Dynamic Equilibrium - Part One
1.
Dean awakes with a throbbing headache.
He’s lying on a cold, hard surface, curled up in a fetal position, his hands like claws. He’s thirsty. His tongue feels several sizes too big. And his mouth feels as if it’s been stuffed full of cotton wool all night.
Dean tries to swallow and ends up coughing. He rolls over and tries to raise himself up onto hands and knees too weak and shaky to hold him. His arms give way first and he slumps forward, chest on the ground, ass in the air. A phantom hand caresses his ass and a phantom voice in his ear tells him that he’s a good boy. Dean grits his teeth to keep from groaning. His swollen cock is pressing hard against the zipper of his jeans and Dean represses a shudder. He takes a tentative sniff and is relieved when he only detects his own scent. As much as Dean hates his own biology-and he does, with a fiery passion-it would’ve been so much worse if he’d been able to detect the scent of a Dom mixed in with his own pheromones.
Suppressing another groan (and the urge to shove a hand into his pants) Dean rolls onto his back. Jacking off won’t help him right now anyway. The hunt he finished up yesterday had been a bastard; a type of incubi that fed off the sexual energy of Subs. He managed to gank it good and dead, but not before it managed to let loose with its own special brand of dominant pheromones, leaving him hard and wanting and desperate for Subspace. Dean runs a hand over his tightly-shut eyes and groans. He’s been successfully passing as a Dom for most of the past eight years-it’s really just a matter of attitude-but that doesn’t change his neurophysiology. No matter how much he swaggers, no matter how many pretty young Subs he tops, if he doesn’t reach Subspace at least once every couple of weeks, Dean’s health starts to suffer. He begins to swing from depression to mania; one moment so tired and depressed he can’t get out of bed; the next he can’t sit still, his behaviour impulsive and aggressive as he seeks sensation and takes stupid, unnecessary risks. Crazy shit happens to his brain waves too and if he doesn’t get taken down he can end up in a coma. It’s got something to do with neurochemical imbalances; Dean vaguely remembers learning about it in Human Development at school. During the hormone fluctuations of puberty, something happens to a Sub’s ability to adequately maintain their levels of dopamine, prolactin, oxytocin and a few other more recently discovered hormones that Dean can’t remember the names for. Modern science calls it an Autonomic Nervous System Disorder and-Dean’s lips twist-it’s manifestation at puberty is how the submissive dynamic is officially diagnosed.
These days the condition can be managed pretty well with drugs. Unfortunately for Dean, the drugs are illegal in America. For which he has the Church to thank. According to them, the God and the Goddess made Doms in their likeness and then saw that the Doms were lonely. So they used the left over bits of cosmic Lego to make Subs, to serve the Doms and keep them company. Or some shit like that. Dad was never really big on Church after demons murdered his Sub and burnt his house to the ground. All Dean really knows is that the Church has some fucked up idea that Subs are meant to be the way they are and that medicating them would be sacrilege. Of course, Doms go through some hormone changes too; they get those annoying as fuck pheromones that provoke the desire to submit in Subs, but presenting as Dom is just considered the norm, while presenting as Sub is considered a deviation from the norm. When Dean didn’t turn out to be the Dom that everyone was expecting, Dad wouldn’t look him in the eye any more and all of his hopes and dreams for the future turned to dust.
Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath and supposes he’d better make an effort to figure out just how screwed he is. He forces his eyes open and when he finally manages to focus he’s staring up at the grey steel squares of a cage roof.
Fuck.
He hauls himself upright and then drags himself backwards until his shoulders hit the back wall of the cage. He slumps against it and only then does he become aware of the collar around his neck.
Fucking Fuck.
He lifts a shaking hand and feels around the thick leather. He finds the buckle, but the collar is locked and Dean’s blood freezes in his veins. This is so not good. He casts about wildly, looking for something that will tell him where he is and, wow, he’s really off his game because the giant sign on the wall opposite the row of cages (his is the only one occupied) tells him everything he needs to know.
‘Department of Dynamics: Buffalo County (Nebraska) Garrison-Enforcement and Corrections Division’.
Dean is oddly relieved. He’s in a fuckton of trouble here, no doubt about it, but it could’ve been worse; he could’ve gotten himself legally bonded to some asshole Dom. He runs his fingers underneath the collar again, his expression souring. Of course, that might still happen.
--
Gabriel Archangel is deeply engrossed in the client-file before him when the sub-monitor in client X-494’s cell chirps. He glances up at the video monitor and watches as the boy rolls up onto his hands and knees and then slumps down onto his chest, ass in the air. It’s a nice view and Gabriel grins around his cherry Tootsie Pop. The client rolls onto his back and then lies still for-according to the time-keeper on the monitor-a good couple of minutes, before taking an obvious deep breath and dragging himself upright. He shuffles backwards until he’s leaning against the rear wall of the cage and that’s when he finds the collar.
Gabriel watches closely as the client panics big time, fear-filled eyes darting around everywhere until they land on the Garrison’s emblem emblazoned on the wall opposite his cell. His reaction is interesting. Firstly, his expression changes from frightened to relieved, and his shoulders relax. Then his brow furrows and his mouth twists, and Gabriel slurps on his Tootsie Pop noisily before taking it out of his mouth and leaning closer to the monitor. The client is now resigned and irritated, but not scared, not cowed. And there doesn’t appear to be a submissive bone is his body. The client notices the plastic water jug and cup sitting in the corner of the cell and crawls to it slowly. He’s obviously in a bad way and Gabriel has to supress the urge to go to him and hold him; to stroke his hair and hold his cup while he drinks, and to hand feed him small morsels of food. Gabriel has to remember that the client brought this on himself by overdosing on Zero. He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair before shoving the Tootsie Pop back into his mouth. He watches as the client forgoes the cup and gulps water straight from the jug, his head tipped back and his throat rippling in ways that go straight to Gabriel’s groin. Gabriel sighs again and looks away. He wonders how long the client has been taking Zero, if he’s ever actually experienced genuine Subspace.
Of course it would help a great deal if Gabriel had even the first clue who the client actually was; he’d had half a dozen different IDs in his wallet when he was brought in, all of them declaring him a Dom. Gabriel rubs a hand over his face. Whoever this guy is, he’s not the first Sub in history to try passing for a Dom. Gabriel frowns. Unless he actually is a Dom. But then why would a Dom be taking Zero? Gabriel glances back at the monitor. The client is now sitting casually at the back of the cell staring up at the cell-cam with big green eyes that seem to be issuing a challenge. Well now. Gabriel has never been one to back down from a challenge. He snatches up the client’s collection of IDs and heads for the Sub Cells.
--
The door into the Cells slides open and Dean tears his gaze away from the camera, ready to face whatever swaggering asshole Dom the Garrison has sent in to deal with him. One look at the short, baby-faced man who strolls nonchalantly through the door has Dean’s jaw hitting the ground. The black leather pants, leather jacket emblazoned with the Garrison logo, black thigh-high lace up boots and tool belt complete with handcuffs, whip and short cane leave no doubt in Dean’s mind that this man is a Dom, but the Lord and Lady had clearly been having a joke at nature’s expense when they created this one.
“You’ve got to be fucking kid me!” he blurts. “Little short for a stormtrooper, aren’t you?”
The Dom grins and pulls a-Dear Lord-a bright red lollipop out of his mouth and points it at Dean.
“Nice,” he says. “A fanboy after my own heart. So I guess this makes you Princess Leia then?”
Dean blinks and then lets loose with his most seductive smile. “I think I’m more of a Han Solo personally.”
The Dom tilts his head to one side, his eyes narrowed. “A Sub passing for a Dom.”
Dean’s heart beat stutters to a brief stop and then proceeds to beat at triple time. For a long moment he sits completely still, his head down.
--
When the client looks up, Gabriel is disappointed to see that the warm honest friendliness has gone from his eyes and been replaced with cold emptiness. His lips too, which had been quirked with genuine amusement, are now curved into a big, beautiful, entirely fake smile.
“Hardly,” the client drawls, “I just think Han and me share a certain roguish charm.”
“Uh huh,” Gabriel matches his tone. “And a certain disregard for the law too, I’d wager.”
The client rubs at the back of his neck and smiles crookedly before lowering his eyes and Gabriel suddenly has to use all of his training to tamp down the dominant pheromones that are trying to unleash themselves, and the thoroughly unprofessional picture his mind has just conjured of the client naked, in kneeling presentation position.
Gabriel moves slowly towards the cage and the client’s nostrils flare. When his eyes darken, Gabriel knows that he hasn’t been entirely successful in supressing his pheromones.
“Forgive me,” he says, “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Dom Gabriel Archangel.”
The client’s eyes widen. “You’re an Archangel?”
Gabriel sighs and shoves the lollipop back in his mouth. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says around it. “Why is he working the Sub Enforcements and Corrections division in Nebraska when his family has been running the Department of Dynamics for generations, since before it even was a government department?”
The client raises an eyebrow. “Not at all, it makes complete sense. Your family runs things, of course they’re gonna want a family rep everywhere. As to why you personally ended up in the ass end of nowhere, well, you don’t exactly fit the Dom stereotype do you?” he tilts his head, eyes narrow and expression shrewd. “And I’m guessing you probably pissed off somebody important too.”
That hits a little too close to home for comfort and Gabriel decides he’d better get the conversation back on track, and fast.
“Well,” he says, “Now you know who I am. So,” he pulls the bundle of IDs out of his jacket pocket. “How about you tell me who you are?”
The client sits in stony silence and Gabriel nods. “Okay then, guessing game it is. You say stop when I get to the right name.” He reads the name on the first ID.
“Dom Ted Nugent?” No response. He puts that card to the back and reads out the next one.
“Dom Jerry Wanek?” No response.
“Dom Nigel Tufnel?” No response.
“Dom Kris Warren?”
The client’s head comes up. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s me.”
Gabriel nods. He sincerely doubts it.
“Okay Dom Warren,” he says, drawing out the name and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You mind explaining to me how someone with a dominant dynamic manages to get himself strung out on Zero?”
The client-Kris-rubs the back of his neck again, it’s a nervous tic and Gabriel notes it.
“It wasn’t Zero,” he says finally. He shrugs and then straightens his shoulders. “I was Hunting an incubi. It did something to me with its pheromones.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “You’re a Hunter?”
Kris nods.
“Where’s your License?”
Kris rubs the back of his neck again. “I’m, uh, a little behind on my dues.”
“So you’re Hunting unlicensed?”
Kris looks up sheepishly from underneath his eyelashes. “Yeah,” he says. “And I know I gotta take my licks for that, but could we lose the collar? And get me outta this cage?”
Gabriel takes the lollipop out of his mouth and smiles widely. “Sure,” he says. “Just gotta check a few things out first, you know how it is.”
He flicks the client a small salute and punches out of the Cell block.
--
There’s a mustard yellow catalog envelope sitting on Gabriel’s desk. It contains the client’s blood work, tox screen and brain scan. Gabriel reads the results thoroughly, his lips pursed. He’s not surprised, not really. The results show that the client is definitely a Sub. And tales of hunting incubi aside, he is definitely suffering from a Zero overdose. But the real kicker; the really brain-shattering piece of information; is that whoever he is, and Gabriel is pretty damn certain he isn’t Kris Warren, he isn’t in The Department of Dynamics’ database. At all. As either a Sub or a Dom.
Gabriel has finished his Tootsie Pop now and is merely chewing on the stick. Most of his colleagues are paper shufflers and none too happy at being assigned to the Sub Division; at this point they’d throw the client into the too hard basket and pass him on up to State; and that, Gabriel wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.
He uses the Cell-cam to take front and profile stills of the client and then scans them into the Missing Subs Database and sets it to run an image matching search. He then spends the next few hours emailing the stills to every school district in the State, asking them to distribute them to all the High Schools in their district and have them check them against their student records for the last ten years. If he hasn’t got a hit from somewhere by the time he gets back from lunch, he’ll email all the surrounding states.
Gabriel turns reluctantly to the stack of paperwork in his in-tray. Most of it is stock standard and depressing as fuck; Subs reported missing, reports into suspected Sub-abuse, Subs petitioning to be released from Bonds. Gabriel always does what he can, but unfortunately what he’s legally allowed to do is frequently far too little. All Subs are required by law to be under the care and protection of a Dom. The Dom might be a parent or other relative, they might be a Guardian, or they might be a bondmate. Gabriel’s been in the job long enough to notice a direct correlation between the reports into suspected Sub-abuse and the reports of Subs going missing. When the system fails them-and the system inevitably comes down in favor of Doms-a lot of Subs take the law into their own hands and go on the run.
Gabriel turns to the monitor and watches the Sub he’s got caged in his Cell block. He’s putting on a good front; all casual nonchalance and bravado. You have to look really closely to see the unease; the slight twitch of his jaw, the tightening and releasing of his thigh muscles. Gabriel wonders why he’s out on his own. Is he a runaway? A Sub who’s been abused and let down by the system? Or is he something more complicated. The fact that he somehow managed to wipe any trace of himself from the DoD Database speaks volumes about his competence and self-reliance. Gabriel’s jaw tenses and his eyes tighten. Whatever the situation, he can’t let this man end up committed to a State run Home for Subs, branded uncontrollable, a danger to his own health. Those places are soul-crushing prisons at best, sex-slave brothels at worst. Gabriel isn’t sure he could live with himself if one of his clients got sent to one of those places. And Cas? Cas would never forgive him.
--
Sub Fitzgerald comes out of the kitchens with lunch prepared for the client.
“Hiya, Sir,” he says, flashing his trademark goofy grin.
“Hey Garth. Life treating you okay, kid?”
“Sure is, Sir,” Garth heads toward the Cells and Gabriel glances up at the monitor, looks at the green-eyed Sub staring pensively at the bars of his cage, and then makes a split second decision.
“Here, kid,” he says, “let me take that.”
Garth is reluctant to hand the tray over. Taking food to the clients on lockdown in the Sub Division is his job and besides, he doesn’t seem to feel that a Dom should be serving which, frankly, pisses Gabriel off. He ends up having to use his Dom Voice and pheromones to get his way and when Garth finally backs off his expression is injured.
Gabriel sighs and runs a hand through his hair, knowing that he’ll have to find some way of making this up to the kid.
--
When Gabriel walks into the Sub Cells holding a tray of bite-sized morsels the client’s expression shutters off completely.
Gabriel sets the tray down outside his cage. “Front and center,’ he says.
The client glares at him and belligerently refuses to move.
“Please,” Gabriel says. He hates having to compel obedience and he’s already done it once this lunchtime. Something of his emotions must show on his face because understanding flickers briefly in those expressive green eyes before the client’s expression returns to neutral. He stands, stretches, and then ambles to the front of the cage.
“Your bloodwork came back,” Gabriel says.
The client’s pupils dilate. “You took blood from me?”
“While you were out. It’s standard operating procedure for people brought in under the influence of drugs.”
The client frowns. “I told you-”
Gabriel cuts him off. “We did a tox screen too. We know you’re a Sub and we know you OD’d on Zero.”
The client shuts down completely. Gabriel doesn’t think he’s ever seen a Sub manage to look so completely unapproachable before.
“You hungry?” The client doesn’t respond, just stares out over Gabriel’s right shoulder.
Gabriel sighs. “You got a name, kid?”
Nothing.
“Look,” Gabriel tries. “We both know that you’re in a world of trouble. You’ve confessed to unlicensed Hunting, we’ve got you on fake IDs, possibly identity theft, taking a banned substance and impersonating a Dom. On top of which you’re an unregistered Sub living outside the guardianship of a Dom.”
“I’m not a child,” the client hisses, voice tight with rage. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“Of course you are,” Gabriel agrees and the client’s eyes flick to his, surprised. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the law requires you to have a Guardian.”
“The law sucks ass,” the client raises his chin defiantly, eyes smoldering.
“In a lot of aspects it does. And reform is slow. But none of that changes the fact that you are a Sub. And as a Sub you require regular body contact and regular immersion in Subspace. You haven’t been looking after yourself, kid.”
“I ain’t a kid.”
“Then give me a name.”
The client glowers. “I’m just a Sub, right? You’re the almighty Dom. Isn’t my name whatever you say it is?”
Gabriel sighs. “Maybe I’ll call you Alec,” he says. “Short for Smart Alec.”
The client inclines his head and then gives a shit eating grin. “Alec,” he says. “I like it.”
Gabriel snorts. “Good. My second choice was Dick.”
The look on the client’s face is priceless and Gabriel uses his distraction to press on. “You hungry?” he says nodding at the tray.
The client’s expression shuts down again. “I can feed myself,” he spits out.
“You can,” Gabriel nods, “but you need the body contact right now.”
“The hell I do!” the client’s furious reaction is instantaneous, his hands clenching at his side. “If you try anything with me, there’ll be body contact all right; my fist into your face!”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Gabriel says sincerely.
The client deflates a little and then harrumphs. “Not yet, anyway,” he mutters.
Gabriel opens the slot in the door of the cage and unhooks the handcuffs from his tool belt. “Turn around, please,” he says.
The client has gone back to staring over his right shoulder. Gabriel sighs. “Please?” he repeats. “I really don’t want to have to compel your obedience.”
The client snorts and makes eye contact. “But you will,” he says, lips curling cynically.
Gabriel holds his gaze. “I will,” he confirms. “If you make me.”
The client closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Gabriel sees the resignation in them, which only makes it more imperative that Gabriel gets some soothing and nurturing happening; the client’s prolactin levels are probably spiking badly.
The client takes a very obvious deep breath and turns around, obediently presenting his wrists through the slot for cuffing.
“Thank you,” Gabriel says, snapping the cuffs into place. “Take five steps forward and then turn and present standing, eyes on me.”
The client does as he’s told. Gabriel is expecting a sloppy, casual stance-a minor act of rebellion. Instead he gets military precision and perfect parade rest.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs and the client’s ears flush pink. “Kneeling presentation position,” Gabriel instructs and the client folds, dropping into place with a sensual ease that speaks of long and diligent practice. He may have been passing as a Dom for goodness knows how long, but someone has trained him well.
Gabriel picks up the lunch tray and enters the cage. He takes the cage’s remote control out of his tool belt and calls down a cable which he hooks to the client’s hand cuffs. Gabriel doesn’t think the boy will try to attack him, but if he’s been hunting on his own he’s probably more than capable of disabling an opponent and making an escape bid, even wearing handcuffs. It pays to be cautious. Next Gabriel calls down a chair. He sits at the client’s side and encourages him to lean against his legs. The tray is balanced on Gabriel’s thighs and he runs a hand through the client’s hair. The client stiffens and then gradually relaxes as Gabriel continues the soothing touch. He picks up a crunchy cheese and bacon ball and holds it out to the Sub at his feet, telling him what it is. “These are to die for,” he says, “Dom Mills’s speciality.”
The Sub opens his mouth and Gabriel feeds him the morsel. The noise the kid makes as he chews is positively obscene.
“Oh my God,” he moans, “this is one of the best things I’ve ever had in my mouth!”
Gabriel laughs. “I told you,” he says, offering him a second bite.
Gabriel sits with the Sub for the next ten minutes, feeding him and petting his hair. Despite his initial furious outburst at the idea of being hand fed, the client seems quite content to eat from Gabriel’s hand. He seems to enjoy Gabriel’s fingers running through his hair too. “How are you feeling?” Gabriel asks.
“Fine.”
Gabriel tightens his hand in the client’s hair and the Sub winces and then sighs, “I’m a little tired. I’ve got a headache. And I’m not exactly tap dancing with joy right now, but I’m doin’ alright,” he leans into Gabriel’s thighs. “Much as I hate to admit it, this helped. So thank you, I guess.”
“You’re welcome,” Gabriel says warmly.
--
The Missing Subs Database search program is flashing that it’s got a hit and Gabriel has an email from Broken Bow High School in Custer County too.
Both sources confirm that his mystery client is Sub Dean Winchester, born January 24, 1979 to Dom John Winchester (registered Hunter) and Sub Mary Winchester (deceased 1983). He was reported missing on January 26, 1997 by Dom Ellen Harvelle, who is noted on the report as his Guardian Dom, although a later annotation advises that the Guardianship was informal and hadn’t been recorded through proper channels.
The email from Broken Bow High describes Dean as an intelligent, athletic student with a disciplinary record as long as his arm. Gabriel is disappointed to see that he dropped out of school during his senior year, but the school seems to have felt that it was good riddance, that there was no real need for a Sub to have a high school diploma and that the bright, mouthy, physically-capable Sub was far more trouble than he was worth. Gabriel is quietly furious on Dean’s behalf, and maybe some of that is transference, maybe he’s seeing far more of Cas in Dean than he should, but the school’s attitude really is pretty damn unsatisfactory.
Gabriel makes a Face-time call to Dom Harvelle, shows her his credentials and explains that they’ve found Dean. Dom Harvelle (“Call me Ellen”) is teary and grateful for the information. She has a few choice things to say about Dean’s father who, Gabriel learns, pretty much dumped him at Harvelle’s Roadhouse in central Nebraska when he presented as a Sub and then hit the road with his younger son in tow, dropping in to see Dean for a day or two once or twice a year. He turned up for the kid’s eighteenth birthday and gave him his old car-a black 1967 Chevy Impala that Dean apparently doted on-and the news that Dean’s brother Sam had presented as a Dom. John couldn’t stay, not even for Dean’s birthday dinner; he had a hunt lined up and Sam would be providing backup.
Dean went missing two days later. Ellen is not surprised to hear that Dean managed to wipe any record of himself from the DoD Database. Nor is she surprised to hear how much trouble Dean’s gotten himself into. She offers herself as a Guardian and Gabriel thanks her for the offer, but she’s not family, she’s not offering to be a bondmate and she’s already managed to lose Dean once. Gabriel doubts the Judge will find her a suitable person.
He calls John Winchester next and gets a recorded message, along with a cell phone number for a Dom Bobby Singer and the instruction to call him “if it’s urgent”. Gabriel thinks it’s urgent, although he’s not sure John Winchester would agree. He calls Dom Singer, who answers on Private and has to be persuaded to switch to Face-time so that Gabriel can show him his credentials. From Dom Singer, Gabriel learns that John is out on an extended solo hunt, tracking the demon that killed his Sub. John checks in with Singer every now and then, but not often and not regularly. Dom Singer seems disappointed to hear that the DoD has found Dean and Gabriel suspects that he may have had some contact with the kid over the last eight years, perhaps even knew (or suspected) what he was up to. Singer also offers himself as a Guardian for Dean, although not a bondmate. Gabriel leaves Singer his number and hangs up; hopeful that maybe he’s found a way to keep Dean out of State. When he runs Bobby Singer’s name through the system he finds that the Dom is recorded as having killed his Sub, Karen. Okay, yes, she was possessed by a demon at the time, but still, it won’t look good to a Judge. Gabriel can feel a headache starting behind his eyes and he rubs at his brow and temples with his fingers. His desk phone rings and he answers it on automatic pilot: “DoD Buffalo County, Gabriel speaking.”
“Gabriel Archangel?” says a strong, young, male voice.
“Speaking.”
“This is Sam Winchester. I hear you’ve found my brother.”
Gabriel sits up straight. Sam is a family member and a Dom and Gabriel smacks himself in the head because Bobby had straight up told him that Dom Winchester senior was on a solo hunt and it hadn’t even occurred to him to wonder where Sam was.
The answer to that, Gabriel learns, is Stanford University, where Sam is a pre-law student, currently interviewing for law school placements. He hasn’t spoken with his father in four years.
“Dom Winchester,” Gabriel says, but he is silenced by a derisive snort.
“I prefer the honorific Mister,” Winchester says snippily. “I don’t wear my dynamic on my sleeve and as far as I’m concerned the only person who has any need to even know my dynamic, is my partner.”
Gabriel processes that for a beat. “Your...partner?” he says finally.
“Jessica,” Winchester says.
“Jessica. She’s your…?”
“Partner,” Winchester says.
Gabriel grins. Oh, he really likes Sam Winchester. He has the sort of moral outrage that only college students can ever truly muster. He may be same-dynamic oriented, he may be a-dynamic or he and Jessica may be a stock standard D/s couple. The point is, in Sam’s mind, it’s no-one’s business but their own. Cas would love him.
“Mister Winchester,” Gabriel says, his tone mild and devoid of judgement, “irrespective of your views on the current laws around Dynamics, your brother is currently in a lot of trouble,” he briefly outlines the likely charges against Dean, “and he needs a suitable Guardian Dom if we want to keep him out of State.”
“This is insane,” Winchester says tightly, “Dean’s been living and surviving as not only a Dom, but a solo Hunter for the last eight years, and suddenly you want to lock him up ‘for his own good’ because despite all evidence to the contrary you think that his being a Sub means he’s not competent to survive on his own. Tell me you see the logic-flaw in that argument!”
“Sure I do,” Gabriel says easily. “But that doesn’t change the law.”
“The law sucks ass,” Winchester spits, unknowingly echoing his brother.
“And one day,” Gabriel says, “maybe you’ll be able to change it. But in the meantime, I have to do the best I can for my clients with the laws I have to work with. So. Are you prepared to be Dean’s Guardian Dom?”
“Yes,” Winchester says immediately. “But Dean’s in Nebraska and I’m in Palo Alto, and I’m in the middle of all these law school interviews. And I don’t have any money because my Dad disowned me when I quit Hunting to go to college. I got a full ride, but honestly, I can barely manage to support myself, let alone somebody else. Not that I think Dean would need me to support him, but the law requires me to be capable of supporting him in order to be considered a suitable Guardian. God and Goddess be damned! This is insane! We have to keep him out of State, Gabriel. It’d kill him.”
“Sam…can I call you Sam?” He gets a grunt in the affirmative. “You’re probably right; I don’t think the Judge will want to put the burden of a Sub Guardianship on your shoulders. I’ve already spoken to Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle. Both of them are willing too, but I doubt the Judge will consider either of them suitable. Your Dad,” there’s a disparaging snort from Sam, “isn’t available. Is there anyone else? Anyone at all that you can think of?”
There’s a lengthy silence and then Sam says. “There may be someone I can call. Someone who may be able to help. When…How long do I have?”
“He’ll be going before the Judge tomorrow afternoon.”
NEXT>>
Back to Masterpost
Dean awakes with a throbbing headache.
He’s lying on a cold, hard surface, curled up in a fetal position, his hands like claws. He’s thirsty. His tongue feels several sizes too big. And his mouth feels as if it’s been stuffed full of cotton wool all night.
Dean tries to swallow and ends up coughing. He rolls over and tries to raise himself up onto hands and knees too weak and shaky to hold him. His arms give way first and he slumps forward, chest on the ground, ass in the air. A phantom hand caresses his ass and a phantom voice in his ear tells him that he’s a good boy. Dean grits his teeth to keep from groaning. His swollen cock is pressing hard against the zipper of his jeans and Dean represses a shudder. He takes a tentative sniff and is relieved when he only detects his own scent. As much as Dean hates his own biology-and he does, with a fiery passion-it would’ve been so much worse if he’d been able to detect the scent of a Dom mixed in with his own pheromones.
Suppressing another groan (and the urge to shove a hand into his pants) Dean rolls onto his back. Jacking off won’t help him right now anyway. The hunt he finished up yesterday had been a bastard; a type of incubi that fed off the sexual energy of Subs. He managed to gank it good and dead, but not before it managed to let loose with its own special brand of dominant pheromones, leaving him hard and wanting and desperate for Subspace. Dean runs a hand over his tightly-shut eyes and groans. He’s been successfully passing as a Dom for most of the past eight years-it’s really just a matter of attitude-but that doesn’t change his neurophysiology. No matter how much he swaggers, no matter how many pretty young Subs he tops, if he doesn’t reach Subspace at least once every couple of weeks, Dean’s health starts to suffer. He begins to swing from depression to mania; one moment so tired and depressed he can’t get out of bed; the next he can’t sit still, his behaviour impulsive and aggressive as he seeks sensation and takes stupid, unnecessary risks. Crazy shit happens to his brain waves too and if he doesn’t get taken down he can end up in a coma. It’s got something to do with neurochemical imbalances; Dean vaguely remembers learning about it in Human Development at school. During the hormone fluctuations of puberty, something happens to a Sub’s ability to adequately maintain their levels of dopamine, prolactin, oxytocin and a few other more recently discovered hormones that Dean can’t remember the names for. Modern science calls it an Autonomic Nervous System Disorder and-Dean’s lips twist-it’s manifestation at puberty is how the submissive dynamic is officially diagnosed.
These days the condition can be managed pretty well with drugs. Unfortunately for Dean, the drugs are illegal in America. For which he has the Church to thank. According to them, the God and the Goddess made Doms in their likeness and then saw that the Doms were lonely. So they used the left over bits of cosmic Lego to make Subs, to serve the Doms and keep them company. Or some shit like that. Dad was never really big on Church after demons murdered his Sub and burnt his house to the ground. All Dean really knows is that the Church has some fucked up idea that Subs are meant to be the way they are and that medicating them would be sacrilege. Of course, Doms go through some hormone changes too; they get those annoying as fuck pheromones that provoke the desire to submit in Subs, but presenting as Dom is just considered the norm, while presenting as Sub is considered a deviation from the norm. When Dean didn’t turn out to be the Dom that everyone was expecting, Dad wouldn’t look him in the eye any more and all of his hopes and dreams for the future turned to dust.
Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath and supposes he’d better make an effort to figure out just how screwed he is. He forces his eyes open and when he finally manages to focus he’s staring up at the grey steel squares of a cage roof.
Fuck.
He hauls himself upright and then drags himself backwards until his shoulders hit the back wall of the cage. He slumps against it and only then does he become aware of the collar around his neck.
Fucking Fuck.
He lifts a shaking hand and feels around the thick leather. He finds the buckle, but the collar is locked and Dean’s blood freezes in his veins. This is so not good. He casts about wildly, looking for something that will tell him where he is and, wow, he’s really off his game because the giant sign on the wall opposite the row of cages (his is the only one occupied) tells him everything he needs to know.
‘Department of Dynamics: Buffalo County (Nebraska) Garrison-Enforcement and Corrections Division’.
Dean is oddly relieved. He’s in a fuckton of trouble here, no doubt about it, but it could’ve been worse; he could’ve gotten himself legally bonded to some asshole Dom. He runs his fingers underneath the collar again, his expression souring. Of course, that might still happen.
--
Gabriel Archangel is deeply engrossed in the client-file before him when the sub-monitor in client X-494’s cell chirps. He glances up at the video monitor and watches as the boy rolls up onto his hands and knees and then slumps down onto his chest, ass in the air. It’s a nice view and Gabriel grins around his cherry Tootsie Pop. The client rolls onto his back and then lies still for-according to the time-keeper on the monitor-a good couple of minutes, before taking an obvious deep breath and dragging himself upright. He shuffles backwards until he’s leaning against the rear wall of the cage and that’s when he finds the collar.
Gabriel watches closely as the client panics big time, fear-filled eyes darting around everywhere until they land on the Garrison’s emblem emblazoned on the wall opposite his cell. His reaction is interesting. Firstly, his expression changes from frightened to relieved, and his shoulders relax. Then his brow furrows and his mouth twists, and Gabriel slurps on his Tootsie Pop noisily before taking it out of his mouth and leaning closer to the monitor. The client is now resigned and irritated, but not scared, not cowed. And there doesn’t appear to be a submissive bone is his body. The client notices the plastic water jug and cup sitting in the corner of the cell and crawls to it slowly. He’s obviously in a bad way and Gabriel has to supress the urge to go to him and hold him; to stroke his hair and hold his cup while he drinks, and to hand feed him small morsels of food. Gabriel has to remember that the client brought this on himself by overdosing on Zero. He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair before shoving the Tootsie Pop back into his mouth. He watches as the client forgoes the cup and gulps water straight from the jug, his head tipped back and his throat rippling in ways that go straight to Gabriel’s groin. Gabriel sighs again and looks away. He wonders how long the client has been taking Zero, if he’s ever actually experienced genuine Subspace.
Of course it would help a great deal if Gabriel had even the first clue who the client actually was; he’d had half a dozen different IDs in his wallet when he was brought in, all of them declaring him a Dom. Gabriel rubs a hand over his face. Whoever this guy is, he’s not the first Sub in history to try passing for a Dom. Gabriel frowns. Unless he actually is a Dom. But then why would a Dom be taking Zero? Gabriel glances back at the monitor. The client is now sitting casually at the back of the cell staring up at the cell-cam with big green eyes that seem to be issuing a challenge. Well now. Gabriel has never been one to back down from a challenge. He snatches up the client’s collection of IDs and heads for the Sub Cells.
--
The door into the Cells slides open and Dean tears his gaze away from the camera, ready to face whatever swaggering asshole Dom the Garrison has sent in to deal with him. One look at the short, baby-faced man who strolls nonchalantly through the door has Dean’s jaw hitting the ground. The black leather pants, leather jacket emblazoned with the Garrison logo, black thigh-high lace up boots and tool belt complete with handcuffs, whip and short cane leave no doubt in Dean’s mind that this man is a Dom, but the Lord and Lady had clearly been having a joke at nature’s expense when they created this one.
“You’ve got to be fucking kid me!” he blurts. “Little short for a stormtrooper, aren’t you?”
The Dom grins and pulls a-Dear Lord-a bright red lollipop out of his mouth and points it at Dean.
“Nice,” he says. “A fanboy after my own heart. So I guess this makes you Princess Leia then?”
Dean blinks and then lets loose with his most seductive smile. “I think I’m more of a Han Solo personally.”
The Dom tilts his head to one side, his eyes narrowed. “A Sub passing for a Dom.”
Dean’s heart beat stutters to a brief stop and then proceeds to beat at triple time. For a long moment he sits completely still, his head down.
--
When the client looks up, Gabriel is disappointed to see that the warm honest friendliness has gone from his eyes and been replaced with cold emptiness. His lips too, which had been quirked with genuine amusement, are now curved into a big, beautiful, entirely fake smile.
“Hardly,” the client drawls, “I just think Han and me share a certain roguish charm.”
“Uh huh,” Gabriel matches his tone. “And a certain disregard for the law too, I’d wager.”
The client rubs at the back of his neck and smiles crookedly before lowering his eyes and Gabriel suddenly has to use all of his training to tamp down the dominant pheromones that are trying to unleash themselves, and the thoroughly unprofessional picture his mind has just conjured of the client naked, in kneeling presentation position.
Gabriel moves slowly towards the cage and the client’s nostrils flare. When his eyes darken, Gabriel knows that he hasn’t been entirely successful in supressing his pheromones.
“Forgive me,” he says, “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Dom Gabriel Archangel.”
The client’s eyes widen. “You’re an Archangel?”
Gabriel sighs and shoves the lollipop back in his mouth. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says around it. “Why is he working the Sub Enforcements and Corrections division in Nebraska when his family has been running the Department of Dynamics for generations, since before it even was a government department?”
The client raises an eyebrow. “Not at all, it makes complete sense. Your family runs things, of course they’re gonna want a family rep everywhere. As to why you personally ended up in the ass end of nowhere, well, you don’t exactly fit the Dom stereotype do you?” he tilts his head, eyes narrow and expression shrewd. “And I’m guessing you probably pissed off somebody important too.”
That hits a little too close to home for comfort and Gabriel decides he’d better get the conversation back on track, and fast.
“Well,” he says, “Now you know who I am. So,” he pulls the bundle of IDs out of his jacket pocket. “How about you tell me who you are?”
The client sits in stony silence and Gabriel nods. “Okay then, guessing game it is. You say stop when I get to the right name.” He reads the name on the first ID.
“Dom Ted Nugent?” No response. He puts that card to the back and reads out the next one.
“Dom Jerry Wanek?” No response.
“Dom Nigel Tufnel?” No response.
“Dom Kris Warren?”
The client’s head comes up. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s me.”
Gabriel nods. He sincerely doubts it.
“Okay Dom Warren,” he says, drawing out the name and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You mind explaining to me how someone with a dominant dynamic manages to get himself strung out on Zero?”
The client-Kris-rubs the back of his neck again, it’s a nervous tic and Gabriel notes it.
“It wasn’t Zero,” he says finally. He shrugs and then straightens his shoulders. “I was Hunting an incubi. It did something to me with its pheromones.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “You’re a Hunter?”
Kris nods.
“Where’s your License?”
Kris rubs the back of his neck again. “I’m, uh, a little behind on my dues.”
“So you’re Hunting unlicensed?”
Kris looks up sheepishly from underneath his eyelashes. “Yeah,” he says. “And I know I gotta take my licks for that, but could we lose the collar? And get me outta this cage?”
Gabriel takes the lollipop out of his mouth and smiles widely. “Sure,” he says. “Just gotta check a few things out first, you know how it is.”
He flicks the client a small salute and punches out of the Cell block.
--
There’s a mustard yellow catalog envelope sitting on Gabriel’s desk. It contains the client’s blood work, tox screen and brain scan. Gabriel reads the results thoroughly, his lips pursed. He’s not surprised, not really. The results show that the client is definitely a Sub. And tales of hunting incubi aside, he is definitely suffering from a Zero overdose. But the real kicker; the really brain-shattering piece of information; is that whoever he is, and Gabriel is pretty damn certain he isn’t Kris Warren, he isn’t in The Department of Dynamics’ database. At all. As either a Sub or a Dom.
Gabriel has finished his Tootsie Pop now and is merely chewing on the stick. Most of his colleagues are paper shufflers and none too happy at being assigned to the Sub Division; at this point they’d throw the client into the too hard basket and pass him on up to State; and that, Gabriel wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.
He uses the Cell-cam to take front and profile stills of the client and then scans them into the Missing Subs Database and sets it to run an image matching search. He then spends the next few hours emailing the stills to every school district in the State, asking them to distribute them to all the High Schools in their district and have them check them against their student records for the last ten years. If he hasn’t got a hit from somewhere by the time he gets back from lunch, he’ll email all the surrounding states.
Gabriel turns reluctantly to the stack of paperwork in his in-tray. Most of it is stock standard and depressing as fuck; Subs reported missing, reports into suspected Sub-abuse, Subs petitioning to be released from Bonds. Gabriel always does what he can, but unfortunately what he’s legally allowed to do is frequently far too little. All Subs are required by law to be under the care and protection of a Dom. The Dom might be a parent or other relative, they might be a Guardian, or they might be a bondmate. Gabriel’s been in the job long enough to notice a direct correlation between the reports into suspected Sub-abuse and the reports of Subs going missing. When the system fails them-and the system inevitably comes down in favor of Doms-a lot of Subs take the law into their own hands and go on the run.
Gabriel turns to the monitor and watches the Sub he’s got caged in his Cell block. He’s putting on a good front; all casual nonchalance and bravado. You have to look really closely to see the unease; the slight twitch of his jaw, the tightening and releasing of his thigh muscles. Gabriel wonders why he’s out on his own. Is he a runaway? A Sub who’s been abused and let down by the system? Or is he something more complicated. The fact that he somehow managed to wipe any trace of himself from the DoD Database speaks volumes about his competence and self-reliance. Gabriel’s jaw tenses and his eyes tighten. Whatever the situation, he can’t let this man end up committed to a State run Home for Subs, branded uncontrollable, a danger to his own health. Those places are soul-crushing prisons at best, sex-slave brothels at worst. Gabriel isn’t sure he could live with himself if one of his clients got sent to one of those places. And Cas? Cas would never forgive him.
--
Sub Fitzgerald comes out of the kitchens with lunch prepared for the client.
“Hiya, Sir,” he says, flashing his trademark goofy grin.
“Hey Garth. Life treating you okay, kid?”
“Sure is, Sir,” Garth heads toward the Cells and Gabriel glances up at the monitor, looks at the green-eyed Sub staring pensively at the bars of his cage, and then makes a split second decision.
“Here, kid,” he says, “let me take that.”
Garth is reluctant to hand the tray over. Taking food to the clients on lockdown in the Sub Division is his job and besides, he doesn’t seem to feel that a Dom should be serving which, frankly, pisses Gabriel off. He ends up having to use his Dom Voice and pheromones to get his way and when Garth finally backs off his expression is injured.
Gabriel sighs and runs a hand through his hair, knowing that he’ll have to find some way of making this up to the kid.
--
When Gabriel walks into the Sub Cells holding a tray of bite-sized morsels the client’s expression shutters off completely.
Gabriel sets the tray down outside his cage. “Front and center,’ he says.
The client glares at him and belligerently refuses to move.
“Please,” Gabriel says. He hates having to compel obedience and he’s already done it once this lunchtime. Something of his emotions must show on his face because understanding flickers briefly in those expressive green eyes before the client’s expression returns to neutral. He stands, stretches, and then ambles to the front of the cage.
“Your bloodwork came back,” Gabriel says.
The client’s pupils dilate. “You took blood from me?”
“While you were out. It’s standard operating procedure for people brought in under the influence of drugs.”
The client frowns. “I told you-”
Gabriel cuts him off. “We did a tox screen too. We know you’re a Sub and we know you OD’d on Zero.”
The client shuts down completely. Gabriel doesn’t think he’s ever seen a Sub manage to look so completely unapproachable before.
“You hungry?” The client doesn’t respond, just stares out over Gabriel’s right shoulder.
Gabriel sighs. “You got a name, kid?”
Nothing.
“Look,” Gabriel tries. “We both know that you’re in a world of trouble. You’ve confessed to unlicensed Hunting, we’ve got you on fake IDs, possibly identity theft, taking a banned substance and impersonating a Dom. On top of which you’re an unregistered Sub living outside the guardianship of a Dom.”
“I’m not a child,” the client hisses, voice tight with rage. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“Of course you are,” Gabriel agrees and the client’s eyes flick to his, surprised. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the law requires you to have a Guardian.”
“The law sucks ass,” the client raises his chin defiantly, eyes smoldering.
“In a lot of aspects it does. And reform is slow. But none of that changes the fact that you are a Sub. And as a Sub you require regular body contact and regular immersion in Subspace. You haven’t been looking after yourself, kid.”
“I ain’t a kid.”
“Then give me a name.”
The client glowers. “I’m just a Sub, right? You’re the almighty Dom. Isn’t my name whatever you say it is?”
Gabriel sighs. “Maybe I’ll call you Alec,” he says. “Short for Smart Alec.”
The client inclines his head and then gives a shit eating grin. “Alec,” he says. “I like it.”
Gabriel snorts. “Good. My second choice was Dick.”
The look on the client’s face is priceless and Gabriel uses his distraction to press on. “You hungry?” he says nodding at the tray.
The client’s expression shuts down again. “I can feed myself,” he spits out.
“You can,” Gabriel nods, “but you need the body contact right now.”
“The hell I do!” the client’s furious reaction is instantaneous, his hands clenching at his side. “If you try anything with me, there’ll be body contact all right; my fist into your face!”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Gabriel says sincerely.
The client deflates a little and then harrumphs. “Not yet, anyway,” he mutters.
Gabriel opens the slot in the door of the cage and unhooks the handcuffs from his tool belt. “Turn around, please,” he says.
The client has gone back to staring over his right shoulder. Gabriel sighs. “Please?” he repeats. “I really don’t want to have to compel your obedience.”
The client snorts and makes eye contact. “But you will,” he says, lips curling cynically.
Gabriel holds his gaze. “I will,” he confirms. “If you make me.”
The client closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Gabriel sees the resignation in them, which only makes it more imperative that Gabriel gets some soothing and nurturing happening; the client’s prolactin levels are probably spiking badly.
The client takes a very obvious deep breath and turns around, obediently presenting his wrists through the slot for cuffing.
“Thank you,” Gabriel says, snapping the cuffs into place. “Take five steps forward and then turn and present standing, eyes on me.”
The client does as he’s told. Gabriel is expecting a sloppy, casual stance-a minor act of rebellion. Instead he gets military precision and perfect parade rest.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs and the client’s ears flush pink. “Kneeling presentation position,” Gabriel instructs and the client folds, dropping into place with a sensual ease that speaks of long and diligent practice. He may have been passing as a Dom for goodness knows how long, but someone has trained him well.
Gabriel picks up the lunch tray and enters the cage. He takes the cage’s remote control out of his tool belt and calls down a cable which he hooks to the client’s hand cuffs. Gabriel doesn’t think the boy will try to attack him, but if he’s been hunting on his own he’s probably more than capable of disabling an opponent and making an escape bid, even wearing handcuffs. It pays to be cautious. Next Gabriel calls down a chair. He sits at the client’s side and encourages him to lean against his legs. The tray is balanced on Gabriel’s thighs and he runs a hand through the client’s hair. The client stiffens and then gradually relaxes as Gabriel continues the soothing touch. He picks up a crunchy cheese and bacon ball and holds it out to the Sub at his feet, telling him what it is. “These are to die for,” he says, “Dom Mills’s speciality.”
The Sub opens his mouth and Gabriel feeds him the morsel. The noise the kid makes as he chews is positively obscene.
“Oh my God,” he moans, “this is one of the best things I’ve ever had in my mouth!”
Gabriel laughs. “I told you,” he says, offering him a second bite.
Gabriel sits with the Sub for the next ten minutes, feeding him and petting his hair. Despite his initial furious outburst at the idea of being hand fed, the client seems quite content to eat from Gabriel’s hand. He seems to enjoy Gabriel’s fingers running through his hair too. “How are you feeling?” Gabriel asks.
“Fine.”
Gabriel tightens his hand in the client’s hair and the Sub winces and then sighs, “I’m a little tired. I’ve got a headache. And I’m not exactly tap dancing with joy right now, but I’m doin’ alright,” he leans into Gabriel’s thighs. “Much as I hate to admit it, this helped. So thank you, I guess.”
“You’re welcome,” Gabriel says warmly.
--
The Missing Subs Database search program is flashing that it’s got a hit and Gabriel has an email from Broken Bow High School in Custer County too.
Both sources confirm that his mystery client is Sub Dean Winchester, born January 24, 1979 to Dom John Winchester (registered Hunter) and Sub Mary Winchester (deceased 1983). He was reported missing on January 26, 1997 by Dom Ellen Harvelle, who is noted on the report as his Guardian Dom, although a later annotation advises that the Guardianship was informal and hadn’t been recorded through proper channels.
The email from Broken Bow High describes Dean as an intelligent, athletic student with a disciplinary record as long as his arm. Gabriel is disappointed to see that he dropped out of school during his senior year, but the school seems to have felt that it was good riddance, that there was no real need for a Sub to have a high school diploma and that the bright, mouthy, physically-capable Sub was far more trouble than he was worth. Gabriel is quietly furious on Dean’s behalf, and maybe some of that is transference, maybe he’s seeing far more of Cas in Dean than he should, but the school’s attitude really is pretty damn unsatisfactory.
Gabriel makes a Face-time call to Dom Harvelle, shows her his credentials and explains that they’ve found Dean. Dom Harvelle (“Call me Ellen”) is teary and grateful for the information. She has a few choice things to say about Dean’s father who, Gabriel learns, pretty much dumped him at Harvelle’s Roadhouse in central Nebraska when he presented as a Sub and then hit the road with his younger son in tow, dropping in to see Dean for a day or two once or twice a year. He turned up for the kid’s eighteenth birthday and gave him his old car-a black 1967 Chevy Impala that Dean apparently doted on-and the news that Dean’s brother Sam had presented as a Dom. John couldn’t stay, not even for Dean’s birthday dinner; he had a hunt lined up and Sam would be providing backup.
Dean went missing two days later. Ellen is not surprised to hear that Dean managed to wipe any record of himself from the DoD Database. Nor is she surprised to hear how much trouble Dean’s gotten himself into. She offers herself as a Guardian and Gabriel thanks her for the offer, but she’s not family, she’s not offering to be a bondmate and she’s already managed to lose Dean once. Gabriel doubts the Judge will find her a suitable person.
He calls John Winchester next and gets a recorded message, along with a cell phone number for a Dom Bobby Singer and the instruction to call him “if it’s urgent”. Gabriel thinks it’s urgent, although he’s not sure John Winchester would agree. He calls Dom Singer, who answers on Private and has to be persuaded to switch to Face-time so that Gabriel can show him his credentials. From Dom Singer, Gabriel learns that John is out on an extended solo hunt, tracking the demon that killed his Sub. John checks in with Singer every now and then, but not often and not regularly. Dom Singer seems disappointed to hear that the DoD has found Dean and Gabriel suspects that he may have had some contact with the kid over the last eight years, perhaps even knew (or suspected) what he was up to. Singer also offers himself as a Guardian for Dean, although not a bondmate. Gabriel leaves Singer his number and hangs up; hopeful that maybe he’s found a way to keep Dean out of State. When he runs Bobby Singer’s name through the system he finds that the Dom is recorded as having killed his Sub, Karen. Okay, yes, she was possessed by a demon at the time, but still, it won’t look good to a Judge. Gabriel can feel a headache starting behind his eyes and he rubs at his brow and temples with his fingers. His desk phone rings and he answers it on automatic pilot: “DoD Buffalo County, Gabriel speaking.”
“Gabriel Archangel?” says a strong, young, male voice.
“Speaking.”
“This is Sam Winchester. I hear you’ve found my brother.”
Gabriel sits up straight. Sam is a family member and a Dom and Gabriel smacks himself in the head because Bobby had straight up told him that Dom Winchester senior was on a solo hunt and it hadn’t even occurred to him to wonder where Sam was.
The answer to that, Gabriel learns, is Stanford University, where Sam is a pre-law student, currently interviewing for law school placements. He hasn’t spoken with his father in four years.
“Dom Winchester,” Gabriel says, but he is silenced by a derisive snort.
“I prefer the honorific Mister,” Winchester says snippily. “I don’t wear my dynamic on my sleeve and as far as I’m concerned the only person who has any need to even know my dynamic, is my partner.”
Gabriel processes that for a beat. “Your...partner?” he says finally.
“Jessica,” Winchester says.
“Jessica. She’s your…?”
“Partner,” Winchester says.
Gabriel grins. Oh, he really likes Sam Winchester. He has the sort of moral outrage that only college students can ever truly muster. He may be same-dynamic oriented, he may be a-dynamic or he and Jessica may be a stock standard D/s couple. The point is, in Sam’s mind, it’s no-one’s business but their own. Cas would love him.
“Mister Winchester,” Gabriel says, his tone mild and devoid of judgement, “irrespective of your views on the current laws around Dynamics, your brother is currently in a lot of trouble,” he briefly outlines the likely charges against Dean, “and he needs a suitable Guardian Dom if we want to keep him out of State.”
“This is insane,” Winchester says tightly, “Dean’s been living and surviving as not only a Dom, but a solo Hunter for the last eight years, and suddenly you want to lock him up ‘for his own good’ because despite all evidence to the contrary you think that his being a Sub means he’s not competent to survive on his own. Tell me you see the logic-flaw in that argument!”
“Sure I do,” Gabriel says easily. “But that doesn’t change the law.”
“The law sucks ass,” Winchester spits, unknowingly echoing his brother.
“And one day,” Gabriel says, “maybe you’ll be able to change it. But in the meantime, I have to do the best I can for my clients with the laws I have to work with. So. Are you prepared to be Dean’s Guardian Dom?”
“Yes,” Winchester says immediately. “But Dean’s in Nebraska and I’m in Palo Alto, and I’m in the middle of all these law school interviews. And I don’t have any money because my Dad disowned me when I quit Hunting to go to college. I got a full ride, but honestly, I can barely manage to support myself, let alone somebody else. Not that I think Dean would need me to support him, but the law requires me to be capable of supporting him in order to be considered a suitable Guardian. God and Goddess be damned! This is insane! We have to keep him out of State, Gabriel. It’d kill him.”
“Sam…can I call you Sam?” He gets a grunt in the affirmative. “You’re probably right; I don’t think the Judge will want to put the burden of a Sub Guardianship on your shoulders. I’ve already spoken to Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle. Both of them are willing too, but I doubt the Judge will consider either of them suitable. Your Dad,” there’s a disparaging snort from Sam, “isn’t available. Is there anyone else? Anyone at all that you can think of?”
There’s a lengthy silence and then Sam says. “There may be someone I can call. Someone who may be able to help. When…How long do I have?”
“He’ll be going before the Judge tomorrow afternoon.”
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