WARNING: Please heed the warnings. If you would be triggered by any of the below, but would like to continue with the story, firstly be reassured that there are no more such occurrences in later chapters. Secondly, warnings do NOT apply to the final 930 words, from the paragraph that begins "Dean sags". If you wish, you could CTRL+F to find that point.
WARNINGS:
Sexual violence.
Attempted Rape.
Abusive threatening language.
Non consensual groping, bondage, bukkake and humiliation
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
If Dean could turn back time, he'd tell himself never to enter The Lookout. Not that he'd listen when he is in bloodhound mode on a hunt. He could smack himself sideways for not heeding his own screaming instincts. No point in lamentations when he's got a jam to get out of.
Don Bryson's vast bulk is currently preventing any moves, but Dean is hyper-alert. He's got routes to the fire exit, side door, storeroom and restrooms sketched out with the geometric side of his brain that rakes in the bucks at pool. The flies in the ointment are the scum of Gauntlet, currently forming a human barrier.
Taking a risk is the only option. Dean steels his nerve, curls his fingers and punches for Don's bare throat.
His knuckles hit the palm of Don's hand which has appeared out of nowhere. Don squeezes until Dean hisses in pain, all the time tutting, "No, no, little one, none of that now."
Dean's next bright idea is a knee to Don's goolies, but that's been anticipated. There is not an inch to move. Instead Don's arm lodges across his throat, pinning him, choking his air supply until white spots appear. When the alpha eases back, Dean gulps for precious air.
"Behave."
Dean blinks, sucks air, nods because the threat of a crushed windpipe is incentive to hold fire until a better moment.
"If he was mine, I'd put a shock collar on him, train him up." A voice hisses from the back of the group, evoking laughter and nods of consideration from the rest and an icy shiver from Dean.
A skinny beta in dirty polyester tracksuit reaches out to place a clammy hand on Dean's forehead, pushing back into his hair. He can't turn his head away. Don pokes his fingers into Dean's cheeks holding him steady.
Skinny sneers, eyes calculating, already chubbing in his pants, sidling closer, boxing Dean in. "I can tell. This one's a slut. Bet he'll come when he's split open on two rock hard cocks with Abe's fat knot shutting off his throat."
"No." Dean wheezes, hoarse from the assault on his airways. "You don't want to do this."
Dean sees through a gap. His eyes beseech for help but the only movement is the older alpha hustling his omega out of the joint. The door swings closed on that source of aid.
The voices come thick and fast. One douchebag speaks over the other.
"But we do," Baldtop snorts. "Wanna mark you up so no one else will want your sorry weeping ass."
"And plug you with alpha dick so much you'll be crapping spunk for a week."
"Omega's love that, being filled and bred, all they are good for, hanging off an alpha knot."
"If he lives up to his potential," another chortles, "we could keep him as our claimed bitch, gagged and plugged in the storeroom."
Dean violently shakes his head, mouths "No."
He opens his eyes to Baldtop approaching as Don steps back. The stinky alpha has a length of string, a kind of frayed old twine. He holds it in his fist as he uses the other hand to help Don and Skinny drag Dean to the pool table. There's no opportunity to run. Three hands pull at his threads. They rip his jacket from his shoulders. The barkeep is there with a long knife, which he uses to cut off Dean's layers until he is bare from the waist up. His cheek is pressed onto the worn felt. He squirms and resists as much as he dares, still repeating his 'no' in the vain hope they'll listen. Someone undoes his buckle and zipper and pulls his pants to swim around his ankles, caught on his boots.
This is fucking happening. He can't see an out. He begins to pray wordlessly that he'll survive, that there'll be an act of God like a lightning strike or a sudden plague of frogs. He'd willingly accept a tidal wave that would drown them all, Dean included.
Skinny and the barkeep's knuckles are holding him down, rim of the pool table digging into his belly. Loathsome alphas butt heads about who gets to rape him first.
Out of his peripheral vision Dean sees that Baldtop is making a noose. If this is lynch-an-omega night, Dean's thankful that this imbecile didn't get the memo about weight bearing loads. When the others notice the trawlerman's handiwork there are a few whoops of praise and dry chuckles. Dean kicks and struggles anew as they place the thin rope over his head, scraping his nose and avoiding his bite as he tries to break it with his teeth. This isn't a game of live action Hangman. It's a leash. It burns his already bruised windpipe as they drag him, all the time laughing at his gait with his pants around his ankles, pulling him and taunting him through the blackened fire doors and out to a junk and empties filled yard.
It's dark, faint light from the open fire doors and a bulging moon, making the back lot eerie with shadows. The cold prickles Dean's skin into gooseflesh. There is a clanging noise. Someone's knocked over beer bottles. Dean twists his head towards the back of the other bar, in hopes there are windows or entry points from which his attackers might be spotted. It's dead over there. His heart sinks another notch.
"Tie him down," The barkeep growls.
Dean opens his mouth, fills his lungs with night air, and prepares to holler loud enough to wake every decent citizen of Gaunt. A line of fire burns his arm. He's been cut with his own shiv.
"You make anything louder than a hushed beg, or a slutty moan while I plow your ass, your pointless balls will be sliced, diced and fed down your gullet."
Dean frantically nods his agreement. He believes these cockroaches would do it. He bites down his urge to scream as his arms are stretched too far. They only bother removing one boot to get his denim restraint out of the way. They tie his legs wide with rough hands and thicker rope. He is sideways over an old urine odorous rat chewed wide seat.
Motion catches his vision. The bartender's got his cock out, nothing else. He is fully dressed, just pumping his length, getting off on Dean being manhandled and exposed. He grunts his pleasure, "Slick for me yet, Robert? Because I'm gonna drive this good thing into your lily white ass."
"Robert?" A hulking beta, who's been in the background, steps up. "I overheard him telling a family down at the museum coffee place that he's name is Dean and he was running errands for his Pa."
Baldtop's ugly mug and malodorous wheezing breath is in his face. Glaring into Dean's eyes, and with full on Alpha, he demands, "Your real name, Omega, now."
It forces its way out of his mouth like bilious puke, "D – D – Dean."
Don hoots. "He's a false lying slut, this one. On vacation? Waiting for his Alpha-Dad? No one believes a liar..." He grabs Dean by his short strands of hair, scratching his scalp and forcing his head back, "… and nobody is going to believe you didn't want this, because you do want it. Bucking here like a bitch in heat."
Dean's been struggling, trying to find some give in his bonds. Did that look like he was asking to be knotted? He takes stock while the foul conversation continues above him. He doesn't want this. They'll never convince him that he does. He wonders what they are waiting for. Maybe they had to wait for the roofie to kick in with their last victim. He tries to remember that all the memory wiped omegas turned up 'unharmed' but his traitorous brain supplies that they might be the only ones who survived.
"Unmated. Unwanted more like," the hoarse voice taunts. "But don't worry, we'll take you. Take you hard and deep."
"Did Daddy leave you on the side of the road like a box of mangy puppies?"
That one cuts a bit close to the truth. Dean winces, remembers he's got to check in with John tomorrow, wishes he and his Dad had tackled this hunt as a team.
"Maybe you struck out on your own? Huh, Dean? Trying to make it as a slick-whore? Well, sorry to disappoint, we don't pay, we take."
"Hit it dead on, Abe. He must be trade," one of them adds casually, "If he was respectable he'd have gone to Mac's."
"Hey Larry!" The barkeep growls, "I run a respectable house."
It's the first round of mocking laughter not directed at Dean.
"Y'all think it's time he tasted us?" Abe's eager voice asks.
The hand on his jaw is grimy and nicotine sour. Don forces his mouth open by pressing on his jaw hinges while another pinches his nose. All he can see are bits of alpha arms and hands until Don spits into his mouth. He gags but his lips are pressed punishingly closed, while a palm strokes his throat until he swallows. He squeezes his eyes tight but his ears can hear their gutter words.
"You got a taste of me. A preview," Don licks a stripe along Dean's cheek, "Going to fill you up every which way."
Dean almost wishes he'd allowed himself to be roofied. Someone else is taunting that they won't knot him, wouldn't want to be tied to a slutty ass like Dean's needy hole.
"We should hogtie it." The hoarse voiced alpha suggests. "Ease of access, guys."
Dean tries to kick against his captors again. If they hogtie him, he'll lose the small hope of escape by slipping his bonds. His head is jerked back by the wire thin noose. Eyes wide, he sees Skinny sneering down at him, before a kiss is forced that churns Dean's stomach, makes him want to bite down on the thick slimy tongue invading his mouth, but he values his balls too much.
"I think little Piggy'd like that," Don reappears to run a rough thumb over Dean's lips. He whispers for Dean's ears only, "These lips are gonna be bruised up soon, but I'm taking first dibs, gonna hit the back of your throat and fill your belly with my come, you're gonna drink down every drop, while Larry shoots his load up your slutty ass. Nod if you understand me."
Dean can hardly move with the hold of Don's hand in his hair but he does his best to bob his head. He can see the built beta who ratted out his name, head thrown back, inches away from coming, and then a spray of hot loathsome nasty spend decorates Dean's back. He can feel it slipping down his spine. He wants to vomit.
"Can't wait." The hoarse one snarls. That must be Larry. "We can tie him in all kinds of knots after. I'm going in."
There is the sound of a zipper, vast spanning hands wrap around his sides, positioning him, digging into his hips. Dean bucks his hips, trying to force the guy off, but is met with cackles of how eager he is to be knotted. He is shaking his head so hard that Don chuckles about having to dance to slot his cock between the omega's plump lips.
Dean barely registered the first shout from beyond the circling hyenas, can't parse where the sudden flood of bright outdoor light has come from.
"I said HEY." An alpha roars. "What the fuck are you dumb knotheads doing? That omega doesn't look like a willing participant to me?"
"Fuck off, Benny. Mind your own beeswax." Don shoves Larry to the side, as he yells back to the interrupter.
"Your Pa know what you get up to when his back's turned?"
"We said Fuck Off. Turn around and go back into your kitchen, Lafitte."
"Well, boys. I can't do that." There is a deadly threat in the new alpha's tone. "I could step back inside, I guess. I could call on Mac, and Geoff, and ask June to disturb the sheriff."
"Bastard." Larry throws in Benny's direction.
Hands knead into Dean's butt cheeks. Dean cringes as he can feel his body begin to betray him at the last. His hole twitches in terrible anticipation. He clenches it, missing the semantics of the taunt Don adds loud enough for everyone to catch.
"Don't you fucking dare, Don Bryson!" Booms at multiple decibel volume.
"Shut your face, Lafitte." Don roars back as he bumps his hard on against Dean's crack.
"You think one omega's worth a trip to the mainland in handcuffs?"
"You want him, Lafitte? Come get him." Baldtop bellows.
Dean's manages to maneuver his neck towards the back of Mac's again. He can't see his potential rescuer. The beam from Mac's security lighting disguises him as a shadow.
For the blink of an eye, Dean is convinced he is imagining, hallucinating, that his brain got oxygen deprived. But then, there is a blur of violence. Heads snap back. Fists fly. Copper blood odor tells Dean that a nose has been broken. Mac's voice roars from his property, and then the not-so-brave alpha and beta slimeballs scatter. They break apart like sheep or panicked lemmings, dashing back through the bar, leaping over the low wall, barreling through the rear gate.
Dean sags. The adrenalin leeches from his body. He is spent, relieved and embarrassingly naked.
"You got this Lafitte? You need me over there?" Mac's voice bellows.
"Naw, Brother. Go back to the patrons. The bottom feeding cowards have split." The alpha sounds winded, as if he was on the receiving end of a few blows, but the aggression is gone from his voice.
A warm hand tenderly strokes Dean's flank. Large but gentle fingers ease the makeshift noose collar from his sore neck. His ankles are freed. All the time a wonderful soothing tone mutters comfort. A deep southern timbre coos how good Dean is, how he is safe, how everything will be alright. Dean melts into it. He wants that voice to wrap around him so he is the filing in a burrito of those words. He doesn't know he is crying like a lost pup until an honest to god hankie wipes away disgusting traces of spittle along with Dean's own salty wetness.
"They are gone, Cher."
Benny lifts Dean off the rotting seat. He plunks himself in the dirt and gathers Dean into his chest. The alpha rips open his white work jacket and rents apart the wife-beater underneath. The omega curls fetal, trying to fit all his bruised body onto Benny's lap, trying to find refuge in the offered skin, noses into the alpha's chest hair with small noises in the back of his throat. Dean finally gets to fill the alveoli of his lungs with the goodness and divine scent of alpha perfected.
He noses into skin dampened by the perspiration of work and battle. He'll gather his wits and his self respect together in a moment, but right now, Dean buries himself in the crook of the alpha's neck. Salt, suede, soil, cinnamon, and soft stewed sweet apples mingle, comfort, and draw him in. He cleaves to Benny Lafitte like an omega tentacle monster feeding his essence with all the right stuff.
"'m not clingy." Dean mutters, finally becoming aware of the impression he's making.
Benny chuckles. Good golly miss molly, that belly laugh is doing things to Dean's brain, like turning it to mush.
"m not weak," Dean mumbles, trying to counter what he is certain must be overwhelming evidence.
Benny tries to ease Dean back so he can meet his eyes, but Dean can't look up, can't face seeing his alpha's eyes for the first time when they are clouded in disappointment. A hand softly tilts Dean's head, brushing his cheek against a neatly trimmed beard.
"Please, Sugar, would you see me?"
The plea is heartfelt, genuine and delivered in a slow Cajun accent. Dean blinks, lets his pupils adjust, and he sees him. Immediately Dean finds him attractive, which is sort of neat, seeing that Benny's scent is pure Mate. The alpha's shining blue eyes are kind, transmitting sympathy rather than condemnation. His face is full and generous, with smile lines and eye crinkles. Dean licks his chapped and sore lips, picturing meeting Benny's slightly parted upturned smile.
"Hi." Benny's smile broadens. He removes the hand that was stroking Dean's side to offer it, "Benny Lafitte, alpha out of Louisiana."
Dean shakes his head with amusement. He is covered in the spunk of his attackers, unclothed, bruised and might be in a kind of shock. It's not how he ever fantasized meeting a potential mate. He takes the proffered hand. Benny's palm warms his. Dean smirks.
"Dean. Dean Winchester, omega out of everywhere and nowhere, all sorts of trouble."
A finger presses tenderly on his surprised O-shaped mouth.
"Shush now, Darlin'. None of that deprecating talk. It makes me all sorts of not amused. And driving off that scum? No trouble at all. It was my pleasure."
Benny's voice rumbles from the alpha's chest into Dean's.
"'Kay," Dean manages, unable to believe this dude. He doesn't know Dean and all the cluster fucks he is ground zero for, but Dean doesn't want to annoy by enlightening the alpha. He'd prefer to be dressed for that conversation. His internal eyebrows rise at the presumption that he'll be around for any such talk.
"How about I get you home Dean? You wanna shower? Warm clothes?"
Dean flinches. He must stink. However Benny doesn't let him jump away. He pulls him closer for a hug and more rubbing, of his back this time. Keep this up and Dean will be so covered by Benny's scent that he won't want to shower.
"I'll bring you back to mine, OK? Cher?"
Dean nods. He should go back to the cabin, but heck, he doesn't want to go where Don Bryson knows he is staying. He'd be awake and alert all night, shotgun propped and ready to shoot.
"You good?" Benny checks.
Dean is as far from good as a Satanist mid virgin sacrifice, but he understands and nods. He's not expecting for his jeans to be pushed up as far as his buttocks. He watches amazed as Benny plays Prince Charming to fit Dean's lost boot un-laced onto his foot. Then he is picked up like a newlywed and carried out of the yard. June dashes out with a blanket to cover him. He tucks into Benny's chest. Dean adjusts, wrapping his legs around Benny's waist for security and comfort.
"Wish I'd gone into the kitchen," Dean whispers to the night, thinking he could have had this without all the intervening hell.
"Huh, Sugar?"
"It's nice," Dean admits, sinking into Benny, resting his head on a soft shoulder, allowing his alpha to take him home.