#slave!sam

Gabriel had tried to start a dialogue once, but was met with only silence. Even when he referred to Sam by name, the blank Helpmate didn’t so much as twitch. Gabriel resigned himself to an awkward evening devoid of conversation.

The rapidly dimming light outside the windows heralded two problems: first, that Gabriel had no place to put a slave overnight, and second, he would eventually need to reclaim his bedcovers.

He was not about to bind the kid for the night, not after whatever unknown ordeals he might have endured. Gabriel had tried not to look, but the leather cuffs around Sam’s thighs were thick and worn and so tight that it seemed a miracle he could stand at all. Maybe that wasn’t an accident.

Gabriel kind of wanted to slowly, precisely remove the tongue of whoever would keep anyone like that.

The options were few. Gabriel’s bedchamber was the only area that would stay warm overnight. The antechamber off the back wall had long ago been converted from a slave’s quarters to a pantry of sorts, and was full to bursting with curios, delicacies, fine oils, and the like that Gabriel had amassed over the years. The area outside the bedchamber held a disorder of documents stacked haphazardly over all available surfaces in a way that always made Castiel slightly ill when he visited. Even if enough braziers could be set up against the stony chill out there, Gabriel wouldn’t want a slave meandering about unattended, regardless of illiteracy.

Damn Castiel and his hellhound-puppydog eyes. Whoever this Sam was, he had to have been someone important to that parvenu Accessory of his. Dean had his master wrapped so tightly around his littlest finger that it was a wonder Castiel could even breathe of his own accord. And in true oblivious Castiel fashion, he seemed to hardly realize it. There had to be something else rolling beneath those surface waves. Unlike what he’d implied earlier, Gabriel could not truly imagine Castiel being anything less than judicious with his Accessory. It made their affinity for each other so much more intriguing.

It couldn’t just be that Dean was deliciously attractive. Gabriel would have had that charming backside every which way within the first week if Dean had appeared freely at his door. But Castiel had never shown much interest in beauty, captive or no. Furthermore, Dean had been at his side for at least two winters, and though Castiel had taken an odd liking to him almost immediately, he had never been sheepish about it until now. Gabriel’s little brother was a senseless enigma.

A sharp rap at the door – and Sam was scuttling into the far corner of the room, with wide, hunted eyes and a cover balled protectively in his fists. The earthen mug clattered hollowly across the floor in his wake.

Okay, extra skittish. Gabriel would make sure to keep things quiet and slow.

———

Even Balthazar hadn’t been sure of the best way to remove Sam’s thigh cuffs. It had been challenge enough just getting Sam to uncurl so he could be looked over properly. The scratches on Balthazar’s arms advised them both to not force the issue again. They would do things on Sam’s time, or not at all.

It was nearing midnight when the Monastic was on his way out.

“It must be a family trait,” Balthazar mused tiredly. “Choosing the most difficult cases to get enamored with. An Accessory that couldn’t be bound, a Helpmate who won’t allow touch…”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “It’s hardly me who’s enamored. Castiel is the soft one, strange as we both know that is. And you know I wouldn’t buy a Helpmate of my own free will, you lecher.”

“Peculiar, indeed. And I resent that insinuation, especially as a man of my irrefutable character,” Balthazar sniffed.

With a good-natured slap on the shoulder, Gabriel sent him off to get his own rest.

And that left the two problems from earlier.

Gabriel stretched his tired arms up over his head with a grunt. “Long day, huh, Sammy? I think we both could use some sleep.”

“Sammy…?”

The word was a quiet rasp. Sam had reclaimed his spot on the floor in front of the fire, the only place approaching familiarity for him, with Gabriel’s bedcovers wrapped around his shoulders. He was looking at Gabriel for the first time.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Gabriel tried to keep his tone light and moved toward his chest of clothes in search of something to sleep in. When the lid creaked open, the Helpmate shrank into himself and did not answer until Gabriel pulled out what he wanted and shut it again.

“Hasn’t been.” It was like he was thawing slowly, finding the warmth of words again and being unsure whether they’d burn. “Long time… since anyone said it.” Sam wasn’t turning to follow Gabriel’s movements, but he was tracking them all the same, like he’d had to learn how to observe without being noticed.

“Well, you should probably get used to it again. Or, maybe don’t – I tend to call people by whatever I fancy at the moment.” Gabriel did not mention there might be others who would soon be calling Sam by name, too. The kid’s day had been eventful enough. “Here, put this on.”

There was a moment of hesitation before Sam reached up from the blankets to take the offered shift.

Gabriel gestured at the opening of the bath chamber. “You can change and wash up in there, if you like. Take as long as you want.”

“Why?”

Gabriel quirked a brow. “Because I’m gracious enough to wait to piss until you’re not in there?”

Sam turned the shift over in his hands. He ran a thumb across the embroidery at the neckline, pinched and smoothed the pale wheat-colored fabric.

“Why are you giving me things, and talking to me, and letting me go unbound? And how do you know my name?”

When he opened his mouth, Gabriel’s jaw took over and cracked into a yawn. “Too many questions for the middle of the night,” he decided. “Try again tomorrow.”

When Sam shuffled to his feet, he kept one of the blankets bundled around him. Gabriel waited until he’d passed into the bath chamber before pouncing to gather the remaining bedcovers from the floor. One problem solved. He quickly shucked his daytime garments in favor of sleepclothes, which he normally went without, but clarity of intentions would be important. He then pretended to stoke the fire until Sam reemerged.

The Helpmate was still bundled but presumably appropriately clothed underneath. He took an abortive step toward the fireplace. His eyes flicked from the now-empty floor to the covers that had been replaced on the bed.

“Sleeping on the floor is for dogs, of which you are not one,” Gabriel explained, setting aside the poker. He swept his hand at the bed. “Neither of us has anywhere else to go, so…”

Sam moved hesitantly toward the canopied bed, with restless eyes that catalogued every detail along the way. He stopped at the bedside and slowly let the blanket fall from around his shoulders to the furred floor. Then his hands dipped to the hem of his pale shift and began to pull it up his body.

“No, no–!” Gabriel hastily threw out a hand. He angled it strategically to block his view of the young man’s lower half, while Sam froze mid-motion. “Not– not that. Look… ah…”

Gabriel scrambled to pull one of the bolster pillows away from the headboard. He flopped it down on top of the covers, dividing the halves of the bed.

“My side, your side,” he stated firmly. “Neither of us crosses. Just sleep. Nothing else. …Ever. Alright?”

The Helpmate had dropped the hem of his shift and was eyeing Gabriel with a squint that rivaled Castiel’s.

Gabriel peeled back a rumpled corner of bedcovers in ginger illustration. After a pause, Sam tentatively followed suit on the opposite side. Move by dubious move, they worked their way into the bed until they lay stiffly parallel, separated by the bolster with low firelight flickering across the canopy above.

With an awkward clearing of his throat, Gabriel folded his hands over his middle.

“Goodnight.”

There was no answer from the other side of the bed. He resolutely closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep.

———

Over a breakfast of date plums, soft rolls, and boiled eggs, Gabriel pried gingerly at both his eggshells and his Helpmate. Well, not his Helpmate, but–

“If I’m not yours, then who am I for?”

The undertone of bitterness in Sam’s voice could have been considered brash. Gabriel hadn’t been getting anywhere by asking Sam about himself, so he’d resorted to sharing selective bits about his own work, daily routines, and one accidental detail relating to the Helpmate’s acquisition. It was remarkable how quickly the skittish kid warmed to interaction once he realized he was being treated like an actual human. The warmth was edging toward heat, though. Perhaps Sam had spent so long keeping everything locked away, the slightest give was threatening to break like a crumbling dam.

“You’re not… for anyone.” At least, Gabriel really didn’t think so. He had been angry when he threw those words about whorehouses at Castiel the prior night; he’d wager a year of desserts that his brother wanted nothing to do with a Helpmate. There had to be another reason why Castiel had looked so desperate when he’d called out over the din of the crowd, pleading (ordering, more like it) Gabriel to buy the mate slave on the block at all costs.

“Then what–”

Gabriel waved a hand irritably, still working on a mouthful of soft, sweet bread. “Almosht every word you’ve shaid to me sho far ish a queshtion. How about a declarative for shome variety?”

Sam’s eyelids twitched into a brief squint. “I am a Helpmate.”

Gabriel swallowed. “Astute,” he praised with a roll of his eyes.

“I am not for your service.” Sam’s voice gained strength with the assertion. He spoke slowly, as though puzzling it through. “You… you don’t want anything I can provide. Either you have a reliable partner who fully satisfies you, or you have no interest in men. Or maybe–”

“Okay!” Gabriel clapped once to interrupt. “That’s enough assumption for one morning.”

Instantly, a shrinking form cowered where Sam had been. Whatever confidence the Helpmate had been gaining took flight at the sudden sound, leaving behind the evidence of whatever pain and fear he’d been subjected to for unknown lengths of time. Gabriel felt somewhat like an ass.

But this Sam kid sure knew how to take something and run with it. Gabriel would have to take care with his words while in the young man’s earshot.

“Here, eat another egg. You’re too damn skinny.”

———

Dean sat cross-legged on the bed with one knee partially hidden beneath a fold of rumpled blanket, angling the bound book in his hands to catch the light from the windowpanes. The documentation of the best growing conditions for yarrow flowers wasn’t very interesting, but it was all he had to distract himself. Castiel had gone to the Council shortly after first light. He likely wouldn’t be back until mid-afternoon, and Dean would wear a track straight through to the stone floor if he were to pace the furs all day wondering about Sam.

He set the open book on the bedcovers and kept his eyes tracing the words as he stretched sideways to reach for the platter standing next to the bed. He blindly grabbed a pear half and brought it to his teeth. The room was quiet but for his soft crunching and the minuscule clicks of the latch on his wrist cuff as he fingered it absently.

Dean was carefully mouthing the syllables of pre-cip-i-ta-tion when he heard the outer chamber door open.

One of the muttering voices that entered was Cas. It was unclear who was with him, but since the day was barely approaching late morning, Dean assumed he was on Council business. He did not get up to impose himself on his master, regardless of how anxious he was to discover his brother’s exact fate. Sam was safe with Gabriel. For all Dean knew, he was in bad shape and needed to be nursed just as Dean had been when he first arrived. That thought widened the crack in his heart, but he’d heard Gabriel mention Balthazar, so at least Sam would be in good healing hands.

The brush of Cas’ steps approached the bedchamber door. Dean noticed that his pace was slow, almost ginger.

On alert, Dean sat up straighter. Whatever anxiety he’d been feeling about his brother was eclipsed by the fears that came rushing back about his indiscretion the day before. His mind raced. Turning on one’s master was the highest offense. He hadn’t meant to do it; it was a mistake. Did Cas change his mind about dismissing it? Had someone else found out? Was Cas coming with guards?

The door creaked open.

“Dean.” Castiel addressed him gently. “Come out here, please.”

With a pounding heart, Dean pushed himself from the blankets. His master waited at the door until he was a few paces away, then turned and led the way into the entry room.

Cas stepped aside, eyes flicking between Dean and the other occupants of the room.

Gabriel was standing with crossed arms, looking like he generally disapproved of the circumstances.

Sam stood with eyes downcast, arms hanging stiffly at his sides.

Dean’s breath stilled in his throat. Too overcome to vocalize, he swept forward and wrapped his arms around his brother for the first time in five years.

Gods, he was thin. Dean could feel his sharp shoulderblades through the borrowed tunic that hung off his lanky frame. And tall; Dean had never needed to lift his chin quite so high before to reach over Sam’s shoulder. And his hair was long, too long, hanging damply down to his shoulders.

He wasn’t returning the embrace.

Dean pulled back, confused and suddenly much more afraid. His brother wasn’t looking at him. He was still stiff, still fixated on the floor.

Dean laid a hand on his cheek. His voice scraped.

“Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes twitched, flickered upwards in hesitant jumps. They traced the edges of Dean’s face blankly, until they met his hard, worried eyes.

“…Dean?” It was a constricted sound, like Sam didn’t trust it to be reality.

Dean brought his other hand up to hold Sam’s face steady. Sam flinched, then took a great shuddering breath.

“I’ve been… trying to f-find you…”

And Sam threw his arms around his big brother, planted his face in his shoulder, and sobbed.

—

Castiel stood at a respectful distance near the corner of the heavy table by the windows, watching the two men talk and touch and revel in each other’s company. They sat on the sofa, facing each other while their conversation rose and fell in turns.

Gabriel crossed the room to stand next to him. His brows were knitted as he re-crossed his arms and cocked a hip back on the table’s edge.

“So, what, are they long-lost lovers? A passionate affair under the same household’s ownership, tragically divided upon their discovery? Some desperate–”

“Gabriel,” Castiel interrupted, quietly. “Sam is Dean’s younger brother.”

Gabriel stopped mid-scowl. His face melted to blankness. His met Castiel’s eyes for a silent moment, translating their relationship into the one represented on the sofa. He said nothing else and turned to watch the brothers again, this time with a softer expression.

Dean was leaning forward, intense, maybe even starting to argue. Out of caution, Castiel took a step forward just as Sam seemed to relent. The Helpmate shifted forward on the cushion, tugged up the hem of one loose pant leg, worked it up over his knee to the leather cuff that bit into his thigh. Dean reached hesitantly toward it, instinctively wanting to help even if he couldn’t in the moment.

Castiel narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. Sam was starting to unroll the fabric back over the cuff.

“Wait.” Castiel moved in, too quickly; Sam recoiled. “May I look?”

Sam’s eyes darted to his brother for assurance. Dean nodded, then looked up at Castiel, as if he was deciding whether he should be concerned by his master’s interest.

Castiel resumed his approach, more conscientious of his movements. He knelt in front of Sam to study the cuff more closely. There was a sharp pattern burned into the dark-worn leather that he recognized. He glanced up at Sam, bewildered.

“You’ve come from Gehenna?”

When Sam didn’t answer, only looked fearful, Castiel examined the markings leading to the inner thigh.

“Sam,” he said quietly. “I am sorry, but may I see this?” He gestured to, but did not touch, the inside curve of the cuff obscured by shadow.

The Helpmate’s knee rotated inward, closing off the space between his thighs.

Dean laid a hand on his arm and murmured comforts. The soft, sincere way Dean interacted with his wounded brother sent a pang through Castiel’s heart. A moment later, Sam’s knee reluctantly opened.

“I am sorry,” Castiel repeated, making eye contact before leaning slightly closer to look.

The decorative pattern tapered off, its place taken by a deep red stone surrounded by a triangular chalice-shaped insignia with angled, crossing lines and a flourished base.

He swallowed.

“This is Prince Lucifer’s mark.”

—