You were perfect. The Parlor made sure of that. Days without food. Weeks without a voice. Collars, cuffs, commands. You didn’t flinch when they spat on you. You didn’t cry when they used you to train someone else. You learned. You obeyed. You survived. And then he walked in. No longer a man, but a monster wearing the memory of one. The handlers stiffened. They had talked about Dean Winchester many times before. Plenty of “product” were bought by him, and every one of them were never seen again. Black eyes. Half-lidded and bored. Like he was shopping for a bottle of wine, not a soul. He was disgusted by his options, one of the products had wet herself. He wouldn’t claim such filth. He kept looking around the room. Then his gaze hit you. “This one,” he said. “What’s it called?”

“She,” the handler corrected, voice trembling. “She’s called Rabbit.” He hummed as he grabbed your face, looking at it, moving your head as if you were a puppet on a string. “Cute,” he said. “You break her yourself?”

“Yes, sir. Broke clean. Trained in silence, obedience, endurance. No resistance left in her.” Then his fingers curled in your hair, yanked your head back hard enough to make your neck scream. You gasped. That was your first mistake.

“Oh, she makes noise,” he murmured, voice like a blade run across silk. “I thought you said she was quiet.”

“She is sir! She-” Dean crouched, still gripping your hair, and leaned in close enough to taste your fear.

“They teach you to beg, little Rabbit?” he whispered. “Or did they just teach you to breathe and bend?” You didn’t answer. He clicked his tongue. “Still so scared. I like that.” And just like that, he threw a thick wad of cash at the handler’s feet. “She’s mine now.” And soon you found yourself in the hands of him. Sitting on the passenger’s side of a 1967 Chevy impala. He didn’t drive fast. He drove like he had time. “You ever gonna look at me, little Rabbit?” he asked halfway through the ride, not looking at you. “Or do you just stare at your own damn knees like they’re gonna save you?” You didn’t speak. He chuckled. “Right. Conditioned. Pretty little shell.” He pulled over suddenly on desert road. No one around. The engine clicked as it cooled. The heat swelled inside the Impala.

Then his voice dropped. “Out.” You obeyed. Of course you did. He came around the hood, slowly, then he shoved you against the side of the car. Hand at your throat; not choking just yet. “You know what pisses me off, Rabbit?” he hissed. “They touched you before I could. They laid hands on something that belonged to me, before I even saw you.” You blinked. Shaking. “They taught you to serve. To kneel. To submit.” He leaned in. “But not to love it. Not to fucking ache for it. And that’s what I’m gonna teach you.” He dragged a finger down your cheek, then slapped you, lightly, almost curious, across the face. You gasped again. Your knees buckled. Dean smiled. “There’s that noise.”

The rules you learned quickly. You weren’t allowed to sleep on the floor. You weren’t allowed to speak without permission. You weren’t allowed to look at him. But you did. You always looked. Because that darkness was beautiful. And you hated yourself for noticing. He noticed too. One night, he caught your stare and didn’t say anything for a full minute. Then he rose from the chair, knelt in front of you, and whispered: “You want to know why they called you Rabbit?” You blinked. He never asked questions. “Because rabbits freeze when they’re scared. They don’t scream. They die quiet… But sweetheart, I don’t want quiet. I want you to break loud.”