Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Numbness fades to panic over time.

For a while, all Balthazar can do is hold his head in his hands and pray that he wakes up from whatever nightmare this is. But when he pinches his skin and opens his eyes, nothing has changed. The bedroom carpet is still soft beneath his hands. His body is still clad in the clothes he was given. The early evening sun still sets beyond the glass.

The knowledge that he isn’t dreaming is what eventually pushes him to use what little strength he has to stand shakily in the middle of the bedroom.

As soon as he does, any artificial calm gained from burying his head in his hands and blocking out the light that surrounds him disappears. Mounting anxiety takes its place; his shaking hands are slick with sweat no matter how many times he wipes them on the clothes that were never really his. His scent is thick enough to drown in.

Balthazar paces until his legs grow steady. Round and round, a circle that would leave him dizzy if he had the wherewithal to focus on it. He thinks of nothing but his footsteps as he walks, drawing circles in the ground, imagines himself wearing down the carpet, leaving an imprint, a mark. This mark, tangible proof that he has lived; that he is alive.

For now.

Balthazar shivers in the warmth of the room. Stops in his furious tracks.

He needs to breathe, needs to calm his racing heart and his scent that’s spiralling wildly out of control. Now he’s paying attention to it, it’s overwhelming – foetid and rotten citrus making his head hurt and his body itch and his panic rise.

He has to hide this. Hide it before Castiel finds out – hell, he’s half sure even Gabriel would be able to catch it, if he tried.

God, fuck. Gabriel.

He thinks he might be sick.

Moving towards the window on unsteady feet, Balthazar flings it open, inhaling deep lungfuls of fresh air that abates the acrid scent of his own fear just enough that he can breathe again.

Watery eyes stare at the forest beyond the glass.

It’s beautiful outside. Wet leaves of all different colours floating softly down, down, down. Rippling like a kite in wind as the sun sends shimmers of amber-gold over the treetops in the faraway distance. They appear deep crimson and sunset orange in the fading daylight, and he tries to hold on to the image, the beauty, if only to remind himself that such things still exist.

His sigh is heavy, uneven like waves against shore.

He doesn’t know what to do.

The truth of it is that there’s nothing Balthazar can do. No way to bargain, to save himself, because if Gabriel wants to train him and use him and fucking lie to him–

He can do whatever he wants.

And Balthazar can do nothing.

Eventually, his roaming gaze fixes on the window seat. The comfortable cushion and the endless landscape he’s spent so very long watching. The world outside that he’d allowed himself to think he could explore at his leisure. He wants to sit on it, thinks maybe he could feel some sort of vindictive pleasure in defiance now he knows it’s all an act.

But the fear still exists and old orders still stick, and he already knows he won’t do it.

The panic he’d spiralled into lingers at the edges of his mind, permeating the room. He still catches hints of the scent, too thick, even with fresh air pooling into the space that isn’t his – was never his – like he’s slowly being poisoned.

He should’ve known.

Redundant as the thought is, it plagues him anyway. Seeps into his mind like sickness, because he knows he isn’t allowed to have this, knows that this – all of this – was too good to be true.

And Balthazar, bloody fool that he is, has learnt nothing, because a part of him still doesn’t want to believe it.

It’s a part of him that will surely get him killed, if he lets it, but it’s there anyway, that glowing gold shimmer of hope in his chest. Hope that should be dead, that he needs to be dead, but exists anyway.

What he really needs is a plan, some way to get the damn collar off of his neck and find a way to escape. Castiel’s offer to remove the heinous thing springs to mind and hits him like a gut punch – at least, if Balthazar had said yes, he would’ve known if the man was lying. If he’d said yes, maybe he could have a hope in hell of escape.

But it’s obvious now – Castiel never would’ve let him go. Not when Gabriel is the one who holds his contract, the one that wants to break him.

He wonders if Castiel had known all along.

It’s something that seems almost too impossible to believe. Because even though Gabriel seems barely able to tolerate him, Castiel is…different. Different to every other master he’s ever had. The alpha has paid attention to him, tried to calm him down, given him food he can keep for himself, hasn’t punished Balthazar for the entire laundry list of things he’s done wrong.

Castiel said he isn’t like his family. Claims that he hates them. But maybe…

He can’t go there. Not yet.

Balthazar collapses back to the ground as he replays the conversation he was never supposed to hear over again in his head.

Gabriel had been quiet, sequestered in his room as he spoke. That in itself isn’t much indication of anything – after all, Gabriel has taken to spending most of time alone – but this…this feels like something secretive, something he didn’t want anyone else to hear. But if that’s the case, the next question he can’t seem to answer, is why?

Why would he bother to hide the conversation? They all know the man could easily have Balthazar do whatever he wants without so much as a threat. Hell, the barest hint of irritation is comfortably enough to have his slave dropping to his knees in an instant.

Crescent moons form on his skin as he presses his nails into his thighs and thinks. Thinks of training centres and lessons taught with whips and chains and effortless cruelty. Thinks of backhand slaps and bruising hands. Thinks Morningstar, always the fucking Morningstars.

Gabriel – he has no reason to sequester himself away, to hide from the other occupants of the house.

The only possibility is that the beta is toying with him, building him up to break him back down again. Maybe that’s why he’s being all but ordered onto the furniture, why he’s being told to think for himself; undoing the brutally learned training just to do it all over again.

And if he doesn’t comply…

Michael wants to visit.

The evening wears on as he tries to think of a way out of this, how to hide what he knows from his masters before he manages to give himself away and finally gets treated the way he’s supposed to. Before he inevitably fails to meet their expectations and gets given back to Michael. He hits a brick wall every time, the sheer weight of his hopelessness hanging heavy over his shoulders.

He doesn’t go down to dinner.

He doesn’t sleep at all.

He isn’t going to last.

___________________________________

Balthazar dozes eventually, eyes fallen shut and mouth slack as exhaustion quiets his racing brain. He doesn’t remember the drift into unconsciousness, but when he wakes, the dark sky has turned to a dull, muted grey.

For a moment, there’s contentment. Calm.

And then the weight of the world comes down to crush him into the ground.

His body jerks upwards. His eyes fly open.

Awake.

The panic returns tenfold, consumed by the knowledge that his precious time is running out, and still, he’s no closer to escape.

If he tries to run now, they’ll surely find him. He can’t get far enough on foot, can’t go anywhere without being traced. If he steps foot out of the house, Gabriel will drop the act, and Castiel…

He can’t think about Castiel, can’t allow himself to consider that the alpha isn’t in on the deception, even if he doesn’t understand what the man has to gain out of it. Bitterly, he thinks of everything he’s already shared with the man, thinks of every card he’d laid down on the table like that night in the living room.

Instead, he tallies up every punishment he’s accrued for himself. Every sharp word and act of defiance. Every time he should’ve been put to use, and made useless instead.

His stomach lurches at the thought, at each mistake and each act of willful disobedience he’d allowed himself to indulge in. At the flagrantly disregarded boundaries he knows better than to push. The boundaries he’d thought he was starting to grasp, now terrifying in their uncertainty.

He doesn’t know what they want from him, and that’s the scariest thing of all.

Half of his brain, the half that’s home to a reckless instinct for survival, knows he needs to find a way to escape this – whatever this is – before he loses the chance.

The other half is sure it’s already too late.

Because Gabriel wants to train him. Wants to break him. Wants him to be ready for when his former master comes to claim him again.

Michael had told him, once, that Balthazar would never escape him.

Michael Morningstar does not make empty promises.

He tries to push thoughts of Michael, of everything, to the side, because the panic spiral he’s continually sending himself down won’t help him here, but his mind hisses with taunts impossible to ignore as the weight of exactly how fucked he is begins to settle.

You should’ve known it was too good to be true.

Distant footfalls on the carpet outside.

You should’ve escaped when you had the chance.

Shaking hands raking through dishevelled hair.

It was never going to last.

Tremors rolling freely over his body.

This is your own fucking fault.

A knock on the door.

Breakfast.

___________________________________

‘‘-thazar. Balthazar!’’

His head shoots upwards from its place in his lap.

Where it should be, where they want it to be.

The words don't register, but the sound does, rising with Balthazar’s panic. Raw, edged with anger, steeped in terror, thick with betrayal.

“Sorry,” he says blankly, hoping against hope that there’s nothing in his tone giving him away.

Castiel tilts his head in the way that might be endearing, if it weren’t intended to trick him, and furrows his brow. “Why are you apologising?”

Balthazar would roll his eyes if he weren’t so fucking scared. The alpha’s gaze is pinned on him. Watching him, like he can see every thought running rampant in his slave’s head. Every fibre of his being is trying to tamp down on his scent, but he doesn’t think it’s working.

“I wasn’t paying attention, Sir. Sorry.”

The sir slips out without thought, and Balthazar grimaces for a second before he remembers to wipe the expression off of his face. Too intent on acting like everything is normal, he’d managed to forget how abnormal this whole situation is. That, for reasons he’s only now beginning to understand, he’s been ordered to call his master by his name.

Bitterly, he wishes they would just get it over with.

The divot in Castiel’s brow grows. His lips form a thin line. ‘‘Is everything alright? You seem… unlike yourself.’’

Balthazar could laugh. Finds it genuinely fucking funny that being quiet, being afraid, isn’t how Castiel thinks he usually behaves. He’d forgotten for a moment, in the quiet comfort of the alpha’s deception, to be scared. But he remembers now.

Still, it hurts, deeply and painfully, that he cannot take the comfort that the words connote. He wishes that Castiel wasn’t a part of this. That his kindness didn’t come at a cost.

But as Gabriel ignores him and Castiel looks a little too closely, Balthazar is almost certain that he is.

‘‘I’m fine,’’ he manages to respond, voice sharp and scratchy from disuse, because even after all this time, he anticipates a blow for daring to speak.

Anything is punishable. Everything is wrong.

Castiel doesn’t seem content with his answer, but Balthazar can’t bring himself to care. He’s already going to be punished, already knows it’s nothing but a trap he was desperate and bloody stupid enough to fall straight into.

Not anymore.

Gabriel stays silent throughout the meal that Balthazar can’t do more than pick at, even though he knows he’ll likely soon be desperate for any morsels of food he can get. The beta leaves almost as soon as Castiel excuses himself for work, disappearing into some quiet corner of the house.

Balthazar thanks a God he doesn’t believe in for small mercies.

The journey to the bedroom is made with silent motions, with careful steps and breathless stillness when the stairs creak under his feet. His mind doesn’t quiet when he reaches the familiar space. It screams instead.

Balthazar thinks, as he resumes his pacing, of his time in this strange house in Seattle. Of the new masters he’s found himself living amongst. Existing at their mercy that’s about to be torn away.

He thinks of Castiel, thinks of easy forgiveness and broken items met with reassurance, of the alpha that tells him he’s a person with sincerity he never should have believed. Thinks of quiet nights in the kitchen, of card games and tense air that’s grown to be comfortable. Thinks of tea, bandages, mugs imprinted with siamese kittens, and unfettered access to worlds beyond his own. Worlds that don’t confine him to the body rendered helpless beneath scorched metal. Promises of freedom, looking into eyes imbued with trust, his own blown wide by faith.

For a fleeting moment of weak-willed naivete, Balthazar dares to hope that Castiel somehow isn’t a part of this. That the alpha doesn’t know that his brother intends to shatter what remains of the person he’d been, and give him over to Michael without a second thought. Thinks that maybe Castiel would help him, if he asked.

He can imagine it. Finding the alpha in the evening when Gabriel has already retreated to his room. Sitting him down and telling the man what he overheard. Can picture that almost comical expression of horror on his face. Can almost hear the soft-spoken promise that everything will be okay.

Something whispers deep in the cavernous recesses of his mind.

Maybe it’s not what you think. Maybe it’s all just a misunderstanding.

But Castiel is an alpha, an owner, and Balthazar knows better.

He flicks the idea away like a speck of dirt on his shoe, like the dust he routinely wipes from every surface without fail because he’s so well trained.

They’d let him roam like an animal ensnared, let him walk like a pet on a leash, always watched, always controlled. Let him test the bounds of his enclosure, then reigned him in before he could look too closely.

But it’s his own fault. He should’ve seen this place for what it was; familiar bars of a familiar prison.

There’s no way Castiel doesn’t know what his brother’s intentions are, but still, the omega doesn’t know why.

Why would he let you come here when he so clearly doesn’t want you? Why would he say he doesn’t want to fuck you if he does? He could’ve taken what he wanted from the start, it’s not as though he needed you to trust him, not like he wanted to fucking mate you–

Coldness. A dawning reality. The veil of ignorance slowly lifting from his eyes.

Because– because it’s not like Castiel wants to mate him.

Unless–

Unless he does.

It is with ice-cold, sickening, fucking horrifying understanding, that he finally, finally, understands what’s going on here.

Heat. He wants to send Balthazar into a fucking heat.

Weakness overtakes his legs as he stumbles to the bathroom. They collapse from under him. Cold porcelain digs into his neck as he throws up the meagre quantity of food he’d managed to stomach.

He– they–

Fuck.

They own you. Of course they can do that. They can do whatever they want.

God, he doesn’t think his body can even do that anymore.

But– if it could, if it can–

He’s in a hell of a lot of fucking danger.

Because what use is he, once they’re finished with him? Once his body’s been used as a fucking incubator.

Balthazar wishes it didn't make sense as the world crumbles around him. Wishes there were something he could use to deny it.

But Castiel is a single alpha. In all the time he's been here, there's never been so much as a trace of a partner. The barren walls of the hallway are bare of any pictures of friends, family. And maybe it's because he doesn't want any, but maybe it's because- because-

Because he's been waiting for the oppourtunity to fall into his lap. Waiting to earn the trust of the bloody pleasure slave that he's brought into his home. That he can get rid of when he's taken what he wants.

And, God, what if he can’t do it? What happens when Castiel realises his body is as broken as he is?

Useless.

No he– he can’t, he can’t– because even if this wasn’t enough of a horrific waking nightmare – which it comfortably fucking is – after that, after that–

They’ll send you back to Michael. That’s what this is. You’re with Castiel to be bred, and after that happens you’re going straight back to that fucking manor and he’ll– he’ll–

The thought is cut off by another wave of nausea, bile burning his throat that’s already so damaged. A strangled cry of something alien slips from his mouth. Silence drowns the sound.

A pin might drop, a tree may fall. Something might fill the frozen quiet that infiltrates the room.

Balthazar doesn’t know.

All that exists is his own terror, and grief that rips his broken heart to shreds.

___________________________________

It takes a long time for the nausea to pass.

Exhaustion overtakes his shaking frame as Bathazar leans his burning body against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. His eyes wear a vacant glaze as he stares at the room until it blurs into abstraction.

All the careful plans he’d tried to construct fall to the wayside, recklessness taking their place. He doesn’t know what to do, just that he has to do something.

Limbs shaking, he pulls himself to his feet. Returns to the bedroom. Lets his desperate mind take over.

He needs to make a choice.

If he runs, he will give himself away, show his hand, and have capture cops on his tail until he can get the fucking collar off of his neck. If he tries to remove it, he could die. If he’s caught, he’ll never see daylight again.

If he doesn’t, he could be safe for long enough to accept his fate. To let himself slip away and become the object his owners want him to be. Could fall into the inevitable promise of death.

It would be so very easy to give in.

But Balthazar has never been able to take the easy route, has always leaned towards recklessly suicidal before surrendered compliance.

Really, It isn’t a choice at all.

Mechanical motions propel his body into action, make his shaking hands shove clothes and cans of food into a makeshift bag constructed with a sheet. Books he’s collected from the house sit innocently on the dresser, and he feels a pang in his chest as he leaves them where they are, tying the sheet into a bundle and holding it like something precious in his arms.

He moves his gaze to the window one final time.

And walks out of the room.

___________________________________

The garage is cold as he steps inside, tiptoeing across the concrete floor that’s chill doesn’t meet his shoe-clad feet. The early November air swirls around him in a gentle touch.

The keys to Gabriel’s car feel like lead in his hand, weighing him down despite their minimal mass. He creeps across the stone despite his isolation, intrinsic terror of what he’s about to do like a heavy breath over his neck.

The car is sleek, impeccably maintained, and looks very much like it cost leagues more than Balthazar ever has. Shaking hands fumble for the keys, and he cannot contain the full-bodied flinch that rips through his body as the sound of the vehicle unlocking fills the room. And even as his hand traces the handle, as he slowly, slowly, pulls open the door, he gets the distinct impression that it shouldn’t be this easy to commit grand theft auto from his bloody master.

Still, there’s no point looking a gift-horse in the mouth. No time, because every second he wastes is another opportunity to be caught, to be beaten and whipped and punished by his owners that want to–

He cuts off the thought before it can grow. Lets his mind fall carefully blank.

Sliding into the padded leather seat feels surreal, like someone has taken possession of his body. There is the distinct impression that he’s watching himself from above, merely a spectator to the veritable death sentence he’s subjecting himself to if this goes tits up. All he can take in is the perfectly upholstered seats. The steering wheel inscribed with a logo Balthazar doesn’t recognise. A ridiculous hanging surfer figurine dangling from the mirror, swaying ever so slightly

Despite the knowledge that he needs to leave right bloody now, for a moment, he pauses. Allows his eyes to slip closed, to revel in the fact that the closest he can get to freedom is finally, finally, in his grasp.

A stolen scarf sits snug around his neck, and his stomach drops at the thought of cutting the collar again. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive it the second time round, but he’ll surrender to death if it means he never has to suffer under the hands of the Morningstar’s again.

It’s that thought that finally grants him a snatch of peace, that makes him feel more light than he’s ever felt in his life.

For the first time in fifteen miserable years of enslavement, choked by the grip of endless masters without a shred of mercy to spare, he has an escape route.

He’d never known escape could be so beautiful.

He lifts his hand, finds the right key, and goes to slot it into the ignition, when-

Knock knock knock.

The unmistakable sound of a knuckle meeting glass rings in his ear like a funeral march, and Balthazar’s blood turns to ice in his veins.

Muffled by glass, but still horrifyingly present, is the sound of a voice asking, “Hey, Balthy, what the hell are you doing in my car?”

Gabriel.

Fuck.

In an instant his body is wracked with violent shakes, tearing him apart from the inside out, as though his soul is making a final, desperate bid for the freedom he will never have again.

He’s been found. Caught. Caught in Gabriel’s fucking car.

There is no escape. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

The keys shake in his hand, as he tries desperately to jam it into the keyhole, but he misses it, keeps missing it, and the door next to him is opening, and there’s nothing he can do.

The keys thump on the ground as he drops them, as he wraps desperate arms around his head, a fruitless attempt at protection. Beside him, Balthazar thinks he hears the distinct sound of the door being slammed shut again.

He’s caught, and he’s going to cry, because he was so close, he was so so fucking close–

It doesn’t matter.

He is caught, and it is over.

It’s almost calm, the feeling that washes over him. A parody of tranquillity, steeped in resignation.

There’s no bitterness at the realisation that he’s finally reached his limit. Only acceptance, and the dying embers of the last remains of hope. He should be grovelling, should be pleading to be spared from some of what’s sure to come.

No words escape.

Instead, Balthazar closes his eyes, and surrenders to the darkness.

There’s nothing else to do.