Chapter Text
Chapter 1
John Winchester was a simple man with only a few things owned to his name. All he had was a ‘67 Chevy Impala, his pride and joy, a duffel bag's worth of clothing, and a trunk full of weapons.
And now a slave.
They say that in death, your guilt and sins is measured against the weight of a feather. Even the slightest weight tips the scale, dooming your soul to hell. If that truly was the case, then the scale of John Winchester was nothing but a clear indicator of where he would end up.
John was barraging down a road of revenge, too far into the path to get himself off and too deep into dragging his only son, Dean, down with him. John had himself taped down onto the railroad and, before the violence of the hunting world killed him, he taped Dean down too and left him to know nothing else.
Somewhere in John’s blackened heart he felt bad for what he was doing to Dean, but those feelings were easily washed away with each glass of liquor.
The night was somber and dark, the light of the moon clouded by scant wisps of clouds. The air was crisp and chilly, pricking against his skin and triggering John’s sense of alertness even more.
The man was late to the meeting, leaving John standing there for a quarter past the designated time before the tow truck trudged along the dirt path, revealing itself under the low light of the lamp.
“You're late,” John barked as the silhouette of the man finally appeared, a smaller, trembling figure hiding behind him.
Asher, the man he was trading with, ignored the comment and simply responded by roughly grabbing the merchandise behind him and shoving it forward.
A young child fell face first into the ground, his cuffed hands, wretched tightly behind his back, not given enough slack to catch himself.
“Had some business to take care of,” Asher said, nudging the boy on the ground with his feet. Still trembling, the boy hastily brought himself to his knees, his head lowered and his hair covering the rest of his face. “You bought the money?”
“This the psychic?” John shot back. But, yes, indeed, John Winchester did have the pile of money previously agreed on, laying ready in the backseat of his Impala.
“Yes sir,” Asher drawled. “He’s good. Got the rules down. You don’t gotta worry about this one. He knows his place. He also gets visions pretty frequently, enough to not disappoint you. Information is always accurate too, enough to get you a good headstart on the case. ”
“And the yellow eyed demon?”
Asher wasn’t the one that responded this time.
“Yes master, yes sir, I get visions of the yellow eyed demon. I can be of value, sir.”
The sharp sound of a slap rang out, cutting through the silence.
“This one just reported to me seeing a yellow-eyed demon in his vision the other day. I knew you were out to get it ‘cause of what happened to your wife, so I thought it would only be fair to share the wealth.”
“I’ll get you the money,” was all John said, disregarding the abuse and the harsh “Speak only when spoken to, freak!”. He disregarded the flinch and the redness now building on the boy’s already too pale face.
An exchange was done quickly and Asher left soon after that, leaving behind a splatter of mud and tracks.
And leaving alone John Winchester and his new slave.
“Get up,” John snapped, ordering the young boy to quickly scramble onto his feet. His clothes were threadbare and filthy, a thin coating of grime and dirt covering his skin. Kneeling on the ground didn’t help. The boy kept his head down submissively.
His entire figure was jittering, a clear sign of how terrified the boy was.
The monster.
It was harder to remember now that John was staring at the psychic who looked very much like Dean did when he was younger.
(or what Sammy would have looked like had he gotten older)
“What do I call you, boy?” John asked, his voice harsh and cruel, but threatening to break at the sight of the kid. It was only just a kid.
“You may call me whatever you wish, master,” the boy murmured, completely pliant and docile to whatever John may have had planned for him. The boy looked like he wouldn’t even scream when tortured if his master ordered him not to.
“Cut the crap, boy, what’s your name?”
“My old master called me Ben, sir,” the boy responded. And, after a pause, “But you may call me whatever you wish, sir.”
“Ben it is, boy, get in the car.”
The boy got in the car, shuffling his feet behind John, standing close enough so his presence was heard yet far enough to make his role as a slave evident.
“I have a son,” John began to say. “His name is Dean. You will listen to his orders as well, understand? Obey both him and me.”
“Yes master, I understand,” Ben mumbled.
The submissiveness was unnerving, to a point where even John Winchester struggled to keep the militaristic strictness to his voice. The slight waver in Ben’s sound struck a cord as to how terrifying this whole ordeal was.
This is a monster, not a human. Do not forget.
“I’ll go over the rules back at the motel,” John simply said.
The entire ride to the motel was stuffy and silent, the low rumble of the engine being the only sound during the thirty-five minute drive, as well as a quiet scraping noise whenever the rough, sandpaper like clothes the slave was wearing rubbed against each other.
“You know what I bought you to do?” John asked, cutting through the silence. He tried to get a good look at the slave’s face from the corner of his eye, taking a look at his hazel colored eyes and noting how god damn that’s exactly the same color as Sammy’s.
“Yes master,” Ben quipped, repeating his same monotonous response. “To provide visions about the yellow eyed demon.”
“Any reason why you suddenly got visions about that thing?”
The slave paused, the hesitation clearly evident.
“No, sir, I don’t know why.”
“Don’t lie to me, boy,” John snapped, smacking the backside of the slave’s head.
“I’m not lying, sir,” Ben gasped. “For some reason, the yellow-eyed monster appeared in one of my visions. I don’t know why, sir. I swear, sir. I’m not lying! In the last vision, I saw its plan. It murdered a lady in her home, cut open her stomach and set her on fire on the ceiling.”
The desperation laced into its voice and somewhere along the line John Winchester believed the psychic freak. Maybe it was also how Ben just recounted, word for word, what had happened to his own wife 16 years ago.
Upon arrival at the motel, John pulled himself out of the car, ordering the slave to follow him around back as he got the duffel bags. Glancing up, he saw how the slave’s arms were still uncomfortably pulled back, his shoulders jutting outwards in clear discomfort.
But John didn’t uncuff him.
“We’re on the fourth floor. Start walking.”
John stayed behind the slave, using the bags to cover up the cuffed arms to make the entire situation look less criminal than it actually was.
The slave was clearly limping as he trudged up the stairs, the heavy slant in his walk making John wonder if he actually had to check the boy over for injuries. But Ben did not complain, not once.
Ben didn’t say much of anything.
John pushed himself back to the front once they reached the room, knocking three times sharply on the motel door. It took a second, the sound of the TV turning off and shuffling of feet clear even outside of the room, before Dean Winchester swung the door open, revealing his father and the newest addition to the dynamic duo.
“Hey Dean,” John greeted, his voice sober for the first time in days and sporting an unnatural softness to it. John tossed the duffel bags into the room, before grabbing Ben by his forearm and shoving him into the room.
Ben allowed himself to be roughhoused as such, keeping his head down despite the abuse.
“Hey dad, uh, what the fuck is going on?” Dean breathed out all at once. He was staring at Ben, eyes filled with worry and disbelief. Then he repeated, “Who the hell is this?”
John cleared his throat as he ignored the question, turning around to lock the door and check the salt lines. He made his way over to the fridge, pulling out a beer for himself and his son, which Dean gratefully accepted, before responding.
“This is… Ben. He’s a psychic.”
“Okay… where did you find him? You just randomly captured a psychic and brought it home? I thought you were friends with Missouri? Why–”
“I bought him. Ben is a slave.”
And it was like a bomb dropped amongst the crowd. Ben seemed to curl into himself even more, as if the sharp label of slave was once again a reminder of his lowly place. The boy was itching to lower himself onto his knees, even standing felt like a sign of disrespect within his household.
“This? What? A slave?” Dean spluttered incredulously. “What the hell do you mean by slave, dad? What the fuck?”
John Winchester wasn’t one to accept unusual emotional outbursts, but he accepted this one, and Ben was more than surprised.
“Monsters have been traded amongst hunters for years, Dean. It’s common practice to use them for their powers or whatever during hunts. We kill all monsters, yes, but some obedient ones are used amongst us hunters for whatever purpose before killing them.”
Ben flinched at the description, and that didn’t go unnoticed by the younger Winchester.
“That’s disgusting!” Dean exclaimed.
“It is,” John agreed, for whatever reason because he had just bought a slave. “It’s vile, I agree. But we’ve been hunting the demon that killed Mary for years now with no luck. This boy gets visions of the yellow eyed demon. He’s going to help us on this hunt and we can finally avenge your mother’s death.”
The silence finally became too heavy that Ben dropped himself onto his knees, his entire body shaking with fear. The conditioned silence was what was preventing him from crying out or whimpering, but the terror was painfully evident.
Dean shouted in surprise, rushing forward to help the boy that he thought just collapsed from exhaustion, but John stopped him.
“It’s fine, Dean,” he ordered. “Let me go over the rules. I do not care what either of you think. I bought the psychic and we are going to use the psychic. Dean, I need you to remember and this is a slave and a monster. Don’t let it play you or get to your head. Ben, you will follow all orders from both Dean and I. I am a damn good tracker, so don’t even fucking think about running away. Whenever you get a vision, I expect you to tell me with exact detail and precision what you see. Don’t hold back on the details.”
The threat was left unsaid: if I find out that you did…
“Ben, you will be taken with us on hunts,” John continued. “So I’m going to have Dean in charge of teaching you basic hand to hand combat. No weapons training at all. You’ll also do basic chores and other work that we want you to do. Again, all you’re doing is following orders.”
“Yes sir,” Ben murmured, still in his kneeling position. Dean stared at the slave, a crazed look on his face.
“Dean?”
“Yes sir,” his son responded, echoing the words of the psychic.
“Good,” John settled. “Here’s the keys to his cuffs. You can let him out for now, show him around and stuff, and make sure you cuff him again to something before we go to sleep.”
A small silver key was tossed in the air and easily caught by Dean.
“I’m going out to drink,” John called out, marching right out the door and now leaving behind an indignant twenty year old and a terrified slave.