Fic: Onuava, 3/4

[castielssock]

[ Part 2]

Castiel's scent changed the next day.

They knew it meant they were fucked. They also knew it meant that not escaping was no longer an option.

Every second, every discarded scrap of energy not spent on fucking or fighting or sleeping had to go on planning for a way out of here, on picking up where they'd tapered off and attacking it with a new vigour.

The demons barely drugged them anymore, only forcing the putrid liquids down Dean's gullet if they were going to take Castiel anywhere and they wanted him sedate.

Apparently he'd managed to do some damage that first time at least.

Castiel still had his heats, though, and they still lead Dean soundly into his ruts.

It made no sense; the Lilu had clearly already gotten what they wanted. Making their little dolls fuck some more wasn't going to get them anything else.

Dean decided they were just trying to keep them busy, distracted, or hell, maybe they'd just been altered so far past human that there was no stopping the freight trains of their biology anymore.

Maybe this was something they'd have to deal with for good.

For a little while, they managed to work around it, managed to settle into a routine, a rhythm, and when the cave darkened and stilled at what must have passed for night around here, Dean and Castiel would sneak from under their furs and sift through the sludge of their minds for a strategy, for options.

Dean would have taken anything at this point.

Time grew heavier when he started watching it again, languid and wounded at his back while tension coiled in his bones, made him impatient. They had a deadline now and it got closer every minute.

Their bodies and minds were still shifting too, contorting them into puppets, little more than pets, a crooked metamorphosis that showed no signs of stopping.

The donkey-boy scene in Pinocchio always scared the shit out of Dean as a kid too; living through its cousin in slow motion wasn't exactly a picnic.

Somehow it almost got harder to focus once the Lilu stopped drugging them, a struggle to grasp each second of lucidity where it dangled in front of them and hell, those bastards were probably banking on it.

All Dean had left to focus on was Cas and that was just as consuming, just as addictive as any narcotic they could pump into his system and it only got worse when they started noticing the signs.

The sickness came first.

Castiel spent hours caught in a cycle of nausea and vomiting, unaccustomed to illness and completely toppled over by it.

It only took a few days of this and Dean was soon reduced to a growling mess of teeth and claws, snapping at invisible assailants, watching vigilant at the mouth of their cell, daring anyone to approach him and his mate.

The rest of the time was spent softened and scared, cradling Castiel's weak form as he dry heaved, retching up whatever fluids he'd been allowed to drink.

Inflated protectiveness hunted Dean, smacking its chops, ready to devour him at any second.

He desperately hated that his mate was sick and he couldn't even break free of his cage to provide for him, to bring him the nutrients he needed to get better.

Irrational and instinctive, but at least it had him centring on getting out of there even if it was just to drag bloodied carcases back for Cas to eat.

The Lilu started bringing him morsels of what passed for food after that, apparently deciding Castiel's diet was a priority in his “delicate state”.

Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or furious. Jealous that someone else was taking care of his mate, and that should have sent alarm bells ringing in and of itself.

By the time Castiel's belly started to swell, Dean barely remembered there even was a plan most of the time-one half of him stricken by terror, the other caught in awe whenever he caught sight of the softened curve of Cas' stomach, undeniable evidence of what they'd done.

An unmistakable truth

It sent him reeling, stark colours flooding his vision and striking him with polarising sentiments-horrified and guilty in the parts of his soul he knew were his own, predatory and proud of his prowess where he'd devolved.

The lines blurred and bled into each other where warmth and wonder curled pleasantly in his chest, blossoming into something possessive, able to watch Castiel grow round and plump and lovely with his child.

It was the “child” part that had the lid cracking open on his sanity, crumbling into the murky, roily waters of panicked confusion.

Castiel though, strong, durable Castiel, brought him back with his soft words and softer kisses, whispered promises of safety and vows of blood kissed into Dean's temple.

He'd draw Dean close into the cradle of deceptively fragile arms and show him the secret carvings they'd etched onto errant rocks-Enochian markings and Sumerian warding spells hidden under the straw, reminding Dean that they had purpose.

That they had a chance.

It was strange how things worked, that in the belly of this madness, Castiel seemed to have regained some of his mind, some of the stability he'd lost to the wreckage of Sam's wall.

He wasn't the boundless, indomitable creature Dean had first met a century ago in a ramshackle barn just outside of Pontiac, Illinois or the calculating soldier struggling and ruthless to win his war, but he wasn't completely cuckoo for cocoa puffs anymore either.

That was something, but still there was no immunity from the viper-fangs of their shiny-new biology.

Castiel was as much a victim as Dean, but where Dean had become more aggressive, territorial, Castiel became mellow, eased into the gentleness that had always illuminated him, submissive and willing to let Dean protect and lead him as he saw fit.

He had moments where he zoned out completely, went slack and needy, whined to get Dean's attention and only settled down once Dean was curled around him and nuzzling his face.

They didn't speak in those times.

With the skins of men discarded on the pale earth, they became simple creatures with simple needs and no use for words.

Castiel only seemed to care that Dean was warm and strong and smelled nice in a way that appealed to his baser faculties, that his body could shield him from the cold and that he had a useful knot to keep him full and happy when his hormones made him crave it.

He'd practically purr over Dean's thoughtless, impulsive displays of virility too, responding by sliding to his front and splaying his legs, his spine curving in clear invitation, a pretty arc of deliberate seduction.

Making himself desirable and presenting for Dean; a reward for his Alpha.

It was all kinds of embarrassing when they remembered it later.

Awareness still came in stints like it had at the start, but Dean knew how better to wield it now, knew to not waste his energy grappling for control when the wired rush of pheromones was running riot, knew to bide his time and wait it out so there was nothing steering away his focus when he needed to think.

Without the poison and the violence warping them, Dean could even spend the time where his grip faltered caring for Cas, which in all honesty was just as important as getting out of here, more important than ever now.

It was hard to fully admit what their reality had become, but now as Dean watched Castiel amble around the cave, a mindful hand splayed gently over the subtle swell of his middle, furs draped precariously around his waist, he couldn't pretend there wasn't a part of him that wanted it.

It was easy to chalk it up to the primal man, the animal that owned most of his days, the beast those bastards had sculpted him into but in all honesty Dean knew this was him, knew that somewhere along the winding path, he'd fallen in love with the idea.

A baby.

Impossible and unnatural and potentially grotesque, made amidst carnage and bloodshed, a rampage of flesh and primitive desires. On paper, nothing good could come of this.

If it made it through the pregnancy, his child would either be born in violence, ripped from its mother's bloody womb and whisked away into clawed paws that wanted to use it to cripple the Earth.

Or, best case scenario, it would end up the lose thread snagging its traumatised, dysfunctional parents together, the inhuman offspring of a psychotic hunter and a mangled angel.

Its life was destined to be tragic either way but…

Their baby.

How could Dean not fall in love with that?

Castiel bent down gingerly and brushed the swath on the floor aside to retrieve his stones, precious and painstakingly cultivated with the patience only an angel could muster, now that he had something to occupy himself with.

Dean himself had spent most of the time Castiel devoted to collecting and carving rocks warning shadows off his bitch, such were the pleasures of having your mind altered down to the barest neurons.

He sat up, peering over at his mate as Castiel navigated his way to Dean's side, his cheeks and eyes bright, already glowing and radiant with fertility, made even more apparent by the contrast of filthy corruption around them.

Since Dean had known him Castiel had always looked slightly awkward, his posture wound too stiff in his clunky, over-sized clothes, but somehow his body carried its new shape beautifully, filling out and gentling to swells and curves where there should have been sharp angles and jutting bones.

His skin was rosy and healthy, an odd sort of femininity about him that made too much sense and not enough at all.

Castiel crouched down, a pink slip of tongue curving over his lips in a gesture of concentration as he struggled for balance minutely, still learning how to move with the extra weight, still a little clumsy.

Dean reached out to steady him and Castiel gave him a small, almost bashful smile before his clever hands released their wealth, carefully laying out the stones on the ground.

They were quiet for a time, just taking in the fruits of their labour.

There was no way to know for sure if this would work, if they were even on the right track.

They were free wheeling, but it was better than resigning themselves to a future as damn breeding slaves for a bunch of bottom-feeder nasties long forgotten from the dusty, moth-ridden pages of ancient lore books.

Castiel was frowning, brows knitted in contemplation, observation. He glanced up at Dean.

“We're almost done,” he said, whispering, idle fingers tracing the grooves of the markings.

“The wards are finished and, once activated with grace, these sigils will be strong enough to immobilise the demons for a significant period, I'm confident of that.”

Dean smiled tiredly, lopsided, his head resting against the cool shale.

“Well that sounds like there's a 'but' coming,” Dean said, voice thick and groggy, having recently resurfaced from one of his episodes.

Castiel's frown deepened.

“But,” he relented, cautious, “I tried a spell to break the cuff sigil while you were… incapacitated.”

He let out a ragged sigh, looking down at the leather band, twisting it uselessly on his wrist.

“It didn't work.”

Dean's eyes fluttered closed and he reached out, resting a hand on Castiel's arm, rubbing comforting circles into smooth skin.

Quietly, disappointment and frustration eroded at his bones, his strength fraying.

Another brick wall, another trip wire.

They couldn't activate the sigils without Castiel's grace and they couldn't access Castiel's grace without deactivating a sigil.

Awesome.

“Well, did you say it right?”

Dean swore he actually felt Castiel's glare slice into him this
time, a menacing glint illuminating his eyes. He huffed, pursing his lips.

“There's gotta be something we're missing,” Dean said, irritation edging and tugging at his tone.

He surveyed the rocks, scrutinising the depressions and trenches on their faces like he might just stumble on the answer, but they gave nothing away.

He growled in annoyance, fingers clenching, turning his knuckles pale.

“There's no way these sons of whores have the smarts to trap us in this kind of catch-22, Cas.”

Castiel nodded. He didn't even pause to question Dean's pop culture references anymore, finding them pointless and annoying to try and decipher, occasionally declaring this to Dean.

“Maybe blood,” Castiel said, wondering aloud.

Dean hissed viciously, the wrong-protectiveness surging in him in white flares, filing him instantly away into caveman mode where he was allowed to beat his chest and roar like a wild thing at the idea of any of Castiel's blood being spilt.

Cas all but rolled his eyes.

“Just a small amount,” he said.

Reassuring, calm. He knew all the tricks now.

“They had to have sealed the sigil with something. Human blood is one of the most powerful substances, more so when infused with grace. It could work.”

Dean sighed, his eyes flicking downwards, tracing the cracks on the brittle ground.

Castiel reached out, threading his fingers through Dean's, weaving them just right and squeezing.

He missed the sun, Dean realised, the lazy kiss of yellow heat sprawling across the sky, fragrant air coaxing him out of his hiding holes, dusty beaded dew lapping at his bare ankles.

He'd do anything to see Castiel's face haloed in daylight again.

“We have to try,” Castiel said, shattering the silence.

His thumb swept over the knob of Dean's wrist, a gentle, needful gesture.

These fingers could crush Dean's bones to dust but instead they cradled him, curled loose and vulnerable, resting over Dean's pulse like they were afraid they might lose it if they strayed too far.

These fingers told their stories, made their pleas in every touch, every compulsive brush of skin; I need you.

Dean exhaled and nodded, his lips pressed into a thin seam to quieten the little dolent sounds spieling in his chest.

He looked up eventually, finding wet blue eyes blinking at him, pleading.

“I know,” Dean said, shuffling closer to Castiel, seeking his heat.

Castiel came easy, sinking back into the web of Dean's arms, sheltered and safe under their weight.

Dean's lips brushed over the bumps of Castiel's ropey spine, the long, sweeping column of his neck as he buried his nose into the thick dark hair thatching a graceful nape.

He flooded his lungs, saturating himself comfortably in the familiar scent, happy when it inspired welcome security to settle in his chest instead of snatching him with unwanted, crippling arousal.

You could never be sure which way it was going to go.

Castiel's head tilted backwards, the cold tip of his nose pressed to the hollow of Dean's throat and Dean felt compelled to draw him tighter, warm him up.

His arms wove around Castiel's waist and then, after a beat of hesitation, his hand wandered curiously over the swelling mound of his belly, matching its curve with his palm and stroking gently, in wonder.

Castiel sighed, a small, pleased puff of air as his hand laced around Dean's, resting naturally atop his gravid stomach.

It felt right to hold Castiel like this, to replace the empty spaces between them with skin and warmth, to render them a cluster of easy limbs and unhurried, unheated touches.

To be able to slip his arms around Castiel and feel where the jutting architecture of lean muscles and sharp bones became plump and round, sweeping into the softness where Dean's child was nestled.

To be able to close his eyes and imagine that little, impossible life growing, kicking under his hand.

To breathe in and smell home.

His throat tightened, emotion roughening, seasoning his voice. Lost in the space between heartbeats.

“Our baby won't be born in Purgatory,” Dean said, asserted, feeling it to the marrow.

He'd twisted so many truths over the years, worn confidence like a mask when the world was crumbling around him and his brother needed a pep talk to make it to the next morning, but this wasn't the same.

There was no bravado here, nothing tinted a rose colour. There was no choice.

Their baby would not be born in Purgatory.

Air caught in Castiel's throat loudly, an audible hitch snagged on a wet sound and it plucked a dull panging from Dean's chest.

He nodded, a wispy mound of unruly hair tickling against Dean's cheek and then he was turning in Dean's arms, finding his eyes.

Wordlessly, Castiel's head pitched backwards in supple trust, extending the smooth length of his neck in a deliberate display of needy submission, laying himself bare at Dean's feet.

It was a helpless, polluted pantomime-mutated instincts that were never natural but felt natural now, felt like the obvious thing to do, just as it felt like the most normal thing in the world for Dean to bend forward, to nuzzle the wise, iron column of Castiel's throat and take his teeth to it, to bite and clamp down, to mark Castiel as his.

Claimed-both of them-just as they needed.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other and unwilling to move, an indistinguishable helix of skin, but the shadows rarely left them alone for long.

Soon the foul, putrid stench of the rot, of burnt sulphur slithered and wriggled through the cell, as though it could smell the tenuous peace on them and wanted it gone, replaced by the cancer of fear.

Rusty orange flame quavered at the maw of the cave, gutting the passing sanctuary of their embrace and yanking them apart, bisected and tense on bare feet as disjointed, hissing voices flooded the air, made it electric, the taste of the storm.

They were coming.

Castiel scrambled for his stones, his heart thundering so loud Dean swore he could hear it as he whipped around, already hurtling to the bars and getting in between Cas and the incoming threat, ready to throw himself down if necessary.

His knees and feet were grazed and dashed, the uneven, coarse ground not meant for quick, jolting movements but it was secondary, easily ignored, and instead he gripped the metal bars, steeling himself for attack.

The scaled, grey faces rounded the corner with their mangled grins and serpentine tongues and headed right towards them, the walls crawling with their arrival, sharpened to a point.

Dean's eyes narrowed and Purgatory turned over in its sleep.

His chest was aching with the pounding of his heart but Dean was ready to fight, ready to tear tendons and sinews from meat to stop them getting to his family.

Castiel didn't have to be told to get back, finishing hiding his stones and tucking himself in against the fur blankets, curling up as small and unassuming as Dean had made him promise he would.

It wasn't that Dean didn't think Castiel could defend himself; he was a warrior, an ancient force of nature bound to a simple human shell.

He could fight as much as Dean could and then some, but “bound” wasn't a misnomer.

Right now, he was graceless and vulnerable, weakened and carrying another life inside his too fragile body; it wasn't just Castiel they had to protect anymore.

Dean was glad Cas hadn't argued about it and the protests he'd had at first were quietened when Dean pointed out he was their kid's only hope of survival in the long run.

They needed to keep him safe.

Castiel was a stubborn, reckless of a bitch when it came to his own safety-too hell-bent on penance and self-flagellation for his sins-so the trick was to convince him it was a sacrifice, atonement found in sheltering himself for another.

It always had to be for someone else in Castiel's book, and Dean wasn't above pandering to its pages when he had to.

Sketchy and a little manipulative at best, sure, but Castiel was too important to risk losing on the snare of his own defective guilt.

“Ah, awake I see,” the demon Dean knew to be the leader said, slicing through the stand-off.

It leered at them with that mock-fondness that had anger lurching white-hot in Dean's blood, made him want to bend the bars in front of him and wrap them around its neck.

“And ready to greet us, how sweet.”

It smiled, sneered at him. Dean could picture himself holding its tongue, still warm and wriggling and bloodied in his hand.

“Yeah, sorry, chuckles,” Dean said, sharpening his gaze, as impenetrable as his daddy had taught him to be, “We don't feel like playing today.”

The demon's face twisted into an expression like if it had eyebrows they'd be arching to humour him, its deformed mouth coiled into a slack shape of faux-surprise.

“Oh?” it said, a laugh needled into the note, a tsk slashing from its tongue. “A shame, really. I'd so love to see how well you could cooperate.”

They crept closer, loomed towards the cage and Dean tensed, locked and became granite. A man preparing for a melee with the Tempest.

“No matter,” it continued, circling and stalking the cell,
unhurried in its leisure to strike its prey. It wasn't going anywhere after all.

“Soon enough you'll be completely docile. Another few months and you won't even flinch.”

Dean growled, his lips curling and baring his teeth, shoulders squaring, ready to show them how docile he was.

It snorted, shaking its head with a familiarity that had nausea roiling in Dean's gut, the stench of its breath hot and repugnant, decaying the air.

“But we're not here for you,” it said plainly, its slitted eyes fixing on Castiel like the fatal crunch of a twig before the predator attacked.

Dean was suddenly very aware of the harrowed gulf between him and his mate, feeling every inch of it like a knife to his spine, wanting desperately to close the distance.

“We want to see how our pretty breeder's doing.”

“Don't you even fucking look at him,” Dean said, a vivid red snarl heralding his intent, clawed fists held like weapons at his sides.

“I swear to God, I will rip your heart out.”

The demon looked distinctly unimpressed, almost bored as it glanced back at its pals, flicking a long claw in Cas' general direction.

“I have no doubt you'll try,” it said, its tone hollowed, apparently done humouring Dean, “But we have no use for hearts.”

The other demons stepped forward, and the bars were gone.

There was barely enough time for Dean to react to Castiel shouting his name before they were barreling into him, seizing him with razor talons and filthy hands, uncompromising strength keeping him aloft like a ragdoll held in their jaw.

He wasn't as slow at the first time though, having purchase of his faculties now, his feet steady on the ground and the advantage of shock and surprise stripped from them.

He managed to get a few decent punches in before they grabbed hold of his wrists but he didn't make it easy after that either, thrashing and kicking, snapping out viscerally, no drugs or bonds to make him the limp, tame thing they wanted.

Their grip on the upper hand was unwavering though and Dean's mindless will to win, to protect was easily overcome by the brutal force of sheer strength and quickly Dean found himself bound like a hog and squirming against scaly manacles, adamantine hands fish-hooking him still.

Apparently confident that Dean's hissing and spitting and cursing meant he was sufficiently subdued, the other demon backed off and strolled over to Castiel who was already on his feet, furious and about to pounce.

“Get away from him!” Dean snarled, writhing like a mad man, the flesh chains locking him down tight.

Castiel fought just as hard, just as futility as Dean, but he was grabbed and whisked out of the cell so quick it left Dean reeling with rage and the gravel-over-glass pull of debilitating fear.

The demons were gentler with Cas though, careful in that detached, clinical way that had his blood freezing over and fragmenting.

Dean was expecting Castiel to be hauled kicking and screaming out of the alcove, to that secret place he came back forgetting each time, but the demons veered to the left, taking Castiel over to the leather bench in the eye of the cave and Dean's heart was collared in his chest.

His breath stuttered, arrested and snagged like a stray wire in his throat, his eyes wide and feral with the nightmare-memories of that first day, a stampede of dread and spitting horror turning him to stone.

Castiel cried out, an outraged, panicked sound ringing in Dean's ears as they ripped the furs from his body and pushed him to all fours over the bench.

Dean ignited, adrenaline rioting in his veins as he jammed the point of his elbow into the demon's ribcage, jerking and contorting in a frenzy, lightheaded with the rapidity of his pulse.

It went all but unnoticed and Dean wanted to scream, to froth and foam because this was not happening again, itwasn'titwasn't.

He watched with terror etched bright over his pupils as Castiel crumpled to the leather, the pressure at his back too much where the demons held him down, positioned and twisted him as they pleased, so easy, so fucking effortless.

Castiel squirmed and wriggled as they strapped him in, his muscles jumping and straining against his bonds.

Dean felt it like acid to the flesh, could smell it like a livid, open wound in the air.

The salty, coppery scent of fear.

The leader lurked, delighted at the sidelines, peering down at Castiel like you would a pet.

Castiel snarled, the submissive, placid creature Dean had nuzzled into earlier nowhere to be found.

This was the blood lust of the heats distorted, repackaged and made corrosive, the righteous fury of an Angel of the Lord held barely shackled to a leather band.

The creature smiled at him. Dean wondered if it knew it had signed its own death certificate.

“Hormones?” it asked, jeering and provoking like this was the funniest thing in the world.

Its frigid, hawkish eyes skimmed over the new curves of Castiel's body, ignoring the glare boring into its skull.

“You're getting big. I knew the hunter had it in him.” It turned its head, winked at Dean.

“I bet it feels good doesn't it? Being so swollen, bred so full?”

Castiel's face turned against the bench, flushed, cheeks aflame, but Dean knew it wasn't humiliation that had him colouring, knew he wasn't a native to embarrassment.

This was anger and it was boiling over.

“We picked you out specially, you know. We knew you'd be the perfect bitch.”

The demon slithered around Castiel, its finger trailing noxious, unwelcome paths up the steps of Castiel's spine and every part of Dean recoiled because it had no right.

“This is your destiny, little breeder,” it bleated on, as relentless and taunting as usual, “You're going to be making nephilim for us for a long time.”

It skulked behind Castiel's body, crouched and spread his legs dispassionately, undeterred by Castiel's jerking, the way his legs strained together, his knees bending and straightening to dislodge the offending hands.

Dean felt blistering hatred prickle behind his eyes. He felt murderous.

“Get off of him! Don't you touch him!”

His voice was hardly human anymore, a shrill, guttural clamour stretched tight around the gravelly cadence of a growl.

It hurt to speak, his throat stringing as though he'd dry swallowed a handful of needles and it wasn't as though the demons were listening to him but he couldn't just check out, he couldn't just do nothing.

Dean was frantic, red staining his vision, winding through his arteries and bleeding him dry with the crippling need to protect his mate from this assault, rage stabbing him in hot pokers, a rampage of bright pain shaving at his heart.

Everything about this was wrong, monstrous. Something only this cesspit could have puked out.

Filthy, jagged claws parted Castiel's cheeks, spreading him wide and vulnerable, and despair clawed at Dean's chest.

Castiel trembled, fear shading his face, making him look gaunt and sallow.

It was wrong, the emotion still so foreign and clumsy to see on his face, an aberration.

Oh, he'd seen Castiel scared plenty but never for his life, even if it was there only to protect their unborn child.

The demon made a sharp sound of intrigue, studying the crevices and seams of Castiel's body, inspecting the effects of the potions and rituals.

It was frowning, concentrating, observing its lab rat.

Dean was certain he'd never hated with this much intensity in his life and he'd done his fair share of hating.

A long nail dragged its way down over Castiel's balls, over the furled, pink skin where his sac had withered and shrunk slightly, the flesh puckering in a way that had worried Dean when he'd first spotted it.

Any new signs of further modification sprouting over their bodies were never good and Dean had learned to dread them.

Castiel shuddered and let out a quiet sob, so broken and small.

Dean all but dismantled, something hot and itchy and wet peppering his eyes.

“Your birthing hole's coming along well,” the demon commented absently, too engrossed in poking and prodding at Castiel's junk.

It lifted its lizard-eyes, grinning in a crescent-moon show of yellowed fangs at the back of Castiel's head.

“You'll be a true bitch, soon. Able to whelp as much as you're able to be bred.”

Dean's fingers clenched, shred his palms slick, nails piercing the flesh.

The demon snapped up to look at him, as though he could smell the blood. A leech.

A fucking parasite.

It chuckled.

“I bet you can't wait for her to open up, can you Dean?” It flashed its teeth at him, hungry, spiteful. Loving every second of this.

Castiel's muscles spasmed and quailed as the creature fingered over the cleft of his body, a membrane that would eventually welt and part.

Some hacked imitation of a vagina, Dean realised, feeling queasy.

“Maybe she'll get wide enough that you can fuck her in her new hole next time. Wouldn't that be nice?”

Dean seethed, chest heaving, teeth grinding but he could do little more than scowl and fester in rancour. Wait it out.

The demon's face quirked at his silence, its head tilting curiously to the left and staring at Dean as though he was some fascinating anomaly. Good. More attention on him meant less on Cas.

“No?” it said,
like Dean had an option in any of this. “But our little breeding slut here would love a nice big cock splitting open her new virgin cunt, I'm sure.”

Dean drew blood from his lip, sprayed like viscera with a low growl. Castiel had been a virgin and now that word lay defiled and pillaged in the mud, spoils of a war waged in flesh and sweat.

The demon knew that, chose its language like weapons that could cut the deepest wounds, deliberate and pitiless, spineless.

It patted Cas once, twice-a palm slapped on the swell of his ass the way you might with a horse, a cow. Cattle.

It huffed.

“But there's time for that, yet.”

It got to its feet again, wreathing its fingers around a crank mechanism and winding it, elevating the bench a few inches.

“We need to check the rest of her progress.”

Ducking down slightly, its eyes crawled over Castiel's exposed, shivering body, ignoring the Hellfire flaring in his gaze.

It snaked its hands around Castiel's torso grabbing his chest and cupping the swells of his tender breasts, pinching and squeezing at the reddened peaks of his nipples, drawing out a pained scrape of air from Castiel's lips.

They were sore, Dean knew, sensitive and new and heavy with the changes switching the wires in his body.

In a quieter moment, Castiel had admitted they ached almost shyly and he'd allowed it when Dean moved to take them in his palms to work the tissue, arching pleasantly into the dish of Dean's wide hands and the relief they gave.

Now Castiel's spine was drawn in, arcing away, gasping to avoid the torture biting at his chest, his breath strangled around collapsed, formless whines.

He was hurt, in danger and Dean had to watch it happen, a demented voyeur pinned to the sidelines like a mounted butterfly, frantic in a killing jar.

Dean saw the deranged line of the Lilu's lips skewer themselves into another grin as he swore and spat, his bones cracking and creaking where he writhed, willing to snap himself in two to get to Castiel.

“Look how soft and pretty you've gotten already,” it said, swiping and pulling at the pebbled, achy buds, culling garbled noises in bright, livid colours from Castiel's lips, bursting like blisters in the bloated air.

“Such a lovely little mother you are, growing so big for us.”

Its fingers kept kneading, jostling the bulk of Castiel's chest, pale skin peeling away in shavings where its uncaring claws caught and snagged.

The red that speckled Castiel's breasts became the only thing Dean could see, his vision a deluge.

“You'll be in milk soon,” the demon said, proud, jiggling the swollen flesh like a prize in its paws.

“It will be wonderful; laden tits heavy and aching, desperate for mouths to attach and relieve the pressure.”

It pinched Castiel's red nipple, just to hear him cry out in agony, to hear Dean seethe in rage.

“And when your womb finally opens and you nurse, you'll be captive to your vessel, a slave to your young, desperate to be bred again.”

“I am going to kill you, do you hear me?” Dean said, voice ragged but the room started to spin and his stomach dropped.

His insides roiled with the first sleazy prickles of rut, logging his senses with the bold, bellowing vapour of aborted arousal, an ugly string of notnownotnow knotting his thoughts. He didn't know if his mindless body was just reacting robotically to the sight of Cas bent over and presenting like this, but the pheremones were already setting in fast, already preparing to warp him into some Freudian nightmare and Castiel was relying on him.

“We're gonna get out of here and when we do, you're all going to die bloody,” Dean gasped, but his words were stern. He wouldn't be defeated by this, not again.

His eyes, foggy things, locked onto the demon's, a promise lighting the muggy green.

“You last.”

It snorted, but something in its wan gaze flickered, a shadow just there briefly but there and Dean felt adrenaline flood his veins, uncorking the satisfying taste of accomplishment, loud and vivid on his tongue.

That's right you son of a bitch; I'm coming for you.

“Your persistence is somewhat admirable,” it said, glancing away, a cowl of disinterest veiling its face but Dean already knew what it looked like.

“But your aggression is pointless. Months have slipped by you and yet you're still in chains.”

It looked up at him then, the crackle of ozone before a downpour, two carnivores circling each other around a mauled corpse.

“We've been wondering where this mighty hunter we've heard so much about is.” Its head cocked to the side.

“Perhaps we neutered you along with giving you a big boy cock.”

The other demons hissed a laugh, mocking, but Dean's eyes were all on Cas, the scent of daily heat already throbbing in his skull.

Focus.

Castiel's lips parted wide and wet around a stuttered wail, an anguished noise rattling out of him like a buzzsaw through bone.

His head reared back in rusty agony, all eyes on him and Dean wanted to slither out of his skin, to rive open his ribcage for Castiel to climb inside, cradled safe next to his heart.

His stomach flipped and his mind raced, dredged for reason in the swamp of hormones, sinking like quicksand and spinning.

What was wrong? Why was Castiel hurt? Was it the baby?

He was ready to call out to him but then the demon was pulling its hand back from Castiel's chest and spreading its fingers open, observing.

Its frown quickly parted into a wide grin that looked too much like triumph.

Dean's eyes rounded in shock, taking in the slickness glinting over its claws, his first instinct howling wildly that it was blood but when he looked back to Castiel, Dean could see small, white droplets leaking at his heaving chest, foreign shame staining his cheeks.

The demon all but preened. It was practically giddy.

“What a good little breeder we have!” It announced, scuffing up Castiel's hair and laughing its hollow laugh.

“Look at you, milking so soon, so desperate to be a good bitch for us, aren't you?”

Castiel's glare was a beautiful thing, his neck craning up in a long, lovely stretch of defiance.

He panted, so close to his heat, twisted with hurt-tormented, pained but never beaten.

“Go… fuck… yourself,” Castiel said, hissing through ragged breaths.

Dean's heart swelled, pride bursting in him because that was his Cas.

The demon tsked, its eyes slitting to Dean.

“I see you haven't taught your bitch manners yet,” it said, chiding. “We'll have to put her in training, teach her some respect.”

It flicked Castiel's tit in punishment, just to watch him jerk and yowl out and then it was waving his hand forward, its minions flocking around like buzzards.

“Take her back to the cell. We have what we need.”

Dean tensed again, straining against the demon binding his arms as the others removed Castiel from his restraints and hoisted him up.

He slumped in their grip, limp and brutalised, road kill, but he let his feet drag and kick against the sandy floor, stubborn spite telling him not to make it simple for them.

Dean heard a tutting sound.

“You should both show us some gratitude,” the leader said tersely, straightening its grimy, fraying robes, “The bitch is already pregnant; it's not necessary for you to be together anymore.”

Dean felt bile burn in the back of his throat, the suggestion of Castiel being taken away from him terrifying, infuriating.

The threat that boiled on his lips was lost to a slur of breath, the world around him slanting, tremoring, his groin responding to the call of Castiel's heady scent filling the air.

“Maybe we should keep her with us, keep us entertained until she's whelped and ready for breeding again.”

It was ogling again, raking its eyes over Castiel's body, its words sodden and grotesque.

“It would certainly be interesting to make use of this pregnant slut of an angel. Pass her cunt around like a party favour.”

Dean roared, slaughtering the sound of mocking laughter, tossing viciously in the demon's grasp, reduced to a mass of clashing teeth and whiplash fists.

The cell bars were yanked open again and Castiel was thrown in, his knees buckling to the floor immediately, gasping and crumpling at the waist.

“Cas!”

Dean launched himself at him again only this time, the creature let him go.

The hunter in Dean wanted to spin around and pounce with his teeth bared, wanted to attack, but Castiel was a trembling heap on the ground and there really was no choice at all.

The gate slammed shut as Dean leapt to Castiel's side, catching him when he wavered, toppled.

The demons were still gathered around, jeering and taunting but Dean wasn't even paying attention now, could blot out their bleating, shrill voices in the din of Castiel's heartbeat, the loud hammering against his fingertips; a hymnal.

Mate, safe.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Dean was frantic, the whispered cadence of his words harsh and rasped as he checked Castiel over, hissing at the welts on his chest and covering them with his palm.

Castiel whimpered, his hand clutching Dean's shoulder.

His skin was clammy and Dean could feel the heat radiating from him in droves.

“Dean.”

Castiel's voice was quiet but urgent, his fingers clenching
around Dean's arm. Dean shushed him, pushed damp curls from his forehead.

“I know.”

He understood.

They didn't have long before their bodies would unlatch and shuttle them into little more than copulating snakes, and Dean wasn't prepared to do this with an audience.

Not again.

He whirled his head towards the Lilu, barbed and unraveling fast.

“Leave,” Dean snarled.

They'd taken so much already, these parasites that wanted the world. They weren't allowed to steal this as well.

“Or,” the leader said, a challenge tugging at its mouth, “We could stay for the show.”

Dean wanted to get to his feet, wrench at the gate and wage a doomed war but the threadbare, rational part of him murmured that it was pointless, that they'd already lost.

Something was winding in him, a tension eager to reach its boiling point, and he couldn't tell if it was rage or rut, fear or lust but it was gutting him, a crude, useless ulcer that would infect his mind and spoil his blood. Something fanged and thirsty, ready to suck him dry.

It would overwhelm, ravage and when it was done, Castiel was next, ready to pass the torch.

And the demons were all gathered for the Donkey Show.

Fucking spectacular.

Castiel shivered, swayed and Dean didn't have enough hands to keep him upright, scuttling to take his bulk but he slipped, gasped and the force of his scent slammed into Dean like an eighteen-wheeler.

He choked, Castiel arching in his grip as the demons cheered, all but toasting each other outside the cell.

Castiel's nails gouged into Dean's arm, clinging on like he was the last hook grounding him to reality, but it was a losing game.

He shuddered again, his body rippling, lurching and Dean's hand, wet and bloodied, slapped to clutch his wrist, the last leg of support before they crumbled.

Dean barely had time to shut his eyes.

Whiteness swallowed the room.

A glare of bright light prickling at his eyelids, gauging the darkness, a cloud of debris.

Blinding. Immense.

At first Dean thought it was him, sure the pressure inside had finally burst him open, popped his skin and consumed him whole, but then there was screaming.

Howling.

Notes of agony, high-pitched violins wailing into the ether.

Then silence; long, long silence.

Dean blinked open prickly eyes, peering through the haze, dizzied and confused.

The leather band fell like a gavel to the ground.

Scattered like ash, and breath was squeezed out of the room

Dean stared, shocked at the pale, narrow, bare slip of Castiel's wrist, the empty hum of quietness announcing the demons-the ones who still had eyes left in their sockets-were doing the same.

Silence, stillness, walked a tightrope for a beat. Two.

Then it snapped.

Castiel erupted. A storm of righteous fury and brutal rage barrelling out of the cell, barely a blur of peachy skin as demons crumpled like paper dolls one by one, no time to flee.

Utter turmoil and absolute beauty.

Dean was frozen, watching the slaughter, the cull of filth, his heart pummelling his ribcage and pumping satisfaction into his veins.

Castiel was the hurricane now.

He charged, a hand held out in front of him like a weapon, conducting a goddamn symphony of wavering death-cries and stuttered, aborted snarls.

Yanked out of his trance, Dean struggled to his feet, the haze in his mind billowing but ebbing as adrenaline pumped through him, took precedence.

He stumbled out of the cell, no thought given to freedom or rationed to relief. This wasn't over yet.

“Cas!”

Instinct took over, the kind that belonged to him, swam in his blood. These were monsters, and he was a Winchester.

A glint of silver sliced the air and Dean span around, catching the angel sword smoothly and embedding it in the soil of a demon's chest, scraping its lungs and twisting.

He watched surprise crawl across its marred face before it crackled and burned out, a charred shell skewered like old meat. Dean's mouth twitched.

“Thought you had no use for hearts?” he said, the weight of a weapon in his hand like coming home.

He wheeled around again, drowsy and heavy but poised to fight.

All he saw were bodies, blackened and empty and strewn over the cave floor trailing behind Castiel like the sweetest breadcrumb trail Dean had ever seen.

The warding stones they'd spent so long carving and perfecting lay forgotten under the straw, an unnecessary distraction, redundant. They only ever needed Cas.

Dean was panting, exhausted by months of inactivity and quickly siphoning into the flurry of pheromones but Castiel was static, iron-straight and immeasurable, holding the squalling, wriggling form of the Lilu's leader by its neck, pinning it to the wall with a shaded glare.

Dean's breath caught in his throat and he edged forward, anticipation a spring in his spine.

“You're too late,” the demon sneered, but Dean saw the same shadow from before cowering in its eyes, a grey film fogging over the noxious green. Fear.

It knew it was dead before it had even hit the ground.

“You're already part of out plan. You're already a bitch.”

Dean saw Castiel's eyes narrow to slits and he shivered, thorny chills winding through his vertebrae.

Castiel's hand snapped forward like a viper and latched onto the demon's skull.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, dangerous, lethal.

Light crept through the demon's skin, illuminating it like mesh, a membrane exposing black veins and burnt-orange electricity spitting in its head. Taking its time, a sweet torture.

“Which of us is the bitch?”

Brightness forked the room and the demon slumped to the floor, empty. Dead.

Just like that.

Dean couldn't let himself breathe, couldn't let his shoulders slump. Over. It was over.

He was frigid, unmoving, eyes glued to the singed body at Castiel's feet.

Hormones still rumbled in him, blurring and distorting the edge of his vision but he couldn't even fold to them, couldn't shift a muscle

Over.

Distantly, Dean felt fingers, soft as his temple, stroking his hairline.

A pleasant, familiar warmth tingled through him and then the roar of chemicals searing his arteries was quiet, the dizziness lifted, the demons' spell in tatters around him.

He blinked at Castiel, finding wide, sage eyes peering patiently, almost apologetically back at him.

Dean couldn't stop staring.

He couldn't stop taking in the sight, the artistry of Castiel lit up in torch light: the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, the lines and wrinkles scored over his skin, the pink slope of his bowed lips parted just barely.

The wise blue of his eyes, bright, so bright with grace.

“Dean.”

That was it.

He strode forward in two long steps and wrenched Castiel into a hug, crushing him against his body.

Castiel sagged into it, his arms slipping around Dean and clinging onto him, cheek pressed firmly into the crook of his neck as he shook in his grip.

Dean's eyes stung, vision blurring with moisture and he couldn't stop the sob from bubbling past his lips, didn't want to.

He was as wet and raw as the day he was born, and he'd survived.

They both had, and Dean wept his relief into Castiel's shoulder, clutching the back of his head, the dip of his waist.

Over.

They didn't move for a long time, so much of the past few months a blur, a smeared cycle of the same dazed minutes repeated until their bodies were sore and wrung out.

Now, they just wanted to stop, to touch, to take their time.

To reassure themselves this was in fact real, that they'd won.

Castiel trembled in his hold and Dean couldn't stop his hand from gravitating to the curve of Cas' belly even if he'd wanted to, a mindless need to check it was still there, that they hadn't lost this, left it behind in the skirmish.

He couldn't know for sure until Castiel's fingers thread though his, resting atop his bump like a benediction, a truth. When he felt their weight, Dean let himself exhale.

He hadn't known he was holding his breath.

He kissed the crown of Castiel's head softly, very softly-like he was afraid to leave bruises-and just listened to him breathe for a moment.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Steady, constant and wonderful.

His fingers stroked over Castiel's neck, pattering to meet the tapping of his pulse, checking and rechecking, unable to stop touching.

It seemed to be the same for Castiel, though his hands were more clumsy, heavy, dragging over Dean's back and neck indelicately, greedily.

Dean didn't mind, not a lick, just pressed into him and let Castiel take his fill, let him reaffirm they'd made it.

“Let's get out of here,” Dean whispered after a wide while, not trusting himself to say anything more. He didn't know if he'd start weeping again.

Castiel nodded a fraction against Dean's cheek and silently withdrew.

They gathered what little supplies they could find and wrapped their bared bodies in their furs and the demons' robes, eager to never see this prison again.

They found their clothes in an alcove, pinned up like trophies on sticks and as they left, Dean pushed over every torch they passed, flames unfurling on the ground.

When they stepped out into the bitter air and the thick forest, it was with entwined hands and silent minds.

The catacombs burned bright and unmistakable behind them-an Omen.

They were back.

[ Part 4]