves some sort of human pet. Beat him for having anything to do with the operation. Didn't he care that he was knowingly ruining lives?
Dean followed them into the building, but it wasn't much of a sight. It smelled like rotted wood and the creaks that resounded from each step taken made it seem like a matter of time before the entire thing gave way to gravity.
There's a room at the end of a labyrinth of hallways (and didn't these guys just freaking love mazes in their buildings?) with a table. Three chairs on one side and one, occupied, on the other.
They took their seats and the man on the other side offered each of them a drink. Dean accepted it, but it was the first time in a long time that he didn't care to feel the slight burn of liquor and the buzz it brought.
"So, you're interested in purchasing some of our goods?" he asked.
Dean's hands clenched into fists under the table as he tried his best to not let the man see his internal rage. How dare he refer to people, living breathing people as if they were no more than objects.
"We are," John said. "We do some dangerous work. The kind that no one would willingly sign up for."
Stick to the truth as much as they could was the plan. They wanted someone strong enough to handle their line of work, and Sam might be skinny, but he wasn't weak. He fit what they were looking for. He was what they were looking for.
The man looked surprised at that request, one eyebrow raised up. "We don't often get labor requests," he said. "We do, of course, get them now and again. However, most of our patrons are more interested in pleasure, rather than business."
Dean clenched his jaw. He didn't understand how John and Caleb could keep their expressions so neutral after a comment like that. If they didn't hurry, it could be Sam being shipped away for some pervert's pleasure.
"We aren't interested in that kind of pleasure," John said, tone as even as could be.
Dean knew he had to be feeling the same rage, but controlled it so expertly.
"We have an auction coming up soon. You can see if what you're looking for shows up there," the man said.
"How soon? We're on a bit of a time table," Caleb said, looking a little pale, but still holding it together.
"Two weeks until the next one."
"Two weeks?" John echoed. "Can't we get a look first? See if it's worth waiting that long to show up?"
The man shook his head. "You'll have to forgive me for not trusting new customers. Sneak peaks are only available to repeat buyers. Ones I know aren't going to sell me out or make a mess for me to clean up."
"You can't make an exception?" John asked.
"Afraid not," he said. "Those are the rules. Play by them, or find somewhere else to do your shopping."
"Fine," John ground out. "Where is the auction and when?"
The man held up his hand in the 'stop' gesture. "That's not how it works. Leave me a way to get in contact with you fine fellows, and you'll know what you need to know when you need to know it."
Dean could see the tension filling John as he white-knuckle gripped the pen and wrote down his phone number. It was a miracle that the pen didn't snap and spill black ink across the table. John was the man who was always in charge of the knowledge, telling them things only on a need to know basis. To have that turned on him must have been eating him from the inside out.
If this didn't work out, an awful lot of people were going to have a very angry John Winchester to deal with.
They made it back to the motel in silence, but John left immediately to find a bar. Dean tried to take his mind off of everything with some mind-numbing television, but some thoughts just couldn't be numbed. Especially when one of those thoughts was that he would have to wait two weeks for even a chance at seeing Sam again.
Harold wasn't one of the men who stepped through his door, but one was the man who first used the shock collar on him. Two other men trailed behind him. Men that he had never seen before.
"Careful here, gentleman," he said. "This one's a fighter."
The new men shared a look that Sam couldn't quite read before their attention fell back onto him.
"You have ways to tame him?" one asked.
Sam felt the all-too-familiar jolt of electricity send him to the ground in convulsions, lasting much longer than earlier when Harold used it.
He was still trying to replenish his lungs with air when he felt hands on him. When he tried to squirm, another set of hands held him down and he felt a new zip-tie binding his hands, biting into the skin of his wrists.
"We have ways to tame him," the man said, "but he still fights with all he has."
"He's not bad," one man said.
"He's certainly got a pretty mouth," the other man said.
Sam felt his jaw pried open and fingers enter his mouth, feeling along his teeth. They tasted foul, and Sam bit down as hard as he could on them. Blood dripped into his mouth and it was the most he could do to hope that it wasn't diseased.
It took a knock to Sam's head, but the man managed to get his fingers free and yelled, "He bit me!"
Sam grinned, showing them his bloodied teeth.
"He's an animal!"
Sam watched one of the men escort the bloody fingered man out of the room before returning, and slowly sat up. The room spun and he added another head injury to his list.
"He's right, Jerry," the man who returned said. "This kid is an animal."
"He's still new," Jerry said. "Haven't had enough time to break him yet is all."
"No one around here is gonna want a kid like this," the man said. "The kid has the looks, I'm not saying that he wouldn't fetch plenty of costumers. But I can't have the risk of him physically hurting my clientele."
"He'll be subdued by the time the auction is held," Jerry insisted.
"Maybe, but it might be better shipping him off to the labor auctions. I imagine Old Mr. Rand and the like would be willing to have a bid war over him."
"You think?"
"Yeah, but getting him to their auction is going to be a chore."
Jerry snorted. "No kidding. That's a couple days of driving. And with a kid this feisty?"
"That's just my advice, Jerry," the man said. "It really isn't my business, but you'll get a great deal more money if you move him there. They can never seem to keep their kids alive long, so they always need a new one who looks fit enough to do the job."
Sam had to lay back down, if only to stop the nauseating spins of the room and ease his throbbing head. He heard the conversation, but it wasn't quite making sense in his head. They already had him here, why would they move him to be sold?
"No, you're right. If I want the most money out of the pain this kid is causing, I'll have to take him to the buyers who want a kid with a little spunk."
The man gave Jerry a few pats on the shoulder and said, "Good luck. Let me know next time you get a new boy since this one didn't work out."
Jerry nodded and knelt next to Sam after the man left. He held Sam's jaw in his hand and raised his head to meet his eyes.
"Better shape up, kid," he said. "You could've gotten sold into something kind of cushy. Unpleasant, sure. But you'd live. Looks like you're headed to the guys who don't care about your health as long as you do the job asked of you. They'll work you to death."
Sam was left alone on the floor, but he didn't have the energy to pull himself onto the bed. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the cool tiles, wishing that they would swallow him before Jerry had the chance to take him away. Farther from his family.
He still felt the hands on him to hold him down and inspect him. He still felt fingers probing his mouth and could taste the blood. He wanted Dean to burst through the door and find him because he wasn't sure how much fight he had left, but at the same time he didn't want Dean to see him like this.
He just wanted to sleep, but he doubted that even that would be peaceful.
Author's Note: Sam is doubting himself and running out of fight. Dean, John, and Caleb are simply miserable. Fun times all around. As for Sam's mouth being inspected, well, ask and ye shall receive.
Fun facts: Prior to editing, Dean accidentally had multiple personalities. The clothes given to Sam changed about four times. John ended up going to the bar, he didn't in the first draft.
This chapter is kind of a bridge, but I hope it wasn't boring. Leave a review and let me know your thoughts!
Thank you to all of those who review, follow, favorite, and simply read!
