Fic: Onuava, 1/4
Title: Onuava/AO3
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 23,681
Summary: They'd been in this cave for months and Dean could feel himself changing, could feel the chances of escape growing slimmer each day. Sequel to Cernunnos.
Warnings/Kinks: Alpha/Omega themes, non/dub-con, mpreg, feminization, Dom/sub, dirty talk, pregnancy kink, knotting, self-lubrication, lactation, body modification, transformation, heat, voyeurism, drugging, violence, humiliation, nipple torture, bondage, animalistic behaviour, praise kink.
A/N: The Purgatory in this verse was created prior to s8, so it's a bit different from the show. Also, you'll probably need to read the first fic to fully understand what's going on in this one.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any profit from it etc etc.
Dean had stopped counting the days.
When your life was collared and forced into an ouroboros of drugging and fucking and breeding only to wake up in the afterbirth to repeat the cycle again, time lost its tangibility, lost its worth.
There was no point in trying to measure something endless, not when you knew it was all you had, sprawled out, cruel and limitless in front of you.
It took too much energy, too much sanity and Dean had more important things to focus on in those precious few minutes he could focus.
The demons never once stopped pumping the miasma of their potions into his lungs and the madness of purgatory was a ruthless hunter; this cave provided no shelter from it.
Focus was a commodity Dean couldn't afford to take for granted, a luxury too rare to waste on tallying hours.
The clear moments, the ebb in the fervour came after each… session, but Dean knew it wasn't a mercy that left him able to think and breathe and see.
There was no kindness in allowing him these seconds of respite because blinking into cognizance meant he had to open his eyes every time only to discover the shivering, wrecked form of the man he'd just raped trapped under him and still shackled to his body.
Dean almost had to hand it to these bastards. All those years he'd spent in hell on the other side of the rack and he'd never once thought to bind people together using their own flesh.
A bondage made of skin and, my, wouldn't Alastair have been impressed?
They'd mostly healed from the wounds carved into them that first time, the sigils and marks fading, only some leaving little silvery scars that wound and meandered proudly around the curves of their chests, not seeming to want to disappear.
The rest healed up, scabbed over, and left them baby-soft and shiny new.
Dean saw it for what it was, could all but smell the falsehood, rancid in the torrid air.
Just another deception.
This wouldn't get any easier as time, vague as it was, trudged on. No matter how many scars faded, or how many marks and brands they lost, their bodies were not their own.
There was no choice here, no reprieve.
Before, touch between them had been fleeting, rationed; a well placed hand cupped on a shoulder, solidarity found in a gentle punch to the arm. Carefully calculated to be on the right side of friendly.
Now, their bodies had been ravaged and left caustic and gaping, made to violate each other, made to claw and gnarl and rip their way closer like fucking puppets with all too-tangled strings.
Nothing about this was easy.
But, after a while, it became expected-the norm. It was perverse just how quotidian it was for Dean to stumble into consciousness and find his balls emptying another inhuman batch of come into Castiel's body, to hear the resigned little gasps coming from beneath him.
He could only wind himself around Castiel, shelter him with skin and pray someone would come for them soon, but when had praying ever worked out?
They weren't strapped to the bench that often anymore, at least. A part of Dean wanted to sneer and scoff at that, to take this opportunity and run with it because these dumb sons of bitches had left a Winchester unbound and expected him to just sit and play nice 'til the masters returned.
He wanted to find his feet, blanket Cas' bare skin in the nearest rag and bust them the hell out of there-to tear his way through the wall of flesh that lay between him and his freedom and come out the other end red, wet and new.
He wanted to lay this place to the fucking ashes and write his name in the remains.
He wanted to, but it had been weeks since they were first moved into the little alcove behind these flimsy, makeshift bars, weeks since they'd last been bound together with the itchy rope and they were still here. Free to move, free to get up, free to escape.
Free, but freedom tasted nothing like this.
Their addled minds could only find strength enough to scramble for a single clear thought as their bodies became frantic and thrashed for release, coaxed into starved maws swallowing
each other whole and once they finally resurfaced, exhaustion crippled them.
There was no time tracked in Dean's mind, and yet there was not enough; not a minute he could grapple for to plan the escape both he and Castiel were determined to get to.
Even when they could manage to form words and thread thoughts together, there was no saying who was listening. The walls seemed to breathe sometimes.
It was no accident they were left like this, no one was forgetting to pick their toys back up and put them away again once they were done playing.
It was a statement-we don't have to tie you down; even free, you're powerless.
It might have been terrifying, might have been enraging at one time. Now, it was maddening, and Dean half suspected that was the point. These things liked to taunt, liked to poke and pick and unravel you thread by thread and they weren't coy about it.
He supposed forcing him and Cas to fuck each other was pretty much all that served for entertainment around here, if the crowds they still garnered even now were anything to go by.
Cas said that it was their nature-the Lilu fed off sexual energy, off humiliation, that these “couplings” served to sustain the demons as much as they did to fulfil their plans.
Somehow knowing he was a fucking buffet to his captors didn't ease Dean's tensions any.
The only thing he took comfort in was the simple, leather cuff Castiel still wore around his wrist, embellished with carved sigils and Enochian markings.
It was all kinds of fucked up that this was a place where being marked like fucking livestock could be a source of hope, could be the only lead you had to go on but that unassuming, deceptive little band meant something incredible.
It meant that Castiel was still a threat.
It meant that drugged or not, caged or not, they were still going to get out of here.
It was just a matter of when.
◊
“Dean.”
He moaned, the first pulse of consciousness flitting over his skin in sharp prickles, familiar nausea greeting him as his eyes opened and the world pounded in his skull.
Hangovers had nothing on purgatory.
Castiel shuffled in front of him, pulling awkwardly at his cock and Dean had to bite back a groan.
He was on his side, curled up around Castiel's sodden, sore body and from the way Cas was squirming to unlatch himself, they'd been like this for a while.
“Dean,” Castiel said again, his hands pushing back at Dean's thighs, damp and tacky with sweat and indistinguishable fluids.
“Fuck, hold on.”
Dean hefted himself up to his shoulder and reached down to gingerly ease his deflated cock out of Cas' stretched hole, hissing as the curve of his softening knot caught and snagged for a moment at Castiel's rim before slipping free.
Castiel sighed, a soft, relieved sound as a batch of come flooded out of him, coating his legs and pooling around the swell of his ass, a sleazy reminder of what they'd done.
Dean winced, tearing his eyes away from the sight of Castiel's sloppy, puffy opening, so red and open with abuse, with Dean's abuse.
They spent hours like this, ruined by sex they'd never asked for and laid their barest for prying eyes.
They were used to it.
Seeing Cas like this was so commonplace it was heartbreaking, but that didn't mean Dean had to look, had to subject them both to reality and it didn't stop the wave of disgust that coiled in his stomach when he did catch sight of the evidence.
Looking meant seeing and that meant wrestling the tug of war between mottled revulsion and the visceral primitive satisfaction, the animal arousal that had invaded his body and woven into his core, naturalised and made his own.
That wasn't something Dean needed. There was enough confusion, enough conflict in the swollen haze pumping like narcotics in his mind already; he didn't need to add to it with a goddamn sexuality crisis.
Castiel huffed softly and pushed himself up on weakened, quivering limbs, looking so thin and fragile it was a wonder he didn't break under the brutality that Dean's body became each night.
Dean could see him peripherally, those age-old, young bones cracking as Castiel sat with his legs arched out in front of him, a curious hand slipping between his thighs.
Dean swallowed hard and thick, resolutely ignoring the interested twitch his groin gave as Castiel explored the mess left behind at his entrance, filing it away as a product of his environment.
Seemingly growing bored with his explorations, Castiel got up again, moving around like a restless bird, a trapped animal.
Dean remembered an angel sat still and stationary for hours, content with his thoughts, unburdened with the turmoil of the human body-too mighty to hear the call of his flesh.
Now, he fidgeted.
It was a sign of the times, Dean supposed.
His eyes were stinging, two itchy holes in his head scratched raw with grit, but Dean kept them open, peering through narrow slits to track Castiel around the cave.
He found himself doing this more often lately; keeping watch.
It was as though not even a distant relative of peace could find him until Cas was settled down and calm, a deep rooted protectiveness chaining Dean to the filthy ground, always alert and ready with his futile resistance.
The danger was quiet for the moment though, and Castiel only crawled over to the balled-up furs that had been tossed to them a while back with another generic, derisive comment, something about not wanting their pretty little saviours to freeze to death.
Assholes.
Dean didn't even want to think about where the hide came from. There weren't exactly many mammals running around purgatory.
Pulling the shabby blanket along with him, Castiel returned to Dean's side, always coming back to him.
His murky gaze was indecipherable but softened at the edges as he pulled the fur over Dean's body, making sure to cover him whole before slipping under himself. Dean's eyes crinkled up at the side, a small smile playing on cracked lips.
So much about Castiel had changed, but not this. He still took care of Dean first.
Rolling over, Dean extended his arm, allowing Cas to pillow into the muscle of his bicep. It was nothing new, laying like this.
Waking up entwined closer than should be physically possible left very little room for modesty and Dean had soon realised that in the red times when Castiel became ensnared by restlessness and too-human panic, he was most easily soothed by touch, by the simple comfort of a hand pressed to his side or an arm wrapped around his waist.
Castiel would nestle eagerly into Dean's body heat like a greedy house cat and something brittle and frayed in Dean's chest tore a little more every time, his throat raw with spiteful emotion.
Seeing how desperate Cas was for the reassurance of another person's presence, the warmth that told him he wasn't alone broke Dean from the inside out and when he couldn't stand to look any longer, his eyes would close, tight and wilfully ignorant.
Behind them, a phantom Castiel was left to face an Archangel's tempest, left walking into a dead, toxic lake, left empty and sacrificial in a sterile white room.
Alone.
Dean's hand tightened around Castiel's shoulder as he tucked him in against his chest, something bitter and viscous balling in his gullet but Dean swallowed it down, willing to be as tactile, as present as Castiel needed.
He wouldn't leave him like that again.
Castiel twisted his head up to look at Dean, those bright blue eyes strangely clear for once as they searched his face, studying hard, roughened features for something unknown. After a few seconds, they softened, gentling Castiel's expression.
He leaned forward then, pressing a quiet, simple kiss to Dean's slack lips, just a quick brush of soft skin before he snuggled back in, apparently content with whatever he'd found in Dean's gaze
That was new, the kissing.
It wasn't sexual-at least Dean didn't think it was-just a way of showing affection.
He knew he should have been freaking out. This went one step further than sharing body heat, necessary on a cold, stone floor, but he couldn't bring himself to put a stop to it.
It was nice, and he wasn't in any position to pass up small, innocent pleasures in a place where happiness had never touched.
Besides, Cas liked it, and that was justification enough.
The first time it happened was during what Dean had decided was a kind of panic attack-Castiel panting and shaking, looking at the walls like they were about to close in and crush him to a fine powder, scratching at his own chest like it was too close to breathe.
Dean hadn't known what to do, the usual tricks of touch and soft words weren't working and Castiel's voice had only grew louder, shriller, and the demons would be snaking along to taste his misery any second, ecstatic to add to it.
Dean had to do something.
Castiel had stiffened, pulled taut and frozen when Dean's mouth had crashed into his, effectively silencing his tirade and rendering him stone.
Dean had been ready to pull back, apologetic and desperate, but Cas-surprising, perceptive Cas-had melted and come to life under Dean's lips, calm and clumsy and exploratory as he'd kissed back with a childlike innocence that broke Dean's heart.
He couldn't say no when Castiel kissed him again some time later, his face expectant and hopeful as he'd reached for Dean's cheek, hadn't been able to say no since and apparently it was a thing now.
“You okay?” Dean said eventually, his voice a whisper shared between them, warm words close enough to taste.
Castiel snorted, a crooked sound. His sense of humour had taken on quite the self-aware edge these past few months. Dean wasn't sure he liked it.
It dredged up too many false, maybe-memories of a hollowed man with a hollow laugh and equally empty eyes-left, again. Dead in a future that had long since sucked him dry.
There was no further elaboration, just soft, steady breaths and the scratch of perpetual stubble rasping at Dean's sternum, drumming fingers tiptoeing along the valleys of his torso, the silence loud with thought.
When Castiel spoke again, Dean's stomach was knotted, tense. They'd walked this road before.
“Dean… what if.” Castiel already sounded so reasonable, so mild against the careening, yowling fear, the cacophony ringing in Dean's ears, making prey of him.
“What if they get what they want?”
“They won't.”
Castiel huffed at the hollow of his throat, unimpressed with Dean's gruffness, with the tension in his muscles. Undeterred by the usual warning sides.
He moved to sit up, his voice shaped around a hiss, stressed and tined to a point Dean felt at his neck.
“But what if they do, Dean. What if I'm already-”
“They won't Cas!” Dean shouted, growled, all teeth and finality bit out like the words were serrated and shred his throat to ribbons to speak.
“I won't let them, I won't let them win, not this time.”
Dean's chest heaved, distorted anger stealing away his breath, leaving him erratic and burning with foolishness that his eyes closed to hide from.
Castiel went quite again, his head tilting down in a way that was almost placating, more like he was humouring Dean than submitting to him.
Weirdly, that did something to calm Dean, balmed his rage, his terror, if only for a moment.
“And if there's a child?” Castiel said, slow and careful after long seconds of nothing.
Dean's eyes scrunched up tighter, his grip on Castiel's supple skin leaving little white dents, claw marks, pleas.
He could hear his own heart throbbing, ringing in his ears, the false siren song of life tricking him into believing it was his own and when the world whirred, tilted on its side, Dean could almost tell himself this was a lie.
Another hallucination, another ghost conjured by the acidic, liquid hoodoo forced into his throat like bile, carving and whittling his body into a cleaving tool they could use to break, to hurt-but Castiel wasn't hurt now.
He was warm, alive, real against Dean's side, held safe in his arms, just as scared as he was and looking to Dean for the answer to the million dollar question.
This was virulent and swollen, had the capacity to consume them both and leave them shells if that was what the demons wanted.
He'd been a wall to it, steel, frantically avoiding talking about it, avoiding thinking about it for every leaden, desultory second since it had been a possibility.
It was too violent, too animal. Too devastating to imagine.
But Cas needed him.
He tried to swallow, unsuccessfully-his mouth too dry, too barbed with clashing sentiments and sharp, foreign impulses, the talons of the avalanche scraping at his temples, held just barely back.
His breath stuttered, rattled out of him.
“If… there's a kid,” Dean said, his voice dragging like petulant sandpaper, itchy razors on his tongue. He decided, realised. “Then… I'll take care of it. Of you both.”
His lips pursed, tried not to tremble, the dizzy heat of chemicals swarming his brain drawing emotion out of him, pink and raw, embryonic. He gasped, drew in close, limbs winding, breaking.
“I won't let them get their hands on…on,” Dean's voice crackled, quivered, too thick with phlegm, with horror, “Fuck, Cas this is so messed up!”
Castiel nodded, his blunt nails digging into Dean's side, clinging, the swelter of rising in them both, and Dean didn't want to look down, didn't want to see his face reflected in those honest eyes, the ruins of who they were. The wreckage they couldn't rebuild.
He thought he felt something wet at his collar bone and his eyebrows drew in, pained and broken, but the world began to shift and throb again, the sordid heavy pull of the rut creeping around his legs and dragging him under.
Holding him hostage in his too-waxen skin, a stranger to his own body.
Before he was devoured, Dean opened his mouth, tried to struggle. An admirable effort.
The apologies he wanted to give were too clunky, too out of place to smuggle past this narcosis and when Dean finally dredged through the silt of his mind enough to speak, it was a slurred, echo of a promise that came.
Fragmented, but resolute.
“We're… going to get out here, you know.”
He felt a smile at his neck, loud and shining despite the clamour, a burst of a heartbeat.
“I know,” Castiel said.
The fever came for them then, and lucidity scattered.
[ Part 2- split for length]