come away to the slaughter (castielssock) wrote,

Fic: Cernunnos- 1/2

Title: Cernunnos/AO3
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8,323
Summary: They'd been in purgatory less than five weeks when it happened. Written for this prompt on the kink meme: Someone in Purgatory decides they want to breed themselves a nephilim.
Warnings/Kinks: Non-con, knotting, heat, slight feminization, body modification, transformation, voyeurism, bondage, allusions to mpreg, D/s undertones. Not beta'd.
Disclaimer: I don't own this and I'm sure as Hell not making any profit from it.


They'd been in purgatory less than five weeks when it happened.

It was, ironically, a cave they were hauled up in; one a very few places they'd thought had the teeniest amount of safety left in them, because for a place that was mostly forest, purgatory sure as hell didn't have much in the way of shelter.

They'd noticed after the first day that there were buildings dotted around, houses, but after the second day when they'd decided to throw caution to the flames—because what were the chances of them surviving out here in the open—and had approached a little shack to check it out, they realised their first real truth of purgatory; nothing was as it seemed.

Certainly least of all the buildings, fucking traps lurking in paper-card walls that they were, snapping with teeth and claws the second you entered like a goddamn spider in a web, waiting to sneak out and grab and finish off in scant seconds. Dean had learned quickly that he couldn't trust his eyes here.

The only thing he did trust, was Castiel.

It had surprised him, when he'd realised it, when he'd stopped and thought about it and something had just clicked and he could suddenly say 'yeah, I trust him' again.

He hadn't forgiven Castiel for what he'd done, for what he'd put Dean, Sam through, but being stuck in a world of monsters you'd never even heard of, alongside the familiar ones that had long since made themselves home under your bed, and having every one of them out for your blood kind of hurried things along.

Purgatory, for all its hostility and raw lethality, was surprisingly good therapy when the only choices you had were to either work through your issues, or die.

Honestly, when Dean had a spare few minutes to sit and breathe and dabble in introspection in a way he avoided entirely on Earth, but had nothing left to distract him from it here, he could admit to himself that it was a relief.

Not trusting Cas, even in his fucked-up, half crazy, barely recognisable state was difficult, left him feeling strained and unnatural, like holding your breath under water.

He supposed when you spent so long piling your faith into a single being, you were bound to feel lost when it was torn from you like razor talons dragging you by the umbilical cord from your mother's womb.

But after that point, his thoughts got too messy, too hard to tell apart from emotions, and there wasn't room for that kind of weakness down here.

He had to think lineally, in lines and connected dots, in rationality because that was the only thing Dean had to cling onto in the ghost-train wonderland tumbling around him.

If he let go of reality for one moment and delved too far into the realms of thought and fancy, Dean was afraid he wouldn't find his way back again. And he had to get back.

Back to Sammy.

They'd worked out a system early on, when it became pretty obvious that Castiel needed rest here as well, needed almost as much sleep as Dean did. He still had his powers, for the most part, but they were depleted, reduced.

He'd once described it like locking your keys inside your car, all the journeys you could ever possibly hope to take at your feet and only the thinnest barrier separating you from them, but a barrier thick enough to hold you back, to keep you at bay.

Dean hadn't quite known what to make of that, hadn't known if Castiel was speaking in those nonsense tongues of his again, so he'd just nodded his head and pretended he knew. Cas didn't need doubts, contradiction.

He seemed so happy when Dean played along.

Castiel had kept watch while he slept, and vise versa, and their days were a constant loop of sleeping, waking, watching, and moving on as quietly and quickly as possible to avoid detection, covering their tracks as well as they could manage and never looking back.

Looking back meant seeing the things that were maybe tracking you, maybe just another hallucination, but Dean had come to understand that as long as you didn't look back, they wouldn't move forward. And that seemed a fair enough trade.

They weren't without conflict though, not by far. They killed their way through enough fanged bastards to survive, but didn't kill too many, and when they did it was discreetly, enough so that it wouldn't get them noticed. They couldn't afford to be the resident hunter and his pet angel here.

It was already bad enough that the things that loomed out in all that blackness could smell the human on him—whatever else Castiel's fragile grace was protecting was best left undiscovered.

They'd had no idea where they were going though, no fucking clue on how to get out of there despite the way Dean liked to pitch weary, doomed ideas and Castiel would rattle on in dreamy ideals and fairy tales.

This was purgatory and the thick, grey fog so tangible it pulsed, breathed around them, didn't only cloud your vision, it took your mind down too. A lot of energy was spent on simply trying to guide through the haze and, when they finally did so, on using that left over brain power to make it through to the next day. There was rarely much left over strategizing.

It didn't help that everything they knew from before, everything they'd spent their whole lives rearing and being trained for fell apart worthless and laughable in their fingers because they were in a monster's world now, and they were the hunted.

Their rules couldn't work here. They had to adapt.

Dean remembered sometimes what Meg had said, all that crap about finding a cause and sticking to it.

Sometimes he'd catch Castiel staring at him, his eyes wide and so jagged with trust you could cut yourself on it, like the way a dog looks at its master, but those times he'd shiver and look away.

He tried not to think about what cause Castiel had found this time around; the last already having left them in ribbons. Dean only had room to serve his own, and that centred on them getting the hell out of here, as soon as they could.

Things never worked out like that though, did they?

He couldn't even remember what they'd been doing exactly before it happened, the days having bled into a incomprehensible blur weeks ago, but he had a fuzzy recollection of scuffing dirt with his shoe and Cas talking animatedly at the side of him about the history of broccoli cultivation in ancient Italy.

He didn't know if they'd just gotten sloppy or if they'd paused for a moment too long, or if the living-shadows here were just that good that they could outsmart a hunter that helped take down Lucifer and an Angel that once held the keys to the universe in his fingers.

But then, Dean supposed when you were trapped in this deranged, sadistic arena with nothing to do to pass the time but slaughter and maim, you learned a few tricks.

Honestly, all he knew for sure though was that there had been a crack, like a whip slicing through air, and then Castiel had been shouting his name and Dean was scrambling to his feet, hand going for the gun that was all too useless here anyway.

But it didn't matter what he'd have done, how hard he'd have fought—by the time he was standing upright, the world was already going dark and he'd been too slow.

The only fucking time in a long time he'd been too slow and he'd ended up killing them.

The last thought Dean had before unconsciousness set in had felt like an apology, but to who or what for, he wasn't quite sure.

◊ ◊ ◊

In the end, though, it had turned out they weren't dead, or at least no more so than any other discarded soul left here, because Dean had been dead, and death, Hell, had nothing on this.

When he came to, the first thing Dean noticed was the stench. It was putrid with death and rot, much like the rest of purgatory, the cesspit that it was, something you might have called God-forsaken if you didn't already live in a universe that God had long since fled.

Only here, though, the foul, fetid odour had mingled with something acidic, something almost chemical—kind of like sulfur, but Dean knew that stuff all to well to know that it wasn't anything close.

He gagged with it, though, whatever it was, his eyes watering with the retches of his throat as he tried to breathe through them, to get a hold of himself, which was easier said then done.

His head throbbed and ached like he'd gone ten rounds with a wendigo, but if there was any other sensation in his body right then, he couldn't feel it through terrifying numbness.

Once the world around him finally slowed its dance, Dean could see far enough into the darkness to realise that he was still in a cave, but when his eyes focused well enough, nearby crackles and glimmers of bright orange flames became clear, his retinas stinging with the brightness.

It was damn rare that he or Cas dared to risk lighting up a fire, the glow of them far too attractive in the dense, perpetual blackness, and Dean's heart sank with the knowledge, with the weight of reality.

This wasn't their cave. They weren't alone.

He tried to move, but his arms were weak and his head clouded, hands and feet bound to the wall behind him with what felt like scratchy, simple hemp.

It was the coldness of the unyielding, stone wall against his back that alerted him to his lack of clothes, and looking down pretty much solidified that theory. Yeah. Not good.

His ears were ringing high-pitched and constant, but he could make out a slight murmur somewhere in the distance, and his eyes sought out the source as they'd been trained to, but if Dean had the foresight, he'd have told himself to shut them tight and denying, to block out the shit he was about to see, as if closing your eyes and counting to ten made the bad things go away. As if it ever had.

The cave curved off towards a rounded centre, like the eye of the fucking storm, and circled around it was a group of some kind of monster he had no name for, couldn't place, and that was the norm here, wasn't it? To not know what the hell was going on, what the hell they were dealing with?

All he knew was that they were tall and human-looking, if not for the thick, greyish scales covering their bodies, but he didn't have time to speculate, because then he saw what they were gathered around and something in him shattered.

In the middle of this circle jerk of freaks was Castiel, bound, much like Dean, only face down, cuffed to some kind of table or bench and unmoving. Dean blinked a few times, some vital kind of processor shutting down and crapping out for a minute, like it expected time to slow down and wait for it, but time did no such thing and the creatures continued to move, continued to lord over Castiel and, fuck, was that chanting?

If it was, it was a language Dean was sure he'd never heard. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had never even been uttered on Earth, but it was old, and he could tell that much.

As soon as his brain jump started again, Dean was struggling in his bonds, eyes scanning around him for a vulnerability in the structure, for a loose knot, for anything, just to get him out of here, because whatever that was, it was some pretty high grade hoodoo. It had to be, to keep an angel (fallen as he was) bound and unconscious like that, and Dean didn't feel like waiting around for when they served him up as the main course. He had to get free, get Cas, and get out of here.

He felt wild, his heart beating so hard and fast in his chest, he was sure they'd hear it, sure they'd whirl around and spot him any moment but they didn't. They just kept... kept carving.

Dean squinted and he could see what they were doing now, around the shadows of their forms, the way metal glinted dangerously in the fire light, the way it came down like a caress over Castiel's skin, broke open his flesh and chased the blood that spilled out like tears.

It took a moment to register, but Dean traced the path of the marks back over naked Castiel's body, saw where they'd been littered across his back, on his wrists, even carved into the ropes and cuffs keeping him pinned- sigils.

Dean was yelling out before he knew it.

Hey, you sons of bitches! Get the hell away from him.”

It unnerved Dean how effortlessly they ignored him, the way they carried on without even shifting out of their rhythm, without pausing in notice of his existence. They just worked, calm and focused, like they had all the time in the world, even as Dean yanked and pulled at his bonds, even as he fought to free himself, even when he got fucking nowhere for his efforts.

They had all the time in the world.

Eventually, and Dean couldn't really tell how much time had passed, could only stare in fear and rage as they carried on doing... whatever the fuck it was they were doing to Cas, one of them turned to him, its scaled, mangled face twisted into a smile that may have been human once, but was pure bestial now.

Dean fought his shiver down, he'd seen worse, he'd been worse, but his pulse thrummed with barely-concealed terror. It wasn't the creature that scared him, so much as the fact that it was damn likely that he'd failed the only mission they had down here. To live. To get back home. To not fucking die here.

He couldn't stand to look at Cas then, but the creature didn't seem to want him to, just found his gaze and held it with too-warm, too-green eyes that seemed to know everything about him. Dean was reminded of Alastair.

“Ah, our second little saviour has woken. Good of you to join us.”

The thing's voice seemed almost disjointed from its mouth, too crisp and mechanical like it had only just downloaded English into whatever organ it had that passed for a brain, but it was its tone that had Dean's stomach twisting sourly. The softness of it that was too rotten around the edges pull off a convincing effort at gentleness, and Dean didn't know if it should have been possible to speak in a decayed cadence, but this thing managed it.

Dean had learned years ago how to save face though, to never let your enemies know they've got you beat, Dean, don't you ever let them know they're getting to you; that's how you die. Instead, he curled his lips as his body squared off to look as menacing as it could from within the cradle of ropes holding it still, which apparently, going by the creature's expression, was not very menacing at all.

“You let him go, you goddamn freaks,” Dean spat at the creature's face, because getting Castiel out of here was top priority, their best shot at survival, “You wanna play finger paint on someone, why don't you try it out the guy who's conscious?”

The demon-thing snorted, like Dean was some endearing fucking pet that had performed a neat trick, like he was five seconds away from fondly patting his head and Dean didn't know whether to be angry or terrified. He settled for seriously fucking pissed.

“Actually, we're almost done with you,” it chuckled, freaking chuckled, “Though you are right, we really should press on.”

Dean scarcely had time to feel the ice thrills shooting down his spine before a second, a third monster was stepping close to him, several pots and containers in their hands, completely unfazed by his squirming and shouting as he tried to kick out, tried to protect himself, to escape.

Clawed fingers wrapped around his arms and hips, kept him still, all unnatural, uncompromising strength holding him exactly where it had put him, like he was a chess piece, and Dean felt fury, hatred barrel through him, almost crippling him in its potency, screaming at him to stabshootburn, to win.

But if it wasn't for the ropes, for the hands keeping him upright, Dean didn't even think he'd be standing, and the despair of it swelled in his chest, reminded him of the nightmare times that were memories and the days he spent promising himself that it would never happen again.

He didn't give up fighting, of course he didn't, but they didn't stop what they were doing either, just slicked him up in this sludgy substance—some kind of paint maybe. He hissed in pain as they slid it in complex patterns over his skin, over the wounds they'd apparently already carved out of him, and he swore and he thrashed and he cursed, calling out for Cas, for Sam, for a God that had never listened, but he may as well have gone placid and complacent for all good it did him.

The two other creatures moved to put their things down and for a second, Dean almost believed that was the end of it, but of course it wasn't.

They were back again in an instant, grabbing his face and pushing a foul tasting mixture down his throat, and Dean could feel it tear through him like a buzzsaw taken to flesh, splitting his insides in two with livid acidity, relentless brutality.

He seized up, garbled screams leaving his mouth at the intensity. It was like being torn apart and dismantled and then reassembled again with every passing second, something at the core of him twisting and rebuilding with every beat, and Dean knew what this was—he'd wielded Alastair's knife for ten years, he knew torture.

He'd learned there was a beautiful kind of torture in recreating another's shape around them, stripping of their last comfort—the safety and familiarity of their own form—and then using it again them. It never failed to get them to break.

As his body contorted and rearranged itself from the inside out, Dean howled and spat and grit his teeth, but he knew, he knew, that was what they were doing here. He just didn't have the resources to wonder about the whys and what-fors.

It took a while for his struggling to lessen, the core of him rippling with red-hot agony, as the substance passed through him like lava and Dean could feel every last excruciating inch, jolting and jerking helplessly where he was suspended.

It was Hell, and much worse, and eventually he found himself crumpling; exhausted and existing only to feel the pain engulfing him, with unhidden moans and hisses. The creatures hadn't seemed to have moved throughout the entire ordeal.

They barely paid him any notice, as though the idea of him escaping hadn't occurred to them, but it didn't seem to be because they lacked the intelligence to plan for it, or because they were too caught up with what they were doing (and what the fuck was that anyway?). It was more like they seemed not to even think it could be a possibility, that it was ridiculous to even consider the concept, so they didn't bother trying. They already knew the outcome.

That thought, for some reason, unsettled Dean more than anything else. The thought that he was completely, utterly powerless.

Distantly, he registered them detaching him from the wall after a few minutes, and any other time that would have been his cue to strike out, to fight, to run, but his body still reeled from the pain, and swam from the hazy narcotics fogging his system. Dean could barely even think about running, and his mind grew a little more distant with every moment. If they'd drugged him, they'd done a hell of a job of it.

He did notice, however, when they dragged him over to Castiel's bowed form, forcing Dean with insistent hands into place behind him, and up close Dean could tell now it was definitely a bench Castiel was crumpled over. More importantly, he could see that Castiel was awake, awake and mumbling out sobbed nonsense into the leather beneath him, as though whatever fragile sanity he'd managed to cultivate had been ripped away from under his feet, leaving him shrivelled and vulnerable and horribly undone.

“Fuck, let him go!” Dean coughed again, his voice coming out a pull of glass and gravel, but it was useless. They weren't listening, and it hurt, and no-one was coming for him. It was just the two of them, just him and Cas, and God, this was it.

“It's gonna be okay, Cas, we're gonna get out of here,” Dean slurred, drooped in the demon's hold, muscles twitching where they wanted to break free, but he hardly even recognised the words that poured from his own lips. So how was he supposed to expect Castiel, so far gone as the guy seemed, to understand them too?

But still, he had to try, had to say something, because they couldn't just go out alone, unspoken. Not after everything they'd been through.

“Hang in there, buddy, y'hear?”

But Castiel didn't hear, or at least gave no indication that he did, only whined like a pained animal, looking more fragile and small than Dean had ever seen him and it was frightening, goddammit, it was wrong.

He remembered the Angel that had hauled his ass up from Hell and then backed him into a corner and demanded his respect with the threat of throwing him back in if he didn't give it. Dean wondered what had ever happened to him.

Castiel was still babbling half-words and crazed sounds to himself, his fists clenching and unclenching, and whenever he opened his eyes, they were wild, white things; desperate and scared, like a wounded wolf.

Fear lurched inside of Dean, even through the fog dragging his body down, and he looked around, almost frenzied in his need to escape, to help Cas, to do something. Jesus Christ, what did these things even want?

The creature that had spoken to him before—Dean figured it to be the leader—laughed behind him, this low, throaty sound that made Dean want to gag with nausea and he just wished the world would stop spinning for a second.

“He can't understand you right now,” the thing was saying, and it took Dean a moment to realise it was talking about Castiel. “He can't understand anything that's not buried deep inside him, filling up all that nasty emptiness”

The words didn't make any sense, but he could tell they were derisive, cruel, and they made Dean want to spit in its face all the same. Before he could find the opportunity or the will, though, it started speaking again.

“He's in heat,” it said plainly, dragging the curve of its filthy, long claws over Castiel's bare back, smirking as the body under its fingers jolted and keened like it was pure torture to even be touched. Or to not be.

“Perfect for it really. All that grace wrapped up in a pretty, malleable little vessel, just made for someone to come along, stick their hands in and recreate. Own.”

It laughed, and Dean wanted it dead, wanted to tear its tongue from its mouth, just to get it to shut up talking about Cas like it knew anything about him, like it could ever hope to understand him when Dean on his best days only had the barest of glimpses.

Pathetic bastard. Probably doesn't feel even complete without something lording over him.”

It had made its way to Castiel's front now, and Dean hated the way it looked down at his friend (and he still had that title, he did), as though he was something pitiful. Dean wondered then if that was how he looked at Cas as well, and he hated that idea even more.

“Really," it murmured absently, "we're doing him a favour.”

"What did you do to him?” Dean demanded, rough and sloppy, the gasped-out threat he meant to push behind his words lost somewhere in the drunken tone of them.

The creature's words meant nothing to Dean yet, may as well have been Enochian, and if they were going to die here, he wanted to know what the fuck it was that would kill them.

But there was no answer, just hands coming from nowhere and shoving him suddenly down, so quick and unwavering the air in his lungs seized up for a moment, like gravity stopped being a thing.

They were pushing Dean's face against Castiel's neck then, and his eyes went wide, arms fighting back on reflex and he wasn't even trying to figure how what they were doing anymore, he just needed it to stop, but they pressed and pressed and he didn't know not to inhale.

By the time he figured out he shouldn't, once again, it was too late.

He felt it crash through him; something thick and insistent, and completely unrelenting. Like an instant-high, like some special mix of narcotics guaranteed to sky-rocket you up into self destruction and not let you down again until you were addicted and craving another hit.

Dean breathed, deep and hungry, filled his lungs with it like it was impossible to resist and his back arched as he lurched backwards and jolted forwards all at once, half of his mind clawing to get closer, the other half scrambling to get away.

But goddammit that scent; sweet and intoxicating and so thick with promise that Dean swore he could feel it rubbing up against him, could feel it taking him over, could feel resistance flee.

"I told you,” the creature, the demon, finally replied, all sense collapsing with its words.

"He's in heat.”

[Part 2]


Tags: !angst, !darkfic, !purgatory, !pwp, #complete, char: castiel, char: dean winchester, content:drugging, content:violence, fanfic, kink:alpha/omega, kink:animalistic, kink:body mod, kink:bondage, kink:d/s, kink:dirty talk, kink:feminization, kink:heat, kink:humiliation, kink:impreg, kink:knotting, kink:lactation, kink:mpreg, kink:noncon, kink:rough sex, kink:self lubrication, kink:transformation, kink:voyeurism, pairing: dean/castiel, rating: nc-17, series:fertility gods, verse: cernunnos, word count: 5000-10000
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