Fic: The Misbegotten, Chapter 7
Title: The Misbegotten, Chapter 7
Author: Piratelf
Rating: R (for strong language)
Fandom: Gilmore Girls and Supernatural crossover inspired by, but in no way a part of the whatwekeep 'verse.
Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls and Supernatural belong to their respective owners, bought and paid for. I am not one of the owners, more's the pity. The AKB 'verse was created by poisontaster in her fic "A Kept Boy". This fic is inspired by that 'verse, though not a part of it.
Beta: Nadnewraid
Summary: A new name, a new life.
WARNINGS: Strong language. Slavery. Also, I need to warn you that this fic is a WIP.
Author's Notes: Jeez, is anybody out there still reading this one? *LOL* I figured I'd better get a post up BEFORE a whole year had passed!
P.S. Pay no attention to the ad below the hit counter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
"So, your name's Dean, right kid?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that's a problem. I have a son named Dean. You see how that might get confusing."
"Yes, sir."
"I've been thinking about it, and since you don't remember your last name, I assume you don't remember your middle name, if you had one?"
"No sir."
"Right, didn't think so. That leaves me with two Deans. Since mine's older than you, that makes you Dean junior, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And since Dean junior is kind of a mouthful, I thought we could shorten it to D. J. What do you think of that?"
"Very clever, sir."
"No, I mean as a name. For you. Do you mind being called D.J. instead of Dean."
"Whatever pleases you, sir."
"Good." John reached over and smacked the kid's knee. "That's settled then."
It seemed to require a response, so Dean said, "yes, sir."
John reached out and turned on the radio. He seemed to be finished speaking for a while, so Dean took the time to try and cement the new name in his mind so that he would be sure to respond to it. 'D.J. I'm D.J. My name is D.J. D.J. D.J. D.J. D.J.? Yeah? D.J. D.J. D.J. Deeeee Jaaaaay. Dee Jay. D.J. D.J. Dean Junior. D.J. D.J. D.J. I wonder what the other Dean looks like? Does a person look like their name? Would they both somehow 'look like a Dean'? But I'm not Dean anymore, I'm D.J. D.J. D.J. D.J. D.J. D.J. I don't think I've ever had a nickname before. D.J. D.J. D.J. It's not bad. D.J. D.J. D.J. Of course, it's weird having a nickname with more syllables than your real name. But I guess it isn't really a nickname. It's my name. I'm D.J. D.J. D.J. D.J. I guess I'm lucky he didn't just re-name me. I could have been Egbert. Or Arnold. Or Herman. Or Boris or Dick or Ira or Morton or Otis or Peabody or Uriah or Willard or Ansem or Chauncey or Elroy . . . '
Dean had played the 'ugly names I could have had' game three times through the alphabet when John said, "You ever shot a gun, boy?"
"Once, sir."
"When was that?"
"Earlier this year, sir. Lord Gilmore went skeet shooting at the club and he took me with him to look at a car he was considering purchasing from Lord Stiles. While they ate, Tristin, that's Lord Gilmore's bodyslave, and I were given skeet shooting lessons. I'm not sure why I was included, I suppose just because I was there."
"How was your aim?"
"Pretty good by the end, sir."
"Huh. Well, I think we'll pull off into these woods up here and see what you can do."
Dean was surprised. "Yes, sir."
"What kind of gun were you using?"
"I don't know sir. It was long," Dean showed his the approximate length he remembered the gun being.
"What kind of ammunition?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Did they teach you to load the gun?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's your name?"
"D.J., sir."
"Good job!" John reached over and clapped him on the shoulder.
D.J. felt proud of himself. "Thank you, sir."
John pulled the truck into the woods and parked out of sight of the road. Then he motioned for D.J. to get out and come around to the back with him. When John opened the trunk, D.J. gasped at the arsenal inside. "Wow, awesome!"
"Now here are the rules," John took D.J.'s chin in his hand and turned the boy to face him. "You do not tell anyone about these weapons. And I mean no one, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"You do not open this trunk unless I tell you to."
"Yes, sir."
"And you do not, ever, touch one of these weapons without my permission."
"Yes, sir."
John stared coldly into D.J.'s eyes. "You break any of these rules and you are gonna wish to God you hadn't. Got me, boy?"
"Yes, sir," D.J. swallowed nervously.
"Good." John lifted a rifle out of it's specially molded spot in the trunk. "There is a bag of beer cans in a bag behind the seat. Go get 'em and follow me."
"Yes, sir," D.J. jumped to obey.
John led him about half a mile into the woods, then set up a target range using the beer cans, a fallen log and a couple of tree stumps. He handed the gun to D.J., showed him the proper grip and stance, then let him shoot. He hit one can out of ten.
"Yeaaaaaah," John said, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. "We're gonna have to work on this."
"Yes, sir, " D.J. answered in an abashed tone.
John made him shoot for another 2 hours, then taught him to load and unload the rifle and how to put the safety on and take it off.
By the time they were walking back to the car D.J.'s shoulder hurt from the recoil and his arms ached from holding the heavy gun. He didn't find the firearm so cool anymore, though he was happy that his aim had improved somewhat with the practice.
They drove all day and into the night. D.J. wasn't sure if he was allowed to sleep, so he tried to stay awake. By 2 a.m. though, he was out. John noticed about an hour later and decided to stop at the next motel. They both needed showers and the kid would probably cramp up pretty bad if he slept sitting up for very long. It took two more hours for John to find a suitably cheap place. He checked in, got the key and unloaded his duffle bag before waking D.J.
"Open your eyes, kiddo. Time to sleep in a real bed."
D.J. blinked up at him. "Where are we?"
"Motel. Come on, I'm ready to hit the sack myself."
D.J. stumbled into the room behind John. It was decorated with an array of odd wooden masks, long striped boards, girls in grass skirts and multicolored plastic loops. If he'd been old enough, or had had much exposure to the world outside of Lord Gilmore's garage, he'd have recognized it as a Tiki theme, popular in the 1950's. As it was he just thought it unusual but interesting. Especially as the hula girls were topless. He was less enthused with the stained rug where it looked like he'd be sleeping. He was rolling up his sweatshirt to use as a pillow when he felt John's hands on his shoulders, turning him and guiding him toward the small bathroom.
"Uh-uh, shower first. It'll loosen your muscles."
D.J. just nodded, too tired to answer. The bathroom smelled strongly of bleach, which at least meant it was clean, though the sink was missing the hot water handle and there was a crack in the toilet seat. He showered quickly but thoroughly. Drying off, he regarded his clothes. He hated to put them back on, dirty as they were. But he couldn't think of anything else to do. He'd always had at least a few sets of clothes before. Even at the Remands center, they would put their sweats down a chute at night and get a clean pair in the morning. He didn't want to be offensive to his master, especially with the two of them sitting in the truck together for hours and hours, but he didn't know if his clothes would be dry by morning if he washed them in the sink. Which honestly, he was too tired to do anyway. Also he didn't look forward to sleeping on the filthy looking carpet nude. He re-dressed reluctantly and looked at himself in the mirror. He wished he had a toothbrush or comb or deodorant, something.
He opened the door and just barely caught the T-shirt and underwear John threw at him.
"Put those on. Let your clothes air out for the night."
D.J. nodded as John pushed past him into the bathroom to take his own shower. D.J. wondered briefly in putting the sweats on the floor and sleeping on them would count as airing them out. He decided not. He hung them on a chair in the room, inside out. Then with a sigh he laid down on the floor, next to the bed. There was an unpleasant chemical smell, possibly carpet cleaner, mixed with the aroma of feet.
Twenty minutes later John emerged from the bathroom in only a towel. He was puzzled to see D.J. on the floor.
"What the hell are you doing down there? You don't know what kind of crap's been on that carpet, what's wrong with you?!"
D.J. stood immediately. "Sorry, sir. I didn't know where else to sleep."
"You never seen a bed before?" John growled.
"But that's for you, sir!"
"It's a queen, we'll both fit. Get in there."
"Yes, sir." D.J. and answered quietly. He tried to steel himself. This was it. He'd have to service Master Winchester. He hoped he wouldn't be punished for his inexperience. More than that he hoped it wouldn't hurt too much. He'd always dreamed that his first time would be something he'd share with - but he couldn't think of that now. He didn't want to think of it ever again, but especially not now. He pulled down the covers and laid on his side facing out, as close to the edge of the mattress as he could be.
John pulled on a T-shirt and some boxers, hit the light and got into bed. He was surprised to have so much room. When he'd had to share with a teenaged Sammy, if Dean was hurt or sick, it was like sleeping with a giant octopus or something. He could barely move without running into an arm or a leg. But D. J. stayed nice and compact on his side of the bed and John had a pretty good night’s rest. In the morning he felt well-rested and ready to get this thing with the kid organized. He already knew how the training schedule would go, he wouldn't need to buy D. J. any weapons of his own for quite a awhile. John would definitely be going on these next few hunts alone. Back-up from untrained civilian is more dangerous than no back-up at all. Thank God, the kid was old enough to stay on his own. And he was a slave so John wouldn’t have to worry about school, or girls or any of the crap his boys used to get into when they were sixteen.
He looked over at the boy. D.J., he’d have to keep reminding himself of that. Well, it was obvious that the first thing he needed was clothing.
John had often bought clothes for his boys at second hand stores. But when he needed a large number, like when the weather started turning cold and he found that one or both of them had completely outgrown what winter wardrobe they had, John would break out a brand new credit card and take his kids to an actual clothing store where he could be sure to find several shirts and pants in the same size. That's what he did with D.J. as well. He stopped at the first superstore past the Michigan border and completely outfitted him; 3 pairs of jeans, 5 T-shirts, 1 flannel shirt, 12 pairs of socks, 12 pairs of underwear, 1 pair of sweats which actually fit him, a light jacket, a hoodie, a heavy coat, good sneakers, work boots, work gloves, a shaving kit, various other necessary items and a large back pack to carry it all it.
D.J. was overwhelmed. He'd never really had clothes before. He'd had uniforms, and mechanic's overalls, and once in a while, when Lady Gilmore needed him for a party, he'd been given a tuxedo to wear. But he'd never had clothes to choose from. No matter what Master Winchester said, he was sure that they couldn't all be his, or that he would have to do something to earn them somehow. Probably something difficult, distasteful or both. It bothered him, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to wait and see what was required of him, and then find a way to fulfill his duty.
"Don't worry, I'll never let anything bad happen to you."
D.J. was shocked and upset at the memory that came to the forefront of his mind unbidden and unwanted. His hands tightened into fists and there was a hot, prickly feeling behind his eyes. He forced himself to stop reacting, and pushed the memory down as deeply as he could. Burying it under his old training and his new situation.
"Hey, kid, take some of these and go put 'em on. I'm gonna call for pizza and we can pick it up on the way back to the motel." John handed D.J. the bag of clothes and pointed out the men's room. D.J. stared at the clothes in the bag. He had no idea what to choose. He hadn't even chosen the clothes himself. John would pull out a shirt or a pair of jeans and ask D.J. if he liked it. D.J. would answer yes, of course, and John would put the item in the cart. D.J. had no idea if he preferred one over the other or not. It seemed as if he shouldn't. He'd have to wear them all, for as long as his master allowed it, so having favorite items would be pointless. And his master had chosen them all, so he had no clue which was his master's favorite either.
"Can't decide?" John grinned at him. "Here." He handed D.J. the black T-shirt, blue jeans, good sneakers, and ripped open the packages of underwear and socks to hand him one of each. "Go on, now."
"Yes, sir," D.J. nodded. He went into the public restroom, found a stall and took off his shirt. He put it on the floor and laid the new clothes on it. He dressed. The new clothes fit close to his body, which was different. Most of his clothes had been loose, even when they were too short. It wasn't uncomfortable, just different. D.J. wrapped up his old shoes in his old clothes and exited the stall. He stopped in front of the mirrors and looked at himself. It was a shock. He looked different. He looked almost like the free people in the store. Except for his collar he could be one of them. He turned to the side. He'd never had clothes that hugged his body before, not like this.
A man entered the restroom. "New clothes, little slave?"
D.J.'s eyes flew from himself to the man, startled. He knelt immediately. "Yes, sir."
"Nice." The man took D.J.'s arm and raised him to his feet. He was older than D.J., but not as old as John. Early thirties, maybe. He was a little shorter than D.J., but his shoulders were probably twice the size of D.J.'s. He was darkly handsome. But a sense of danger emanated from him. "But you don't want to walk around with the tag still on." The man tugged at the thin plastic cord holding the paper tag in the seam at D.J. s hip.
"No, sir. Thank you, sir." The man made D.J. nervous. He reached down to pull the tag off.
"Ah, ah, ah, no." The man caught D.J.'s hand and moved it away. "That's not how you do it. See there's a little plastic tab on the inside -" The man's knuckles grazed D.J. s hip inside his jeans. D.J.'s heart began to pound. He hadn't been in public much before, and he wasn't sure if he had the right to pull away, or what his punishment might be for doing so. "and you don't want to lose it down your leg. It could scratch you." The man scraped his blunt fingernails across D.J. s quivering stomach. "I can't quite reach it." The man said, pulling D.J.'s zipper down.
"Please, sir, I don't wish to take up your valuable time. I can do it myself." D.J.'s anxiety was evident in his voice.
The man chuckled, and it was a chilling sound. "Shhh, I wouldn't dream of leaving you like this, little slave." One hand reached down to pat D.J.'s ass, while the other one slithered through the opened zipper and under the flap of D.J.'s Y-fronts.
"S-sir, my Master is w-waiting for me. Please. I should go, sir. Please?" D.J.'s voice broke off in a squeak as the man large hand encircled his cock.
The man's chuckle was drowned out by John's "Hey!"
"Master!" D.J. exclaimed, relief showing all over his face.
John glanced at him and pointed behind himself with his thumb, indicating that D.J. should stand behind him. D.J. pulled away from the stranger and immediately did so, fastening his pants as quickly as he could.
"What the hell were your hands doing on my property, boy?" John narrowed his eyes at the stranger.
"He asked me to help him with the tag," the man said, with a sly smile. "Quite a little flirt you have there."
D.J. bit his tongue to keep from defending himself. He couldn’t speak out against a free man without permission. He hoped Master Winchester would ask him if it was true.
John wasn’t in the mood for bantering with perverts. He grabbed the filthy hand that had touched his son and bent all the fingers backwards, while kicking the backs of the man’s knees, taking him down. “The next time you think about pawing something that isn’t yours, remember this.” He dropped the man’s hand and stomped on it, breaking a few bones. The man cried out. John turned his back on him, saying to D.J., “Truck. NOW!” and they ran out of the store before anyone could alert security.
Marin Real Estate