The place Dean wakes up in is dark. The kind of darkness that can swallow you whole if you’re not careful. He tries to fight through the fog of his mind, putting pieces together.
He’s naked. His temple is throbbing and sticky with blood. The surface he’s sitting on is cold and hard, with little divots that dig into his hands and knees as he tries to stand up.
“Stay down!” someone orders. At the same time, a boot lands on the center of his back, forcing him back to the ground. The air in his lungs comes out in a gasp when his chest hits the floor.
“Wha-” Dean tries to ask what's happening, but he stumbles on his words.
Adrenaline thrums through his body. The realization that he can’t speak is what does it for him. They’ve drugged him. He’s been in too many fights to know that he wouldn’t be sluggish and confused like this from a simple knock out. This isn’t a bar brawl or hook up gone wrong. This isn’t getting wasted and passing out in an alley. This is wrong.
Something is wrong.
Dean smacks his lips and tries to speak again. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
“Shut up. Slaves don’t speak unless spoken to.”
Slaves? His slight anxiety escalates into a full-blown panic, reaching a catastrophic crescendo when Dean is hauled to his feet by two men. He tries to fight them, but they’re too strong, dragging him along like a ragdoll, his toes barely touching what feels like a cement floor. As his brain focuses and the light around him illuminates things, he realizes he’s in some sort of prison or dungeon. Like a perfect mixture of the two.
He’s brought to a cement room with floors that slant toward drains in the center. Though slight, the incline is enough to make Dean’s heavy legs stumble. One of the men grabs the back of his neck like you would a kitten, shoving him toward the wall. He starts to shake as they grab his wrists and close metal restraints around them.
“Stop! Jus’ stop. Someone tell me wha’ the fucks happenin’?” Dean asks, the lingering effects of the drugs causing his tongue to feel heavy and awkward in his mouth.
The men ignore him. They attach his wrists to a metal hoop on the wall, giving him less than a foot of slack. He starts tugging at the chain. There might be a weak spot. His dad taught him that metal chains like this sometimes have a weak spot.
“Shouldn’t have talked without permission, slave,” the same voice from earlier taunts. “Bad boys get the cold.”
He doesn’t have to wait to figure out what the man means. A second later, he’s being hosed down from different directions as the two men stand close by, spraying him with high powered hoses. The water is frigid. It feels as if they’re raining needles down on him. He falls to his knees, gritting his teeth to fight against making any noise. His hands are stuck, so his arms are raised above his head, and he regrets the new position because he’s more exposed now. They take advantage.
It lasts long enough for Dean to finally give in and scream. The men chuckle and stop the water, scrubbing him with soap on scratchy loofahs that he hopes are fucking clean. Especially since they start roughly moving them between his legs. The hands are quick and clinical, at least. Then the water returns to rinse him off. By the time they’re finished, he’s dangling by his hands, broken sobs falling uncontrollably from his mouth.
He’s relieved when the water stops but then the bone-aching chill sets in and he begins to violently shiver. His teeth clack together, and he caves in on himself, attempting to retain any sliver of body heat he has left. The two men remove his restraints and carry him down the hall like before, letting him drag between them, naked and dripping. They pass people, and he’s coming out of his drug-induced state enough to be embarrassed. He wants to call for help, but he’s not an idiot. He knows everyone here is either trapped like him, or in on the operation.
They pass a man in a sharp black suit. He’s running a hand through his hair, eyebrows pulled in as he frowns at a man standing in front of him. The men carrying Dean come to a stop and Dean holds his breath, wondering what happens now.
Looking bored, the man flicks his eyes up to assess Dean. They’re so bright, especially in a place so dark, that Dean's breath catches. Then those eyes slide over to the man on Dean's right and a deep, gravelly voice says, "14."
“Yes, sir.” Then they’re moving again, leaving the handsome man with the dazzling eyes behind. Dean makes a mental note that he probably has a power position, considering they called him sir. That could come in handy.
The next room they enter is painted a deep red and has what looks like some sort of modified dentist chair in the center of it. Dean’s stomach curls at the sight of the instruments and equipment that lay on the surgical steel table next to it. He’s thankful at least that it’s warm in here. He tries to let the small miracle soak in, knowing he'll have to hold on to them to survive this place.
“This is the testing room.”
“Testing?” Dean rasps, his voice embarrassingly raw.
A sharp pain flares across his backside as a man reminds him, “No talking.”
Dean bites his lip, biding his time. Now isn’t the moment to push buttons. He needs to sit back. Relax. Learn everything he can. When the man decides he’s going to behave, he nods once and then explains. “We’ll test what kind of slave you will be. Strengths, weaknesses; likes and dislikes. So we can advertise you properly at the auction.”
Despite knowing he needs to stay quiet, Dean can’t help but explode at the words coming from the man. “This is wrong. You can’t fucking do this. This is illegal.”
No one says a word. The man that’s been talking smirks. Dean turns his head wildly, trying to find a way out. There’s a handful of men in here, one of them wearing a doctor’s coat. They’re either amused or unimpressed.
None are sympathetic.
“Please,” Dean pleads, voice cracking. “Let me go, and I won’t tell anyone. I swear. I won’t say a word.”
“You sure about that, slave?” the man asks as he stalks toward Dean. He grabs his chin hard enough to bruise, his smirk growing. “Because it seems you can’t learn how to fucking shut your mouth, despite our instructions.”
Dean chokes on a sob, trying to pull away from the grip. The man is worse up close. Greasy and large and clearly turned on if his dick pressing against Dean's thigh is any indication.
“P – p – please. Oh, god, please,” Dean whispers in between watery breaths. He closes his eyes, knowing his dad would be disappointed in him for not being strong. But this? This is worse than dad’s ever trained him for. Worse than his wildest nightmares.
Someone hands the man something. Dean has no idea what it is at first, but as it gets closer to his face, he recognizes it. A bright red ball gag. He’s only seen them used on pornstars before. He’s jacked off watching them.
Dean feels sick.
“Open.” Stubbornly resisting, Dean clenches his teeth and shakes his head. The man sneers. “Oh, you’re going to be a hard one to break. I like that.”
Dean stays quiet, glaring at the man. He won’t submit. Not ever. He may have cried, but he’s not weak. He knows what these men want. Submission. Useless little fucktoys. Someone to own.
Dean will not be owned. They’ll have to kill him first.
Something lashes at his back, white-hot and sharp. Dean’s body locks up, and he releases a surprised shriek of pain. The ball is stuffed into his mouth and hands are everywhere, holding him steady as the gag is secured. They do it so tight he can feel the bands digging into the skin of his face. Panic rises in his chest. No. No, he has to talk. He’s Dean Winchester. The infamous sweet talker. He needs his voice. If he’s going to get out of this, he has to be able to talk.
The doctor attaches a dildo to the strange looking device on the seat of the dentist chair. He starts to pour lube on it. Dean’s knees give out, the men the only thing holding him up. What if he never escapes? What if it’s just years and years of torture and rape? He won’t break. He won’t. He can’t. He –
His thoughts are muted when they drag him toward the chair. He takes one look at the too big dildo before starting to struggle again. He screams into the gag and kicks and scratches and swings his fists. All three men have to hold him from how hard he fights. If Dean weren’t so distracted, he’d think about how proud his dad would be at that.
Eventually, they win.
The men secure him to the chair by his wrists and ankles. The restraint system is set up in a way where he can stay off his ass. For now.
“Sit,” one of the men orders.
Dean continues to refuse, even though his thighs are already burning from holding himself up in the awkward position. His body starts to shake. He hasn’t eaten in who knows how long. The drugs are still lingering in his system. He’s drained and weak and terrified.
His effort and discomfort grow.
Tears start to steadily fall down his face as he realizes he won’t be able to do this forever, no matter how hard he tries. As if Dean's body agrees with him, his thighs cramp up, and he slips. He sobs into the ball gag as he’s impaled on the dildo, his ass screaming in protest. He’s dizzy with the pain, blinking hard and fast as he tries to adjust. Tries to breathe.
He focuses on the man talking, trying to concentrate on something other than pain. As the man speaks, wires are being stuck to different parts of Dean’s body. His chest. Stomach. Neck. Cock. Balls. Perineum.
“You will be shown a series of pictures and videos for the next day or so. The dildo in your ass can measure muscle contractions, and the electrodes can assess your heart rate, blood pressure, arousal, blood flow to your cock, the reactions in your balls, everything. Your body will react to certain stimuli in a good way, and other stimuli in a bad way, whether you like it or not. Those results will help us know what kind of slave you’ll be. This will help you achieve your goal of being matched with the best master possible.”
Help you achieve your goal.
As if anything like this could ever be Dean's goal.
The man grins. “Any questions?”
Dean closes his eyes, not finding the joke funny since he obviously can’t talk. Seconds after the man is out of the room, he’s being slapped across the face by the doctor. “Eyes open. Pay attention.”
The large screen on the wall in front of him whirs to life. Speakers seem to surround him like he’s inside it. He watches as a man approaches a slave that’s secured to a large X, arms and legs spread. His nipples are clamped, and a blindfold is over his eyes. He’s gagged like Dean, and Dean feels himself clenching around the dildo without meaning to. Dean doesn’t want that. He knows he doesn’t.
So why the fuck is he getting so hard so fast as he watches the slave’s master approach him?