Spn_Meme: Kink-Mpreg: Consort Of the Boy King 7/?
Author's Note 1:This entry is a response for the prompt made over at the Spn_hardcore meme: kink-mpreg:
Grabbed by worshipers of the Boy King, Dean is set to be the main attraction in a summoning/consort perfecting ritual. Dean is tied to an altar and given something to drink that sets his body on fire, making him hard, but he isn't allowed to cum until the Boy King lets him so his cock is wrapped in a tight cock ring.
As part of the ritual, every believer gets a turn at fucking Dean – filling him with their cum, slicking his passage so they can plug Dean with larger and larger plugs, to keep all the cum in and to stretch his hole to receive the Boy King's large cock.
Bonus points: (1) Dean still believes Sam will "save" him until Sam becomes an active participant in the ritual; (2) Sam fucks Dean talking dirty and telling Dean how lovely Dean will look heavy with Sam's children.
Warnings! This fic will contain:
kink: hurt!dean, kink:bloodplay, kink: bondage, kink: dirtytalk, kink: biting, kink: knifeplay, kink: angst, kink: object pentration, kink: voyeurism, kink: mindfuck, kink: exhibition, kink: fingering, kink: evil!sam, kink: gangbang, kink: mpreg, kink: non-con, kink: sex magic, kink: slave/master, pairing: dean/multiple ofcs, pairing: dean/multiple omcs, pairing: dean/sam, supernatural, top!sam, wincest, bareback, bottom!dean, firsttime.
There may be more warnings added later...but for now, you have been warned!
Author's Note 2: Okie dokie, kiddies…darkness at last…oh…but we have so much farther to go… *wicked laugh*
As always, this is not for profit, I do not own any characters or ideas from the show, I have merely created my own little world in which they are visiting. I'll give them back, Kripke…eventually…maybe…
Chapter Seven:
Eternal Darkness of the Fucked up Mind
Dean woke panting, his body in full panic mode, the lingering tendrils of the nightmare still wrapped tight around him. His system was bursting with adrenaline, forcing his sluggish system to full awareness. The night of the ritual was swirling through his mind as he remembered every single moment of that horror, interposed with all the times he had been touched and examined, whether he was conscious or not, without his consent since then. Something had finally just snapped and he knew that he just could not stand to be touched again. The hazy "days" were bad enough, panic/PTSD attacks creeping up on him at the slightest touch or even hearing certain sounds or voices could send him slamming back into the horror all over again. Now, now he had to contend with nightmares stealing into his mind, taking the only respite he had left away. He couldn't take it, he had to get away.
Dean bolted up out of bed, stumbling and weak-kneed, panting and wild-eyed as he grabbed hold of the furniture to balance his weak muscles enough to stumble away. He ripped out the IV's when he felt them tug him back toward the bed, not caring that he was now bleeding from the torn entry points. Dean frantically scanned the room in the low light as he looked for something to cover his naked body. He found a large closet, some of his clothes hanging inside and he immediately shoved himself inside the warmest sleep pants he could find and a worn but warm Henley that had once belonged to his father, but that he had stolen from him a long time ago. Even just the small task of getting dressed had left him exhausted, he realized, but he also realized that he was free and that this was possibly the only chance he may have to try to escape, so he pushed aside the exhaustion as he had so many times before and kept going. He pushed down the agony and ache every movement he made brought about, though he was pretty sure there must be some drugs still lingering in his system, otherwise he probably wouldn't have been able to move at all.
As he had covered himself, he had had to close his eyes, not wanting to see all the physical reminders on his body, his own personal souvenirs, of that night of Hell on earth. Once he had accomplished dressing, he began searching the room for anything he could use as a weapon. Finding nothing in the spare furnishings, he moved throughout the apartment, searching there as well, also without luck. He started looking for a way out instead. The place was locked up tight. Even the "windows", which weren't windows at all, were a bust because they merely shallow shafts of light covered by some sort of unbreakable glass. The adrenaline and tiny flicker of hope that had been fueling him fled him in a final flair of random violence. He punched and kicked the tv screen, smashed chairs and random small tables against the walls, beat against the unbreakable window shafts, etc… basically breaking or attempting to break anything he could get his hands on until he collapsed, completely spent. He shook with the lingering traces of adrenaline firing in his system and with the rage and despair welling inside him. His hands were bloodied by the bleeding gashes on his knuckles, the reopened wounds at his wrists, and the torn open places where the IV's had been. His wrists throbbed deeply and he knew that the already weakened fragile bones there were now most likely fractured or even broken. Unsteady and utterly spent, he drug himself into the farthest corner and curled in around himself as tears leaked heavily from his eyes. He cradled his throbbing wrists to his body, rocking slightly as he felt the despair and pain overwhelm him.
Dean had no idea how long he had cowered there in his corner when he heard a door open and close quickly and quietly, the electronic beep of an alarm sounding and the click of heavy locks engaging. The attendant that had just entered to check on him started into the room, but then, seeing the state that the room was in, the utter destruction around him, he began to creep warily around the space to locate his charge. When he found him, he reached out to the man, thinking maybe to grab him and take him back to bed. The moment he made contact, the man's bright, glassy, wild eyes sprang open and locked on him. The man batted his hand away roughly, then made to swing on the attendant. The attendant slid back just in time and began pacing around him, trying to dodge in and get a hold of the man to subdue him and get him back to resting but the man managed to evade him and had even come close to getting a hold of him, so he backed off completely, rapidly backing toward the exit until he far enough away to turn and run. He got to the door and out of it before the man had even been able to make much of a move toward it and locked it up tight before going for help.
Dean scrambled back to his corner, curling in tight. When the attendant had first come to him, had first touched him, his panic spiked into another adrenaline surge and he tried his hardest to capture the man and force him to tell him how to get out of here, even as the man was trying to capture and subdue him. He'd almost got a hold of him a couple of times, the last time had been a close call and the man must have realized it as well and he had backed away completely and bolted for the door before Dean could even get a couple feet in that direction. Cursing his own weak and useless body, he had slunk back down and all the emotions and fears that he had pushed down to fight had caught up with him again. His heart still raced and his mind was a jumbled mess of touches and the night of the ritual and of all the rapes and everything else that he couldn't seem to escape no matter how hard he tried.
Deep down, he knew the attendant would be back, probably with help, and the thought of so many people touching him again was sending him into a blind panic. He tried to keep it together, to calm himself down, but all of his previous, carefully built defenses were battered and broken and he couldn't stop himself from tensing and panting as the strands of reality and the past dove and swirled around his mind. He was little more than a feral animal at this point, his ability to think rationally was slipping away as he sunk down into the panic and fear and horror wrapping itself around him in a vice-like grip.
Distantly, he heard the metallic snick and the electronic beeps of the locks and a low whimper slipped from him as he heard heavy foot steps approaching. Suddenly they were before him and advancing on him, speaking in low, soothing tones that were supposed to calm him but instead had the opposite effect and made him all the more wild. A long moment later, Dean felt hands on him and he snapped, adrenaline surging through his ragged body once again and he lashed out, his hands and wrists screaming at him as they made contact with flesh and bone in his fight to rid himself of their touch. There were too many of them, though and he was too weak and broken to fight them off for long. And as his berserker state died out once again, they were able to get a hold of him and he tasted blood as he screamed out from his tortured throat. Dean didn't even feel the prick of the needle, but within moments, his world was fading fast into the bleak darkness once again.
Dean didn't know how long he was under this time, but as he drifted back to consciousness, he wished he had just stayed in the darkness forever. His eyes welled up with tears as he took in his predicament and surroundings. He was in the bed chamber again and there was no evidence that anything had ever been disturbed at all. Dean let his head loll down to see the weight that was pinning his wrists down. He saw that it was padded restraints with solid-looking chains snaking away from them to behind him somewhere. The chains tinkled softly as they rubbed against each other with each movement he made. A slight shift in his legs told him he had them on his ankles as well. Soft sobs bubbled up from him as he realized the fact that he was once again at their mercy and that there really was no escape from him. He was enslaved and bound here for eternity. Dean's eyes slipped closed again, burning with the fresh tears spilling from his still raw, inflamed eyes.
"You've been out for three days this time, Dean… Veran had to give you a pretty powerful sedative to make sure you stayed out long enough to really start to healing and we had to restrain you so you couldn't hurt yourself or anyone else, either. Dean, you have to stop…you have to let yourself get better, ok? Please?" Sam said softly.
Hearing Sam's voice, so soft and pleading, coming from the demonic rapist monster that he had become was another devastating reminder both of what he'd once had and of what he'd never have again. Dean rolled away from the achingly familiar voice, curling in on himself as he sobbed softly to himself. His chains tinkled softly as his sobs gently shook his body. His IV's were tugging slightly in his skin but he couldn't care less. He heard a deep sigh and a moment later, he felt the bed dip behind him. He tensed, his breathing picking up and he felt Sam's presence behind him. A few moments later, he felt Sam's huge hand on his back. Dean let out a choked gasp, his mind flashing back to the night of the ritual and he flinched harshly, dragging his legs even tighter to his chest.
"Don't…please don't…" he pleaded brokenly in a hoarse whisper, deep shudders chasing themselves across his body. Sam apparently didn't understand or just didn't care because he kept touching him, rubbing his back to try to soothe him. Dean curled impossibly tighter, rocking himself unconsciously as his sobs and shudders escalated to the point that utter exhaustion took him over and he didn't fight it as he slipped away, back into the darkness, Sam's touch lingering on endlessly in his nightmares and memories.
The next time he woke, it was in the same position, with the same view and he felt the tears prickling in his tender eyes as his own personal Hell was renewed all over again. It was like a nightmarish version of that movie "Ground Hog Day", only, there would be no happy ending for him. No, a happy ending was not in the cards for Dean Winchester.
he drifted off again and just like every time before, he prayed he'd never wake again. Except he did. He woke or was woke up by attendants plying him with food and drink, which he refused time and again, until one day, the High Priest and the Boy King stood, looming over him, eyes and bodies stern and foreboding as they made it clear that the four attendants behind them would pin him down and force the food and drink down his throat bit by bit until it was gone and that they would do so every single time until he chose to eat for himself. Dean cowered away from them, knowing that he couldn't endure that, couldn't stand to be so forcibly reminded of the night of the ritual again so, meek and resigned, he took the food. His hands shook as he lifted the bowl to his lips and allowed the rich broth to slip into his mouth and down his still raw throat. It hit his stomach like a sledgehammer from his not eating for so long and Dean felt extremely nauseous almost instantly. He set the bowl down quickly and curled in on himself as he tried to will his mutinous stomach to settle down.
"I feared as much…here, you must drink this down, my boy. It will help settle you again." The High Priest said as he held out a vial to Dean. When Dean didn't reach out to take it, he handed it to Sam instead.
"He needs to finish the broth and tea, my lord. We must rebuild his system and make it suitable for sustaining the children he will bear."
"Thank you, Veran. I'll tend to him now, you may go." Sam said, taking the vial.
"But of course, my lord. I am at your service." The High Priest said, he and the servants bowing deeply before their lord before taking their leave.
Sam sat on the bed beside Dean, facing him. He reached out to touch Dean's shoulder, which caused Dean to flinch deeply once again. Sam sighed deeply hating that his brother flinched at even his touch. Didn't he understand that he loved him and that he would never hurt him? Well, Sam decided, maybe that was something to think about and work on for another day. Right now, he needed to get Dean eating again. Gently, Sam lifted Dean onto his lap. Dean immediately began to protest the move and fight him.
"Settle down, Dean, unless you want me to call Veran and the attendants back in…" Sam said firmly, a hint of something dark and menacing unintentionally slipping into his voice and he said it.
Dean stilled as best he could at the command, though he wanted nothing more then to scramble away from the demonic bastard's touch. Even still, he certainly didn't want to be strapped down again after only just having got the padded restraints finally removed so recently, so, he let Sam place the vial to his lips and tip the liquid down his throat. Just like before, he was hit with the strong herbal taste, the bitter after-taste lingering in his mouth as the liquid slipped into his stomach and settled it almost instantly, just like before. Dean's eyes closed briefly in relief and his body began slowly uncoiling itself. Slowly, Dean pulled himself away from Sam a little bit. Shakily, he picked up the bowl and lifted it to his lips without even being prompted to by Sam because he that if he didn't, Sam would likely try to feed him and he couldn't bear to feel that helpless and forced again.
Sam didn't stop touching him, unfortunately. He kept making soothing noises and uttering encouragements as he rubbed Dean's back and shoulders. Those acts and Sam's presence was making Dean sick and nauseous for an entirely different reason then an upset stomach because the feel of any one touching him so intimately, especially the Boy King, made him down right ill and it brought about debilitating flashbacks of that horrible night all over again. As shaky and sick as he felt, he finally managed to finish both the broth and the tea. He still felt like shit, but he knew at least part of it was from not eating and drinking anything for so long and another big part was because of the stress and strain of being unwillingly touched and the memories it drudged up over and over again.
Distantly, Dean heard Sam's voice, speaking to him, though he couldn't really understand the words anymore, and nudging him to lay down and rest and so he did so, not fighting it as he collapsed down into the bedding and mattress. As much as he hated the vulnerability of being asleep, he was so damn exhausted from being on high alert and from the stress of the flashbacks and attacks all the time that his own body took over and took the choice form him. He was out for the count in moments.
When he awoke again, the next "day" he assumed, Sam was already gone again, which was just as well because he didn't want to be near him anyways. It went on like this for days, maybe even a week, though he really couldn't tell, nor did he really care at this point. Sam left in the early "mornings", leaving him alone with attendants coming and going to check on him for most of the day. When he was strong enough, he'd explored the apartment or quarters, or whatever more thoroughly, finding mostly nothing he really cared one way or another about except some of his own clothes and possessions, though obviously, none of his weapons. He found his father's journal, locked away inside a display case of some kind like it was some sort of goddamn trophy or prize or something. Dean had tried to break it free from its prison but the glass was too thick and strong and he couldn't break into it, no matter how hard he tried. He'd collapsed next to it, panting from exertion and wasn't surprised to feel the angry, frustrated tears slipping from his eyes. His father's memory was a prisoner forever now, too, just like him and that knowledge just made him cry all the harder. God, he was so damn weak and pathetic now, it made him sick…he couldn't bear the thought of what his father would think of him now, of what he'd think of the fact that he had failed to save his baby brother, failed to complete the last mission his father had ever given him, the most important mission of all. He was a fuck up…a failure…maybe…maybe he deserved what he'd become, maybe he was really as worthless as he'd always secretly thought he was. He thought that if his father could see what he'd become, that he'd never have made the deal to save him. He wasn't worth it and his father had paid the ultimate price for him for nothing. After that day, he'd avoided the case, unable to bear the crushing sense of shame and failure that the piece of John Winchester inside it always made him feel. He was nothing now. Nothing more than a bitch, a filthy brood mare for his own brother who had become the Boy King, heir of Hell and he himself was to bear the most evil child of all, probably many of them, if Sam had his way. He was to bear the Antichrist child. Life was just fucking awesome…
After who knew how long, the attendants came less and less often, once they saw that he was eating what they brought him. They mostly left him alone, not trying to touch him for the most part, so he began to settle into a routine. He would eat the meals, leaving the trays on the table near the door so they didn't have to come near him to retrieve them. He'd curl up on the corner of the L-shaped couch, his back to the wall so that he could see anyone approaching well in advance. They huge TV was on, always, not that he was actually paying attention to it, he merely kept it on for the noise and as a distraction from his own thoughts. There were many games and different game stations and movies and CD's lining the shelves around him, but, where once he would have felt like a kid in a candy store to have such things to play with, now, he cared for absolutely none it. He couldn't help but feel like they were presents given to a whore, a personal concubine of the king to placate and distract the person from questioning their lot in life. Even if he was to actively participate in his own life such as it was now, instead of drifting in the haze, he couldn't bring himself to ever touch those things that just served to reinforce what he was now.
So, he sat there, day after day, drifting in the haze, just present enough to track the people coming in and out of the space around him and to robotically eat what they brought him. For the first time in his life, Dean was still. In his life before, he'd always hated being still. He'd hated the emptiness of silence, too, which was why he had always had to be moving, always have noise around him, whether it was music or even his own humming, just any noise, really. Now though, he felt completely strung out and torn down to the quick and he just couldn't bear the too heavy emotions from pouncing on him if he started to think too much, so he tried not to think at all. He fought of the devastation in the only way he could, by keeping his mind blank and numb. It was the only way left for him to fight, now.
A/N: Ok, formatting issues fixed and a whole other chapter done that I will post soon, so okie dokie, my lovelies, enjoy!
