Sorry guys. I just posted Chapter 5 up on my Livejournal, and realized... oh. I forgot to ever update over here! *grumbles* Sorry! *winces* Please don't kill me? And I promise, more "Spooks and Shotguns", "Senses" and "Puppy Cargo" to come, eventually. /0\

He doesn't sleep. Years of watching over the horses and the caravans at night have taught him skills that come in oh so useful now; dozing lightly, allowing his body the rest it craves while keeping his mind sharp enough to jolt awake at the slightest sense of change on the air. Catnaps, they used to call them, when you don't really sleep, but hover over that edge. Just enough to keep the body and the mind pushing for days longer than it could otherwise.

The pain helps.

The man had come in, slow and easy movements, studied casualness as he crouched on the cement floor, hands loose and open between his knees as he watched with intense green eyes, body loose and easy and intent. Said he wouldn't hurt him, just wanted to fix the shoulder that had ripped free of its socket with a breath-taking pop, the one that sent sheets of fire through his body every time he breathed. Had asked for almost a half hour for permission to fix it, and that didn't match with what the slaver had said about his new owner.

He'll tear you up, in ways you can't even imagine, and then toss you aside. Not one slave I've ever sold him has been seen again. The man's got the Devil scared of him, he's so evil. Bet you won't even last a week.

He pretended to be dumb, skittering his eyes away from the gaze. The eyes hold power, can bewitch you if you're not careful, and if they think he can't understand them, then it's an ace in his sleeve that he can use. Eventually the man had sighed, striding close, letting him shy away until the chains tugged taut, and it was a quick, easy, fast movement that sent a pained whimper out of his throat as the joint ground and fought and finally slid home with a wet and sickening noise, twisting his gut with sound and the pain. The man's hands had been gentle, guiding him down onto the floor as his knees buckled, and again confusion slipped in his mind.

"Supper, for you. It's venison, so…" His owner had set the basket close enough for the smell to tempt, but he wasn't dumb. It was drugged, and even if it wasn't, there was no way a slave was going to get venison.

The basket still sat there, untouched, and his stomach grumbled and muttered unhappily. 'Get used to it, buddy,' he thought, shifting on the straw as he shivered. It wasn't cold; the warmth of the horse bodies and the straw was enough to make it drowsy-warm, and the stall was draft-free. The manacles on his wrists and ankles were chilly, but not enough to keep him cold. The shivers were his body begging for sleep, and shifting seemed to stop it. He let his head thump back on the wall gently, eyes watching the ceiling as he let his body doze again, trying to let the throbbing of his shoulder disappear.

When the screaming and thudding from the stall next to him shot pure adrenaline into his veins the next morning, it was hard to keep from panicking. "Goddamnit, you beast!" Thuds rattled from overhead, a light dust raining down, and he froze, quivering with the need to move and the knowledge that he wasn't going anywhere. Not with the thick logging chains buried deep in the concrete. Not in an unknown area. Another scream that he quickly recognized as equine, not human, and the solid thud of hooves against a stall door made the tension bleed free a little. Not a human being tortured. The voice came closer, growling and muttering. "Worse than a damned alarm clock, I swear. Give him a godforsaken minute you brute."

The huff of breath suggested a big horse, or a seriously mean one, and he edged further away from the other wall as the thuds started up again. His own door opened a crack, and a shrewed-looking man peers through, grins widely. "Well, you ain't deaf. No other way to sleep through that beast's racket in the morning." His gaze drops to the basket, still covered and untouched, and the joviality drops from his face in a heartbeat. "Oh, he ain't gonna like that. Not one bit." He sighs and shakes his head as he slips free of the gap of the door, and the wood slides shut again.

Great. He's stalled like a damned horse next to Satan's own steed, and he's just pissed off his master.

As if summoned by the thought, the door to outside creaks open, letting in the early morning light and the sharp bite of cold, and he shivers as he hears the new owner's voice turn low and husky nearby. "Good morning baby. You realize I could hear you up at the house?" The tone is quiet and overflowing with affection, and he hears the beast next door whicker quietly, can hear the shuffle as it backs away from the door as the portal opens with a little noise. "You, my love, are amazing at telling time." There's crunching noises, happy sounds if he ever heard them, and he cocks his head as the voice changes; sharper and louder now. "Stephan. Any troubles last night?"

The hostler just laughs, and the thump he hears he assumes is a boot kicking a wall. "Just this brute, waking up the damned county this morning. He knows when you're late." The tone is accusing, but the man just laughs.

"Had to get breakfast for our new friend." The tone drops back into the almost bedroom voice from before, murmuring quietly. "Oh yes, I did. It took a few minutes, but you knew that. Gods forbid I not be down here by the time the cock crows, huh?" There's the distinct sound of a hand slapping horseflesh, and the door shuts again. "Food time for all, then we'll let you out to play, okay baby?"

Somehow, he doubts the beast's name is Baby. But it's possible.

He scrambles to his feet as the door to his own prison opens, and his new owner steps in, watching him warily. It's familiar, and it takes him a moment to place it. The body language is the same as someone trying to keep from spooking an easily frightened horse; all loose and exaggerated movements, slow and smooth and calm. Green eyes flicker down to the basket, still sitting exactly where it was last night, and he can't help the instinctive step back at the anger that glimmers for a moment in that gaze.

The sound of the chains sliding over each other seems to stop the emotion though, and he sighs hard, scrubbing a hand roughly across his face. "Can't say as it surprises me. You were supposed to eat this though. Good thing I brought breakfast then, eh?" He trades out a pale pine basket for the other one, but there's no reaction from the slave. He knows better than that. He chews the inside of his lip, just a little, just enough that his owner won't see.

Gods, but he's hungry. The slaver wasn't about to try to feed him while he had a good range of motion, and the weeks prior had been scarce with food. He's got enough weight on him though, that he can afford the show of mulish determination. He won't eat, and the man who paid for him can't make him.

Because if he eats, he'll consume the drugs that are lacing the food, and then he'll be even more at this man's mercy than he already is. If the owner makes a move now, at least he has his wits about him. If he takes the feed, he won't even have that.

The other man waits several minutes, just watching, before he stands, dusting his hands off on worn but still nice jeans. "Stephan." The hostler pops his head in a minute later, brows raised curiously.

"Yeah boss?"

"He said a word yet?" The jerk of a head indicates exactly who 'he' is, and Stephan shakes his head.

"Not that I've heard. Didn't say a word as your brute started up this morning, either. Not a peep." The owner nods distantly, and the hostler thumps his fist on the doorway before ducking out again. He likes to make a lot of noise, apparently. His new owner turns back to him, leaning carefully against the wall.

"So either you're mute, which makes no sense, or you can't speak our language. But given your reaction last night at Blake's, I doubt that as well." He can feel the flush that heats his skin; he'd been livid last night, terror blending with rage into a potent new emotion, and he'd forgotten about that slip up. His new owner is observant, he'll grant the man that much. "Or, you're just pissed off and scared and being a stubborn little ass." The flush is stronger; he can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin, and the other man laughs, low and cocky. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Boy, you're not the first slave I've had, and I wasn't born last week."

Silence. After a few minutes, the sounds of the horses feeding and shuffling and the general noise intrudes again, and he finds his shoulders slipping down a little, loosening their defensive hunch. He startles when the man pushes off the wall, arms still tight across his chest.

"Alright, simple is best, I think. The sooner you calm down, and realize I'm not going to hurt you, the sooner your life will improve. I have plans for you that don't involve standing in a dusty stall all day." The man shrugs, the canvas jacket whispering over what looks like a silk shirt, the movement casual and careless. "Eat, get a little sleep, and we'll look into getting you a bath and some decent clothes. Your papers will be here later this week, and we'll see where you're from, alright? Get your name, unless you want to tell me."

He doesn't answer, and the man nods, leaving and shutting the door firmly. A second later there's rustling in the stall where Satan's Steed resides, and he strains to hear the soft murmur of his owner, the voice a low and steady noise. Almost comforting. If he'd close his eyes, he has no doubt he'd be asleep in minutes, and not just because he's pushing four days without it. A metallic clinking sound, and there's hoofbeats moving, the sound of horseshoes on stone.

When there's a motion of movement in the corner of his eye, he turns, and gapes a little. The bars above the wooden door of his stall are pretty high; his owner had to stand on tiptoe to see in, and he thinks he may just be able to see through them himself without stretching. So when his gaze meets a warm brown one, he's startled.

The ears and the bit of the face he can see are as black as midnight, fur glossy and sleek, and the damned thing is huge. The horse snorts abruptly, turning to better view him, and he hears his owner mutter something. He's not really paying attention, more focused on the gaze that's probing him intently. "Kaz, come on. Now." The horse's head moves a little, like someone yanking on a lead rope, and it snorts, tossing its head abruptly. The halter is a striking silver against the shiny coat, and loose enough even he can see at this distance, it's just for show. The horse blows out a breath, stamping a foot, and he hears the master growl low. "Kaz. Now. That's not a request." He sees the hand grip the halter just under Kaz's chin, and pull the horse down and away. "You can meet him later, if he behaves. Hell, if you behave. Want to go see the colts?" The steps and voice fade away, and he slides down the wall, sitting hard on the straw. The last half hour has given him entirely too much to think about, and his head throbs dizzily, begging for food and sleep and quiet. He shoves it away, and starts carefully pondering the information that's been handed to him.

When Kaz and their owner come back, hours later, it's turning dusky outside, the sun starting to settle down for the night. He can see the tips of the trees through the bars at the top of his pen, and the sky is slowly turning into a stunning watercolor, casting the last lingering leaves into dark shadows.

He's dozing again, the sounds of the stable muffling into a generic white noise that's oddly soothing, when he hears the solid noise of the large horse passing his prison. It pauses again, shuffling around anxiously until the man tugs him into the stall next door, huffing in what he suspects is supposed to be anger, but is nothing if not amusement and affection. He fights himself free of the cloying caresses of Morpheus as the sound of a horse being un-tacked drifts across the high bars and through the wooden wall, struggles to wake up and be alert, even as the room spins nauseatingly. "God Kaz, did you bring in the entire river with you? Did you see the mud on your feathers?" The voice is low with amusement, interlaced with the blatant husk of love, and the sound of a low whicker is a good counterpoint. The sounds continue a bit longer, low murmurs that don't always reform into words, and he startles out of his doze as the stall door shuts. He sits up fully, scrubbing a hand over his eyes as his door opens up, the man coming in silently.

He trades out a new basket for the old one, smiling at the empty weight. "Good. Decide to play nice for awhile?" He doesn't respond, just watches warily, and the master just smiles a little sadly, gaze dimming before he stamps a food unconsciously, nodding. "Alright. Sleep well then. Eat some of that, and we'll see about getting you a bath tomorrow, okay?" The man gathers up the basket and slips out, and the entire barn goes dimmer as he dials down the lights before shutting the main doors.

It wasn't that he wanted to play nice so much; more of the fact that the basket had been whole, unpeeled fruits and eggs that had been cooked solid in the shell. He'd spent hours carefully turning over each piece, searching and scouring for any marks or blemishes to indicate a needle had gone in, and even then had been reluctant to actually bite. The water had been sealed in new bottles, the seal cracking smartly as he turned the cap, and the food had gone a long way to inducing a drowsy state. It wasn't drugs, he knew; just the exhaustion catching up to him. He still wanted to fight, to toss his head in determination and prove he wasn't broken, but the logical part of his mind whispered that it would prove smarter in the long run, to act meek and quiet, to pretend to be tame, and make a break for it as soon as possible.

He nibbles the dinner meal half-heartedly, not really hungry, but knowing his plan will work best if the owner thinks he ate some. He lets out a tired sigh, stretching out on the straw, and just manages to get his toes to brush the wall housing Satan's steed. If he was any shorter, he doubts it would even work. But it does, if it's a smidge uncomfortable, and he lets down the shields he's held tight for months. Lets the gift that his people hate him for, fear him for, and almost instantly relaxes as the faint impressions of warm comfort sleepy content herd-is-safe wash over him. Kaz is too far away, the link doesn't fully work without touch, but he's close enough that the basic emotions can cover him like a warm and familiar blanket.

Dean is a bit worried when Stephan rings on the main line, asking him to get down to the stables quietly, but when he meets the hostler outside, the man is just smiling. Holds a finger to his lips to indicate silence, and slithers back inside without a noise.

The slave is stretched out, sound asleep and limp, his toes just pressed against Kaz's stall wall. And his baby, the massive black stallion, is pressed firmly against the same wall, laying on the sawdust and watching him sleepily. The horse has an obvious look of protection on his equine features, and Dean smiles, shakes his head, and makes his way back up to the main house quietly, ready for his own bed.