Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9816038.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Other(s)
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Castiel, Bobby_Singer
  Additional Tags:
      Bestiality, Mpreg, Teen_Pregnancy, Pregnant_Sex, Pregnant_Dean, Pregnancy
      Kink, Underage_Sex, Non-Consensual_Voyeurism, Breeding, Alpha/Beta/Omega
      Dynamics, Worldbuilding, Size_Difference
  Collections:
      Supernatural_Kink_Meme
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-18 Completed: 2017-03-08 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 13335
****** Every Dog His Day ******
by Anonymous_ID
Summary
     Worldbuilding like woah. For an SPN Kink Meme prompt, with the names
     changed...
     "Cop [Sam] dreams of getting an omega but they are pampered and
     special and parents demand a high brideprice. Now he has a case where
     orphaned young omegas were forced by their fosterparents to breed
     with dogs...one young one who was bred in his first heat at 11 is
     pregnant with a big litter puppies...So its [Sam]'s chance for an own
     omega. And he is surprised how hot that little round bellied omega
     makes him..." The original prompt is here: http://spnkink-
     meme.livejournal.com/118925.html?thread=42983565#t42983565.
     Basically, a police procedural that almost immediately takes a hard
     turn into porn. The non-con is based on the fact that the OP
     requested a Dean under the age of consent, rather than any explicitly
     non-consensual acts, but that doesn't excuse any of this. READ THE
     TAGS. No, I mean it. READ THEM NOW.
***** Chapter 1 *****
        "Young blood must have its course, lad, and every dog his day"
 
 
The funny part of it is, Sam almost hadn’t taken the extra shift.  He’d been
doing a lot of overtime, covering for guys with families, filling in when folks
get sick.  Everyone in the precinct knows that Sam Winchester will pick up any
spare shift, no questions asked.  He’s hinted that he’s doing it so he can pay
down his mortgage faster, which doesn’t raise eyebrows:  even an Alpha doesn’t
make princely sums as a cop in Lawrence, Kansas.  Sam’s got a lot of buddies on
the force, but no real friends, so no one knows him well enough to realize that
he doesn’t have a mortgage.  His dad may not have been good for much, but he
did leave Sam the house, free and clear.  No, Sam’s been saving up for
something else—something that would get him laughed out of the station house if
he let it be known:  his very own omega. 
But just a few days earlier, Sam had resolved to cut back on the overtime, to
close out his secret savings account, to give up the dream. He still wants the
omega…what self-respecting Alpha doesn’t fantasize about having a sweet little
omega to warm his bed?  But everyone knows there aren’t enough omegas to go
around, not with the way big name Alphas buy them up to stock their harems. 
And what unclaimed omega would choose a little shotgun house with Sam and his
rescue-pet menagerie over the kind of five-star-and-bottle-service that some
other Alphas could offer?  Sam had decided: better to start focusing on more
achievable goals.  Maybe he’ll get another dog.  Take a few cooking classes.
Buy some land, get a horse. These are things that could really happen for
him…unlike, say, an omega with low standards suddenly dropping into his lap.
Of course, when the chief calls to see if he can book it down to the precinct
to cover someone on night shift, Sam can’t exactly explain that he’s giving up
overtime because he'll never make enough for an omega's brideprice. Chief
doesn’t know about Sam’s omega fantasy and Sam can’t think of another excuse
fast enough and that is how he ends up agreeing to the extra shift. 
“I dunno what the hell it is—reports still coming in," the chief grouses. 
"Started with a noise violation, neighbor complaining about a barking dog. 
Uniform on the scene thought it looked like more.  Let me give you the address
and you just meet the investigators out there.  If it goes past midnight, take
a few hours tomorrow morning; I’ll square it with your lieutenant.”
Sam hardly needs the address: as soon as he turns the corner, the scene is
clear.  There are two squad cars and an ambulance, red and blue lights
alternating and flaring over a little Cape Cod house not unlike Sam’s.  There
is a scrum of uniforms on the front lawn, plus four—no, six—dogs. For a
confused moment, Sam thinks it must be the K9 unit, until he realizes that the
police are trying to corral the animals. He slams on the brakes when two cats
suddenly dart out of the house and right across the road in front of him.  Sam
pulls in behind a small blue car stenciled with “ANIMAL CONTROL.” A second
later, a huge dog breaks loose and streaks after the cats.  The officer chasing
it nearly plows into Sam as he gets out of the Impala.  Sam has half a mind to
follow and see the show—he’s not betting on the cop: the dog looks like cross
between a Great Dane and a Bernese mountain dog.  
On the edge of the melee, Sam catches sight of Castiel, alternately checking
his notebook and dictating into his cellphone, distinctive as ever in his dark
trench coat.  Sam has worked shifts with Cas often enough to know he’ll be a
reliable source of information.
“Hey.”
Cas looks relieved to see him, puts a hand over the phone.  “Thank God, Sam—did
the Chief send you?  Is he sending anyone else?”
“Yeah,…something about a noise complaint?”
Cas rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, I wish.  Neighbors have been complaining about the
dogs.  Not for the first time.  Animal control stops by at the end of their
shift, some kid answers the door, all hell breaks loose.  Breeding brothel,
would you believe it?  I’ve been on hold with Minority Services for fifteen
minu—yes?” his attention suddenly shifts to the phone still pressed to his
ear.  Evidently someone has finally deigned to answer. 
Sam is still not sure what is going on.  If Castiel is calling in Minority
Services, there must be omegas involved somehow, but he’s never heard of a
breeding brothel this far from the docks.  Industrial areas are good for that
sort of business: lots of traffic, Alphas in suits coming and going, business
deals and a little on the side.  But out here, in this quiet, residential
neighborhood?  The flow of Alphas in search of omega hole would surely have
alerted someone.  Sam glances around.  For the first time, he notices that most
of the houses on the street are dark and that all have their doors and curtains
closed.  This is a neighborhood that doesn’t want to see a thing.
He turns to ask Cas for clarification, but his colleague is still on the phone
and simply waves him toward the ambulance.
Sam vaguely recognizes one of the guys in the ambulance—he knows a lot of the
Animal Control squad by sight, since they call him whenever they need space for
a hard-to-place animals. (Sam had the whole house to himself for about four
months; now he shares it with a dog, two cats, a ferret and, for one memorable
weekend, a squirrel and a skunk.  Animal Control owes him, big time.)  An EMT
is bandaging the Animal Control officer’s wrist, while on the bench opposite,
six kids are tumbled together in a puppy pile.
“Dog bite,” the EMT says in reply to Sam’s questioning look.
“And…?”  Sam ducks his head toward the kids.  They’re all neatly dressed in
pyjamas, sleepy but otherwise unharmed.  Two look like twins, with the peaked
ears and faint stripes of pussyboys;  the others are a medley of hair colors
and skin tones. 
“Omegas, mostly,” says the cop being bandaged.  “Keeping an eye on them ‘til
Minority Services gets here.  Orphans.  They lived in the house, still trying
to find the owners an—wait!” The cop sits up straighter, waves off the EMT. 
“We’re missing one.  Where’s…what’shisname?  The one who answered the door?”
One of the pussyboys blinks lethargically.  “Dean?”
“Yeah.  Shit.  Well, can’tve gone far, not in his condition. Doc, I gotta go—”
“Just a sec!” the EMT protests.
“I’ll look,” Sam offers, because he’s curious about the house and because he
feels like he should earn his overtime, now that he’s out here.  Cas is still
on the phone and there are none of the usual nosy neighbors to wave away.  “A
kid, you said?”
“Yeah, probably just wandered back into the house,” the Animal Control officer
offers him a flashlight with his good hand.  “You’ll know him when you see
him.”
The front door is wide open, so Sam just walks right in.  An ordinary suburban
living room, complete with a huge, overstuffed sofa and a big TV.  The
television seems to have some complicated videography equipment rigged up to
it, but otherwise there’s nothing special about it.  There’s a pass through
into a kitchen, a big round table, a pantry full of sugary cereal and 20-lb.
bags of dog food.  Sam doesn’t know what he expects—velvet walls and mirrored
ceilings? a warren of peepshow booth?  Things are a little odd (there’s a lot
of dog food) but nothing that sets off his cop radar.  He doesn’t even hesitate
before heading down the narrow stairs to the basement.  Dog beds, a few of
those scratching post things he keeps meaning to get for his own cats, no big
deal.  “Dean?”  Sam calls, just for good measure.  But there’s no response.
Upstairs again, he catches sight of a door leading out of the kitchen.  Some of
these old houses still have a small formal dining room tucked between the
kitchen and the back wall of the house, but most people have knocked through
the walls, eager for space and a better flow of light and traffic.  Strange
that these owners would have kept it, especially since they clearly eat most
meals around the big breakfast table in the kitchen.  Just another little
oddity in this house.  Sam cracks the door, expecting to see a dining suite
inherited from someone’s Great Aunt Mildred.  What he encounters is another
piece of furniture altogether.  The big hinged contraption is upholstered in
black velvet.  The lower half, which looks like a cut down pommel horse, is
upholstered black leather. Over it is a padded frame. Leather straps dangle to
the floor. Taken by itself, it could be some sort of bizarre Pilates equipment,
but the long wall of the room, where there should be a bank of French doors
looking out on the backyard, is covered with dark drapes and the far wall is
mirrored.  It’s the first room in the house that reminds Sam the place is a
breeding brothel.
There’s a desk near the door with an old desktop computer amidst a mess of
files.  One is labeled “DEAN-2”.  Sam picks it up before heading upstairs.  How
many kids named Dean could there be in a house this size?
The upper floor has a single, narrow hallway.  The roof slants so sharply that
Sam has to stand in the very center or he risks bumping his head.  On the left,
a simple, masculine bedroom;  not one but two large bathrooms, one with a
soaking tub; a laundry room wedged in between.  There’s just one door on the
right-side wall: the whole side of the house is one long room and Sam makes out
the shapes of bunk beds when he opens the door.    
If it weren't for the red and blue lights from the police cruiser, Sam would
have missed the small figure on the window seat completely.  Sam puts the DEAN-
2 file down by the door so he can approach with empty hands.  It's just a kid,
after all, and probably skittish.  "Hey,"  he says in his most calming voice,
the one that he uses with his pets.  "Are you Dean?"
Somewhere on the front lawn, someone turns on a floodlight and some of the
illumination spills through the dormer window. The boy blinks like he's been
slapped and looks ip at Sam with big, liquid eyes.  Finally, he nods.
“Are you ok?” As he gets closer, Sam can smell the boy...so rich and sweet, he
feels his cock thicken.
And when the boy stirs and stretches, Sam knows instantly why a routine noise
complaint had escalated to something more.  The omega can’t be more than
twelve, but he’s got a big, beautiful belly on him. 
“I—I don’t wanna go with Animal Control,” the kid’s voice is hesitant and
husky.  Sam isn’t sure if he’s trying to match the whisper or if he just
doesn’t talk much.
“That’s fine,” Sam soothes, deciding not to mention Minority Services or any
other government agency.  “We’ll just get you checked out and then you and
your, uh, friends will be—
“They’re not my friends,”  the boy—Dean—sounds more decisive this time.  He
sticks his chin out stubbornly. “You can examine me if you want, but I’m not
going with them.”
Something about Dean’s disdain makes Sam smile.  The kid’s a little spitfire,
not easily cowed.  Good for him! Sam looks away—he doesn’t want the boy to
think he’s laughing at him—and when he looks back, Dean’s rucked up his shirt. 
“No, you …” don’t understand, is what Sam should say.  And then he should
explain that there is an ambulance, an EMT, that the check-up will be conducted
in the presence of an official from Minority Services.  But he sees the lush
curve of omega belly and what comes out of his mouth is “you don’t have to take
that off.”   And when Dean gives him a faintly confused look, Sam continues,
“it’s a little cold and I can.  Just.  Is this okay?”  He barely waits for
Dean’s nod before he lays his palm on the boy’s distended belly. 
The skin is taut, the swelling firm rather than soft.  Warm.  Dean’s wearing
pyjamas of some sort, but they’re tucked down below the curve of his belly,
making it look even larger. His feet are small and bare. Sam’s never seen a
real-life pregnant omega.  Hell, he hasn’t seen that many omegas.  They’re rare
even in porn.  And once an omega gets knocked up, his Alpha usually doesn’t let
him out in public.  Sam is beginning to see why.  He’s only known the kid five
minutes and already he instinctual wants to hide him away somewhere quiet and
safe.  He wonders, again, where all the Alphas are. 
“You're, uh…big,” Sam says, and wants to bite his tongue as soon as the words
are out of his mouth.  Stupid.  Obvious and stupid and what if little pregnant
omegas are as sensitive about their looks as betas?  Sam's probably insulted
the kid, on top of the trauma he's already suffered.
But Dean is smiling shyly, like he's recognizes the comment as a compliment. 
“It's a big litter,” he explains, modestly.
Huh.  That's taking the concept of a pet name more literally than Sam was
expecting. Spitfire or not, Sam is glad Dean's Alpha isn't around to hear him
call their child a...and then the pieces slide together.  Omegas are universal
breeders: with the proper diet and sufficient foreplay, they can carry the
young of a dozen different species.  Theoretically.  In practice, of course,
Alphas are at the top of the food chain, so most other species don't get
anywhere near an omega.  But if you could get one or, say, several, and maybe a
few undocumented pussyboys for good measure?  And if you could hide them where
no one would look--in a nondescript, mind-your-own-business sort of suburb, far
from the usual omega brothels and Alpha powerbrokers?  And if you could breed
those omegas with some large, exotic dogs, of the sort that Sam just saw
raising hell on the lawn?  And if those omegas were young, if they'd never been
exposed to an Alpha?  Well, if you could somehow arrange for all of those
things to happen, then you could start an incredibly lucrative business
breeding large, smart omega-canine hybrids that would fetch top dollar. It
would certainly explain the lack of Alphas.
Sam knows what he should do.  Bundle the kid into a blanket and lead him back
down to the ambulance, to be checked out and probably handed off to Animal
Control.  Like all omegas, his legal identity is that of his master...which in
whichever dog sired the litter he's carrying.  Bad luck for him: once an omega
has been bred by an animal, none of the reputable Alpha harems will take him.
Sam briefly wonders if he could play dumb long enough to convince Minority
Services to take Dean along with the other kids.  But no doubt the first thing
that will happen is a scan that will show precisely what is filling his womb. 
Sam knows what he wants to do: stand here in this dim room with his hand on the
omega's beautifully swollen belly forever.  After all, the most the kid has to
look forward to is work in one of the legalized pleasure houses. And that's
only if he plays nice with the Animal Control authorities, which seems
unlikely.  If there was just some way to keep him a secret until after the
birth...  Dean's still young, with pretty lips and shiny hair and the sweetest
smattering of freckles across his nose.  He's watching Sam with such a gentle,
trusting look. A pleasure house doesn't deserve such an omega.  To think Sam
almost didn't take the extra shift.
That's when he decides what he's goingto do.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     This chapter contains the 'non-consensual voyeurism' mentioned in the
     tags: Sam looksThis chapter contains the 'non-consensual voyeurism'
     mentioned in the tags: Sam looks at photos of Dean without Dean's
     knowledge. Otherwise, ALL tags and warnings still apply! Read them
     carefully!
Smuggling a heavily pregnant omega into the backseat of a Chevy Impala at a
crime scene should be much more difficult than it is. But the front lawn is
still a frenzied scrum of uniforms and dogs and cats and that’s before someone
finds an aquarium with two large snakes.  Plus, the Minority Services
representative suddenly shows up with an entourage and an inflated sense of
self-importance.  Besides, Sam isn’t even officially supposed to be there, so
no one pays him any attention.  He assigns himself the job of carrying files
and binders from the house, which means he manages to conceal anything
obviously labeled DEAN. 
The group of kids in the ambulance seem docile and unconcerned about their
missing peer.  It seems they were very well cared for by a mysterious adult
they call “Bobby,” which has given them the impression they will simply
continue to be cared for.  Cas shrugs, thanks his lucky stars that he doesn’t
have a group of traumatized abuse victims on his hands, and puts out an APB for
an adult male, first name Bobby or Robert, last name unknown (“we just called
him Bobby,” says the pussyboy who has apparently become the kids’
spokesperson).   By that time, the sun is coming up and the circus on the front
lawn winding down.  Animal Control gathers up what creatures they can find and
Minority Services sweeps off with two matched pussyboys and several orphaned
omegas, minus the one curled up and sleeping peacefully under a blanket in the
rear footwell of Sam’s car.
Dean doesn’t wake up until Sam pulls up to his house.  It’s still early enough
that none of his neighbors are around to see the small, blanket-shrouded figure
waddle into the house.  Once safely inside, Sam introduces the kid to Roderigo,
the ferret, and Jay the dog. 
“The cats are around here somewhere.  I bet they’ll show up just in time for
breakfast.”  Sam tries to keep his tone even and casual, but the morning light
is the first time he’s properly seen Dean and the omega is stunning.  Even
without the pregnancy, he’d be gorgeous, but being full and round just makes
him more delicious somehow.   Sam watches him survey the kitchen: from behind,
he’s still slim-hipped and lanky, like any kid on the verge of puberty.  Then
he turns to ask if Sam would like something to eat and Sam has to really
concentrate to make his answer logical because the boy’s belly has the heft and
definition of a ripe watermelon. 
“I’ll do breakfast today, since you just got here and you’re…my guest.”  Sam
finishes awkwardly.  He’s heard that omegas are homebodies, but he hadn’t
expected Dean’s nesting to start the moment they walked through the door.  And
he doesn’t have guests.  It’s just been him and the pets since his Dad died. 
“Why don’t you go check out the rest of the house while I get your stuff? 
Scrambled eggs sound good?”
Jay has already decided that Dean is his new favorite person and he follows the
boy out of the room. Sam manages to keep his hand out of his pants until he
hears Dean’s footsteps on the stairs—slow and burdened and that should not make
him crazy with lust, but it does.  Fuck, he’s getting hard and he can feel the
tender spot at the base of his dick where his knot is just waiting to pop. 
Breakfast is scrambled eggs and toast, and Sam finds himself practically
humping the kitchen counter as he waits for the eggs to solidify.  Dean doesn’t
seem to notice anything, though, when he returns with Jay still at his heels
(Sam actually feels his balls contract at that: can the dog somehow sense that
it had been one of his species who had knocked the kid up in the first
place?).  Sam sets down two plates of food and watches Dean dig in, wondering
if Dean even knows about Alphas.  Alpha sperm is highly potent; if the kid had
been exposed to it, he probably would be pregnant with an Alpha baby, not a
litter of puppies. 
“Gehsundheit,” Dean says politely, mistaking Sam’s groan for a cough.
“Thanks.  Went down the wrong way,” Sam explains, not wanting to say that he’d
just realized the possibility that Dean was still a virgin.  Well, obviously
not a virgin, but untouched by an Alpha.  After all, he’s not even twelve and,
though some omegas join harems as young as ten, Dean’s got a long-limbed,
fragile look that means he’s probably too small for an Alpha pregnancy.
 Although he’s doing quite well with the puppies, Sam can’t help but notice as
Dean sits back from his plate, his belly on display beneath his shirt.  The
kid’s so swollen, Sam can see the bump of his belly button.  He’s so full he’s
turning inside out. That brothelkeeper, what’shis—Bobby?  Could Bobby honestly
have had this kid in his keeping, bred him up, and not touched the goods
himself?  Not even once? 
“So,”  Sam begins, finally, “how long, uh…”
“Mmm…three weeks?”  Dean runs a speculative hand over the dome of his stomach. 
“I’m a little less than halfway there, but it’s a big litter, so I’ll probably
go early.”
Sam had been planning to ask how long Dean had been kept at the breeding
brothel, how he had been treated.  He imagined there would have to be
therapists to help Dean cope, maybe counselors or someone to track down his
family.  But Dean seems to be coping quite well, sitting their idly stroking
his belly like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“I can feel ‘em moving,”  he says suddenly, and tugs Sam’s hand onto the curved
surface.  Sam can spread his whole hand—and he has big hands—and feel nothing
but warm skin taut under the cotton shirt.  He’d somehow always imagined
pregnant bellies would be soft, like tits.  And then, faintly, a ripple under
the surface, like a muscle, but quicker.  Life.  Growing inside Dean. 
“They’re not as busy as my first litter,” Dean remarks.  He’s leaned back in
the kitchen chair, eyes closed, seeming to revel in the movement inside him and
the feel of Sam’s hand.  If he notices how that comment makes Sam’s
involuntarily fists his shirt.
“This,” Sam’s mouth is so dry his tongue sticks to the roof.  “This isn’t, er,
your first?”
“Nope.”  Dean doesn’t even bother to open his eyes.  “Second round. The others
were super-jealous, cause I took so quickly.”   There’s an undeniable pride in
his voice and Sam remembers Dean saying that the other kids in the house
weren’t his friends. “Bobby says not everyone can do it.” 
“I—have to, uh, to go!”  Sam announces.  “Go to work, I mean. Or call in, at
least.”  He gathers up the breakfast plates, trying to both stand up and
conceal his throbbing erection at the same time.   If he sits any longer
touching this fertile omega, who manages to be both shameless and innocent,
he’s going to do something he regrets.  Or something that he’s not going to
regret at all, but probably should.  “Uhm…you had a pretty interrupted night,
so if you want to sleep…?  Or, uh, there are lots of books?”
Dean wrinkles his nose at the mention of books, and Sam recalls hearing that
omegas are not particularly interested in intellectual pursuits.  It’s hard to
remember all these details, considering that he really never thought he’d meet
one.  He’ll have to do some research. 
“I could sleep, I guess,” the omega says diffidently.  “I always get sleepy in
the last few weeks.”   He talks like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Okay.  I’ll really just check in at the precinct—be back before you know it.”
Sam is already backtracking because he’s already reluctant to leave Dean.  He
actually makes it in to work for a grand total of four hours, mostly
surreptitiously reading Minority Services documents on the habits and
preferences of omegas, before calling in some favors.
Cas picks up the phone on the third ring, sounding like Sam’s woken him from
sleep. “Sure.  I’ll take your shift tomorrow,”  he agrees immediately. 
“Everything okay?”
It’s a fair question: Sam’s covered for everyone else, but he hasn’t missed a
day's work since his dad died. 
“Everything’s fine.  Just, uh, coming down with something.”
“Probably caught it from one of those mutts last night,” Cas teases, knowing
Sam’s fondness for all four-legged creatures.  “Animal Control says they’re the
smartest things, though.  Would love to find that Bobby and figure out what was
going on out there.”
“Yeah,” Sam answers just a beat too late.  “Me, too.  Anyway, thanks, Cas. 
I’ll owe you one.”
“Don’t wo—”
Sam hangs up on Cas in mid-word.  He can’t believe he’d forgotten about all the
DEAN files still in his car.  Well, he can believe it: he definitely hadn’t
been getting enough blood to the brain this morning.  He changes the duty
roster to include Cas, locks up his service weapon, and is in the Impala before
the dispatcher, Jess, can even finish flirting with him.
He makes his decision as he drives home.  He’s not going to look at the
documents stuffed under the passenger seat.  Not even a peek.  Probably he
should destroy them, to conceal the fact that he’s practically stolen
evidence.  Or maybe he should offer them to Dean.  They’re his records, after
all. But what he absolutely should not do is leave them out there in the car to
taunt his mind as the kid lounges around the house and showers in Sam’s
bathroom and eats tacos and sidles up for a goodnight hug.
Sam makes it to just after ten thirty before he pads out of the house.  He’s
not even wearing shoes.  Just taking the trash out, never mind that it's
Thursday night and trash pick-up is Tuesday morning.  Cleanliness is important,
especially with a pregnant omega in the house.  Sam crosses the front lawn,
trying to decide if the house looks different, if anyone will notice the shades
pulled down in the guest bedroom window.  He doesn’t even admit what he’s doing
to himself until he’s in the passenger seat of the Impala, doors locked, with a
stack of files and envelopes in his lap.   
The first folder contains sets of plain black and white pictures—full frontal,
side, rear.  Some are cropped so Sam can’t see the subject’s head, the sort of
anonymity you find in medical journals, but there’s no doubt whose lush young
body it is.  Each photograph is dated: they’d been taken weekly to document
Dean’s pregnancy.  In the first picture, Dean smiles cheekily at the camera,
his legs slightly spread, hands behind his back.  Presenting like Degas’s
little dancer. Bow legs; sharp hipbones; a faintly muscled stomach, flat as a
board.  In the next picture, his six-pack melts into a faint pouching, barely
noticeable except in the side view.  Dean’s small omega cock hangs a little
oddly.  Sam studies it for a moment until he realizes why: when the picture was
taken, the boy was getting hard.  This photo doesn’t show his face, but he was
becoming aroused, either by the act of being photographed or by the awareness
that he was visibly pregnant. 
By the third picture, a full-body shot, the belly is undeniable, round and
pronounced.  Dean cradles it, smiling down shyly at where it overspills his
hands.  There’s a faint shadow under his pectorals, Sam notices: they must have
swollen with his stomach.  He flips back to compare to the earlier pictures:
boy’s nipples are definitely getting darker.  In the forth picture, Dean is
sitting, knees spread.  In the profile picture for that set, Sam can see that
the dark nipples standing out and that the muscles under his ribs are visible
stretching to carry the weight of his belly.  But it’s the frontal picture he
returns to when he finally allow himself to slide his hand into his pajama
pants. 
The thought of the kid getting so big that he had to sit, so round he couldn’t
even close his legs… Sam tugs his pajama pants down, breath catching as the
chilly evening air licks his cock. He is so hard his foreskin has rolled back,
revealing the gently pointed head, the one evolution has designed to notch into
an omega’s cervix.  Sam doesn’t dare touch himself there—too sensitive—but even
when he starts to jack the base of his cock, he can feel  the thick pre-cum
that’s leaking down his shaft.  Fuck, look how big the Dean got with puppies;
he’d swell up even bigger if Sam could get just a drop inside…
Sam is aware that he has been sitting in the car long enough for the windows to
start to fog.  The air is still cool, but he feels hot and sticky.  The leather
seats have warmed against his bare ass and balls.  His thighs fall open.  He
can feel the tenderness at the base of his cock, where his knot wants to form. 
There’s no way he’ll sleep now, he decides.  Best to just jerk it out.  Then he
can stuff these pictures away and go back to making the kid eggs and figuring
out how to explain things to Castiel. And that’s exactly what he’ll do.  He’s
just wound up—the adrenaline, the late nights, the kid’s photos. Sam just has
to get it out of his system.  Just this once.
Thus absolved, he spreads the photos out in the moonlight.  The Polaroid
squares glow against the black seats.  He lets the fingers of his right hand
tease his foreskin over his cockhead, then jack himself so the wet, purple head
is exposed to the cold air. He remembers the dog that had raced past him at the
house, just as he’d gotten out of the car.  It had been so swift, Sam hadn’t
even gotten a good look at it: just an impression of strength and thick fur as
it had dashed into the dark.  It had been big, though, a beast of a thing.  
Sam stifles a groan at the thought that the enormous creature had fucked—had
been deliberately bred with Dean.  Had entered him, filled him.  Made him
swell. 
“Impregnated,” Sam breathes, just to hear the word aloud.  It feels filthy just
saying it, lips pursed like a kiss at the start, then his tongue coiling deep
in his mouth for the ‘g’.  Sam’s hips buck up without conscious thought,
driving his cock through his curled fingers. He’s grown to his full thickness
now, needs two hands on himself, one wrapped low, right above his balls, where
he can feel the nascent knot throbbing.   He thrusts again, grunting with the
effort of it. The movement dislodges the folder, precariously balanced on the
dashboard, and more pictures flutter out.  Bull in a china shop, Dad used to
say, when Sam got rambunctious and too physical.  Sam feels like that bull now,
and he flushes, hot and ashamed and alive. He’s so virile, so ready, he needs
both hands to strip his dick, he’s pumping so hard that he’s not even going to
pause to salvage the evidence.  He even sounds like an animal, gasping and
growling. He wonders what Dean had sounded like, when he’d had that beast on
his back, the creature deep in his—
Sam comes hard and long, descending into the throbbing red space that takes
over whenever he pops a knot.  He doesn’t know how much time has passed before
he becomes aware of the sticky spunk warm on his thighs, on his t-shirt.  He’s
runs two fingers gingerly between his legs.  Yup, knot: hot and tender.  Not a
big one—his body knows the difference between a hand and a pussy—but not small,
either. Sam stretches a little, easing his body against the warmed leather of
the seat.  He should be disgusted, of course: he’s spurted all over his own
stomach, almost as far as his chin. But he’s isn’t.  He feels easy, relaxed and
distantly proud, the way any Alpha would after releasing an impressive load.
This is what his body is meant to do.
He’s still sparkling with aftershocks.  His fingers smear across his stomach: 
the muscles there tense every few minutes, trying to pump more into an
imaginary omega.  He watches a thick rivulet ease ooze out of his cock and
dribble down the shaft.  He tries to estimate how long it will take his knot to
deflate at this rate, but his mind is too contented for serious thought.
Lazily, he moves his wet fingers up to his chest, tweaks a nipple.  He vaguely
remembers that omegas can produce milk for any pregnancy, but that they don’t
really get proper breasts unless they are Alpha-bred.  Dean would look nice
with real tits, he thinks, and his body responds with another blurt of cum. 
Sam is so satisfied that it takes him a few minutes to remember the materials
that had fallen out of the folder.  Then it takes another few minutes for him
to work up the energy and coordination to pick them up.  In the end, it’s worth
the effort, though, because the first page he picks up is a stiff cardstock
with a series of smaller square images.  A contact sheet, indexing another file
of photographs. At first, Sam thinks the images are repeats of those already in
the folder: Dean seated in his later months, heavy with young.  But then he
looks closer: Dean’s legs hitched up over the arms of the chair, showing the
cock under his belly; Dean cupping his balls to reveal his tightly furled hole,
looking up eagerly to make sure he’s following the photographer’s instructions;
Dean sitting prim as you please, his hand a blur under his stomach as he jerks
himself.  The next two pictures are clearly the target of the whole operation:
they look as professional as the diagrams in a medical journal and they match
the previous silhouettes that show Dean’s growing belly.  Except in this
picture, underneath the beach-ball roundness is the unmistakable jut of an
erect penis. 
“SEE REVERSE” is printed at the bottom of the contact sheet and, before he
looks at another picture, Sam has to take himself in hand, even knowing how
unlikely a second orgasm is now that he’s knotted once.  He palms himself
gently, and then he turns the card over. The last row of pictures are less
formal.  That seems like a funny thing to think, considering the subject matter
of the ‘formal’ pictures, but it is clear from the changing angles and
distances that the camera has been taken from its tripod.  The subject is still
Dean, though, and Sam imagines the photographer praising the boy, telling him
they had the pictures they needed and that he should just relax and take care
of himself.  Dean is back in the chair, but not seated with regard to the
camera.  No, he’s sprawled, one leg over the arm of the chair and his hand
blurring between his thighs.  He has the small dick typical of an omega, he
only needs one hand to jerk off, and Sam sees that the other on is pressed to
his belly.  Sam hears himself make a wordless sound—did Dean feel the babies at
the moment the shutter clicked? The next shot is a close-up, cropped more
closely than any of the others. Dean’s head is tipped against the back of the
chair, his eyes squinched shut, but his mouth open—a gasp, a moan—and his
forehead creased in concentration.  If Sam hadn’t seen from the previous
pictures that Dean had been masturbating, he would have thought the boy had
just been penetrated.  Or a…what do omegas call them—contractions? Sam’s own
hips are pumping now, small determine circles into his fist.  He’s gonna cum,
knot or no, and when he does, he imagines he’ll look just like Dean in the last
picture: eyes unfocused, tired smile, dizzy with pleasure.  Well, not just like
Dean: in his photo, the cum-spattered belly was big and round, and the nipples
dark and puckered.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     new chapter...still filthy!
Sam is so clumsy with release that, when he fishes the old-school CD-ROM out of
the folder, he nearly drops it, almost tearing the photos stuffed into its
plastic case.  He smoothes them out carefully with shaking fingers. These
photos are different, and clearly not taken for the purpose of medical
documentation. They’re older…or at least, in them, Dean is slightly younger.  
Only one is black-and-white.  In it, the kid’s hair is a little longer, but
he’s still got the same bow-legged stance, the same cheerful smile.  Sam can’t
quite figure out what’s different until his eyes are drawn to Dean’s belly. 
He’s flat in this picture, which Sam finds fascinating:  given how naturally he
carries his fecund roundness, it’s hard to imagine Dean with a smooth, pre-teen
stomach, nothing more than the faint abdominal muscles of oncoming puberty… 
That’s when Sam realizes what is missing.  No stretch marks.  Sam is looking at
a virginal Dean, before his first puppies. 
This time, Sam does drop the CD case.  He’s left holding a photo of Dean
smiling amidst a cluster of shaggy puppies.  This photo is in color, with the
faintly blurred edges that suggest a cheap camera, maybe part of someone’s
phone. In it, Dean is sitting on the grass in shorts and a t-shirt, trying to
corral three squirming puppies. In the background, Sam can see the house.   He
recognizes the heavy dark drapes at the breeding room’s French windows.   Dean
looks happy,  giggling as one puppy tries to climb his shirt. Just a summer
photo of a boy with his dogs?  Sam knows what he’s really seeing: a family
snapshot—Dean, with his first litter.
Sam slowly retrieves the CD case and one last photo from the car’s floor.  He’s
going to have to burn them, especially the medical ones. He could probably get
into a lot of trouble with Minority Services for even having them.  The law
gives significant leeway to Alphas who have claimed omegas, but news at the
precinct this afternoon was that like this Bobby character was illegally
breeding unclaimed omegas.  Evidence that Dean had been knocked up by an animal
would ruin his chances to ever be claimed by an important Alpha—he’d be
indelibly marked as damaged goods.  Alpha society can be so snobby, Sam
thinks.  Sure, he too had once fantasized of breaking in his own untouched
omega, but having seen Dean, he can’t say that the photos or his history makes
the omega any less beautiful or arousing.
Sam studies the last photograph,  another color shot.  Dean, this time without
his t-shirt, cuddling two of the puppies to his bare chest.  Sure, it could be
an innocent shot, except Sam recognizes the sleepy smile and deep contentment
in the kid’s eyes.  He’s seen it down at the station when new fathers stop in,
fresh from the maternity ward and eager to show off pictures and receive
congratulations.  Sure, a moment before this particular picture had been
snapped, those rambunctious puppies could have been crawling all over Dean,
rough-housing, boys being boys.  But Sam would bet his mortgage-free house that
a moment before this particular picture had been snapped, those muzzles had
been pressed up against Dean’s milky nipples as the pups suckled. Something
else he’d bet on, though it had been hard to imagine looking at Dean’s skinny
young limbs in the first picture.  In a close-up picture, there’s no doubt
about the puppies’ breed: the first time he’d been bred, Dean had been knocked
up by a goddamn Saint Bernard.
Sam creeps back into the house, resists the urge to check on the kid sleeping
in his guest room, and jerks off once more (when was the last time he got hard
three times in an hour?!) before falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep. He
wakes late the next morning to the smell of brewing coffee and pancakes. 
Evidently Dean’s omega nesting tendencies have flowered.  That reminds Sam… he
grabs his phone from the bedside table and looks up “gestation period
canine.”  
When Sam enters the kitchen, all thoughts of a nice, anodyne breakfast chat
vanish.  He’d forgotten that he had carried the document folder in from the
Impala last night and left it carelessly next to his car keys.  Now the
contents are spread out on the kitchen table, where Dean has obviously been
studying them.
“I.  I, uhm,”  Dean is wearing a pair of Sam’s too-long sweatpants, a flannel
shirt, and a pretty pink blush at being caught with the photos. But he’s
determined to get the words out.  He looks at Sam, fierce and almost defiant. 
“I liked it.  Just so you know.  They didn’t make me do any—I mean, Bobby
waited until I said I wanted it.”
Sam has already done the math. “You were, what, ten and a half? The first
time?”
“I wanted a home,” Dean insists stubbornly.  “I wanted a house and babies, just
like any omega.  And Bobby let me have that.”
“He sold your—” Sam starts, but cuts himself off.  Bobby’s finances are public
record down at the station, along with astonishment at the going rate for
canine-omega hybrid pups, but it’s too cruel to remind the kid.
“Breeding with…with dogs,” Dean stumbles a little, not quite as shameless as he
likes to think, “It’s not like with Alphas.  I had three pups my first litter. 
I have more in me now.” (Sweet Jesus, Sam did not need to know that.  He feels
his dick twitch, hard).  “I couldn’t keep them all.”
Dean is looking at him oddly.  Could he know how much the thought of his
condition aroused Sam? “Bobby let me check out all the families,” he continues,
surprisingly reasonable for an eleven-year-old.    “I had the final say: if I
didn’t like the looks of someone, they didn’t get a second interview.  Plus,
Bobby said I could get pregnant again as soon as I wanted.”  Dean’s looking up
from under his lashes, positively sly.  Yeah, he knows how much his belly
arouses Sam, because he’s cradling it now. His little hand just emphasizes its
fullness.  “And I did.”
Sam closes his eyes, breathes deeply, trying to concentrate on the smell of
coffee. 
“You…like that?”  Dean’s voice is wondering.  And then, more confident, “You
like the thought of me getting bred.”  It’s not a question now.  “You like the
idea of a big dog and my little omega hole.”  When Sam looks again, Dean is
moving his palm over his belly, the way he does when he feels the puppies move,
but Sam is pretty sure it isn’t an automatic gesture. “You like thinking about
how my second sire was even bigger than my first?  How I’m carryingmore than I
was the first time? You like that?” He’s been unbuttoning the big flannel
overshirt as he talks, and now he looks expectantly at Sam.  His belly strains
the t-shirt underneath.  It is one of Dean’s own, from the hastily collected
garments Sam had smuggled out of the crime scene.  It might have fit him
properly a few weeks ago, but now his belly button juts out clearly, nipples
dark under the stretched cotton. 
Sam’s mouth is too dry to speak.  But he nods. Eyes open now: God help him, he
does like it.
And Dean smiles, the same sunny, dare-ya smile that appears in his pre-
pregnancy medical photos, the same smile that appears in the outdoor pictures
with the puppies.  “Me, too.”
Dean shuffles through the stack of documents and pictures.  “Bobby always used
old technology—he said the new stuff was harder to hack, but that CD-ROMS on
non-networked computers were as close to private as you could get anymore. He
developed all his own pictures.  There was a birth video and everything.
Destroyed most of the stuff from my first pregnancy once we’d found homes for
all the pups.  I guess he would’ve destroyed these, too, eventually.”  He comes
across the contact sheet, scans the pictures without any apparent embarrassment
until he flips the card over and sees the last few.  Then, and only then, does
he blush again. “I didn’t know about these.  The ones where my eyes are
closed.”
Sam steps close enough to see over the boy’s shoulder.  “That’s my favorite,”
he says, suddenly, pointing to the one where Dean is touching his belly as he
masturbates.  He can smell the kid get warmer as he flushes more deeply.
“These were taken right at the end,” Dean explains, “The pups came just a few
days later. I have to work harder…the more, uh, the bigger I get.  I need
something in me.  To come.” Maybe that explains the sweet strain the
photographer had captured on his face, the expression Sam had mistaken for a
contraction. 
“Did, uh, Bobby…” Sam trails off, unsure of how to phrase the question.
 “Did Bobby help?”  Dean looks up at him frankly, like he knows what Sam is too
shy to ask. “No.  He trained me up so I could take Rufus—that was my first
sire.  But he mostly used toys, sometimes his fingers.  There were pussyboys,
twins,”—Sam remembers the kids in the ambulance— “Bobby took them into his bed
sometimes.  But he just wanted omegas for breeding.” Dean is standing so close
that his swollen stomach is nearly touching Sam’s thigh.  “And I just wanted to
be bred.” 
Dean reaches back without breaking eye contact, scrabbles until he can hold up
the CD-ROM.  It is marked BREEDING, 2.  “You can watch, if you don’t believe
me.” 
He holds the disk up to Sam, but his fingers close tightly when Sam reaches to
take it from him.  “Under one condition.”
Sam nods again.  He’s doing that a lot, lately, but he doesn’t care what the
condition is; he knows he’s going to give in.
“I want to watch with you.”
                                      ***
The only thing in the house that will play a CD-ROM is Sam’s crappy laptop, and
even then, he has to download some old-school software from the internet to
open the file.  Bobby wasn’t wrong about security.  By the time the laptop is
ready, Dean has shed his flannel and nested into the living room couch in just
his t-shirt and sweatpants.
“I put Jay outside,” he volunteers when Sam settles in next to him.  Sam feels
bizarrely like he should be offering popcorn or something. The sensation is
only increased when Dean burrows under Sam’s arm to curl up against his side.
“Uhm.  Okay?”
“It’s just.  On the video, I’m probably…that is, I might be a little. Er.
Noisy.”  And, damn, the thought of Jay reacting to the kind of noises Dean
makes while getting fucked by dogs absolutely dispels the movie-night vibe even
more than the image that appears on the screen.
“That’s from the house!” Sam recognizes the contraption as the camera pans
across the dark room.  Somehow he’s still surprised that this sort of thing had
been going on in a boring suburb just like his own.
“Breeding bench,” Dean says, laconically.  “Diablo was a lot bigger than me.”
“Diablo?”
“My second sire. So-called cause fucked like a demon,” there’s no denying the
satisfaction in Dean’s voice, or the contented way he pats his belly.    Sam
suddenly realizes that his hand is tucked under Dean’s armpit, practically on
the boy’s chest.  He tries to shift away, but Dean pulls him decidedly into
place and sighs when he gets Sam’s palm over his hardened nipple.  “’M sore,”
Dean says, matter-of-factly.  “My milk’s due in soon. Oh, look!” 
Sam does look, as Dean walks naked on screen.  He’s seen the photos, of course,
but there’s something indescribably erotic about seeing Dean moving before his
pregnancy: he’s so lithe and slender.  This is thesecondbreeding film, Sam
reminds himself: Dean had already been bred and knocked up, already birthed
once by the time this film was taken.  But Sam can’t get out his head how
delicately virginal the kid looks.  The camera lingers for a little bit—shell-
pink nipples, concave stomach, tight hipbones, soft little cock. Dean moves to
the breeding bench easily, light on his bare feet.  There’s a shift as the
person behind the camera moves around the tripod.  Sam catches a glimpse of
graying hair, a stocky body in jeans and a flannel shirt not unlike the ones
that Dean has stolen from his closet.
“Bobby?”
Dean nods, his hair soft and feathery where he’s tucked his head under Sam’s
jaw. 
The camera is fixed low, focused on the breeding bench, so Sam can’t see
anything above Bobby’s shoulder until Dean tips his head up for a stubbled
kiss.  Sam is astonished to see the pale body twine itself around Bobby and
even more astonished to see Bobby’s flannel-clad arm sneak down over Dean’s
bare back to cup his ass. With Bobby turned away from the camera, he can see
Dean’s asscheeks flexing as he ruts against Bobby’s jeans.
“I thought you said he never touched you!”  Sam is surprised at the sudden burn
of jealousy he feels.  He’s even more surprised to find that he’s tightened his
arm around Dean, half-pulling the little omega onto his lap.
“Just for the films,” Dean replies, like it’s nothing.  “Just to help me get me
ready.  I’d been waiting for so long! He’d promised me even before the first
puppies that I could get knocked up again if I liked it…oh! This next part
is—I’d forgotten it; it’s a little embarrassing, really…”  He turns his head
into Sam’s shirt, as though he can’t bear to look.  To do it, he has to
straddle Sam’s thigh, but no matter: Sam’s already parted his legs to
accommodate his slowly swelling cock. 
The boy on the screen is practically humping the man’s leg, his arms not quite
meeting where he clings to Bobby’s broad shoulders, his head lolling.  And then
he grows suddenly still.  A moment later, the man delivers a swift, hard slap
to one buttock.  Through the speakers, Sam hears Dean cry out, head coming off
Bobby’s shoulder.
“He’d put his fingers in me and I wasn’t wet enough,” Dean explained, still
sounding a little ashamed.
“He still shouldn’t have hit you,” Sam is indignant.  “You just wanted…”  he
trails off, unsure that he can finish that sentence.
“Mmm,  you’re so nice to me, Sam,” Dean says, burrowing closer.  “It was my
fault, really:  I always liked to be tight and I thought he wouldn’t check.” 
Always like to be tight…the thought of Dean having preferences—having that
preference…. Sam’s not sure what to say, so he asks the next question that
comes into his mind.  “Don’t you get wet, uh, naturally?”
His eyes are riveted to the screen, where Dean is clambering onto the breeding
bench and letting Bobby fix him into place.  His upper body, from his lowest
rib, gets braced perpendicular to the velvet-padded upper board, arms buckled
onto short leashes at the elbow.  The lower portion is hinged somehow, so while
there are leather bands around his waist, thighs, and knees, Dean’s body can
swing from the hips where he straddles the part that looks like a pommel
horse.  His feet are fitted into hanging stirrups. The whole thing is only
three or four feet off the floor, but by the time Bobby has finished with the
straps, Dean is completely suspended.  He can rotate his ankles, lift his head
six inches off the pillowed rest, and move his hands at the wrist—otherwise,
he’s securely fastened.  There’s a blatant red handprint on one of Dean’s pale
buttocks, plainly visible even on Sam’s old computer.
“…so while omegas can get pregnant from lots of sires—we had one at the house
who used to carry snakes’ eggs!—we’re really made to mate with Alphas,” Dean is
explaining when Sam remembers to pay attention. “Which means we only go into
heat for Alphas, and we don’t get really, seriously wet unless we’re breeding
with one.”  His tone is matter-of-fact.  “I got pretty wet for the dogs,
though…the other omegas were jealous,” he adds smugly.  “It meant I could take
the biggest ones. I’ve never seen an Alpha cock up close.  Can I see yours?”
“Uh-huh,”  the transition is so quick and the video footage of Bobby binding
Dean so distracting that Sam doesn’t realize what he’s agreed to until he feels
Dean’s eager fingers at his fly.  “Uhm, are you sure we…?” Sam begins, but then
Bobby is winching something on the screen and his attention is divided. The
breeding bench is being adjusted: Dean’s torso lowered, his legs spread wide
enough that the boy on the screen gasps at the stretch.
Sam misses Dean’s warmth when the boy slips off his lap and settles between his
legs. Then Dean’s hot breath on Sam’s cock pulls the Alpha’s attention away
from the computer screen. 
“Can I…?”
Sam is nodding before the question is even out of Dean’s perfect mouth. 
Dean’s first lick is hesitant, just a quick flicker at the edge of Sam’s
foreskin. He looks up, wide-eyed.  “You’re so big!”
Sam has always gotten hard gradually, and then all at once: a slow thickening
and then, suddenly, he’ll be rock-hard and rampant.  He’s never given it much
thought.  Like getting light-headed after knotting, he figured it has something
to do with erect Alpha cocks being so large, needing so much blood.  It’s
unbelievably arousing to watch Dean try to maneuver his big dick while it’s
still rather soft.  The kid needs both hands and he doesn’t know what Sam does:
the Alpha is only going to get thicker.
Sam’s hips come off the couch involuntarily when Dean purses his lips around
the cockhead and suckles.
Dean laughs.  “I did this with Rufus,” he explains.  “My first,” he adds, like
Sam could possibly forget.  “He liked that, too.” He takes Sam into his mouth
again, bobs a little deeper.  His mouth stretches obscenely; Sam has to bury
his hands in the fabric of the couch to keep from grabbing the kid and helping
himself deeper.  Dean’s own hands are spread on Sam’s thighs; Sam feels them
tighten into fists when his cockhead touches the back of the boy’s throat. 
Dean gags suddenly, throat clenching, and he pulls off.    “I wanted to know
how big he was, to be sure I could take him,” he explains, wiping his eyes. His
voice is thick and raspy.  It takes Sam a moment to realize Dean is talking
about why he’d fellated Rufus. 
Sam strokes the kid’s damp cheek.  “And, uh…Diablo?”
“Mmm,” Dean nuzzles Sam’s balls. “No.  Bobby picked him, as a surprise. I liked
Rufus, but Bobby said Diablo was bigger. More virile.”  Dean rocks back on his
heels, kneading his lower back and showing his belly, like he’s suddenly
remembered that he can’t kneel for long in his condition. “Bobby was always
right about that kind of stuff.”
As if on cue, Bobby announces on screen: “I’m going to let him in, okay?” The
film had been rolling unattended—Bobby making adjustments, preparing Dean—and
now the main show is about to begin.
Even though the cheap computer speakers, Sam can hear the scrape of nails on
the floor.  Sam feels Dean shudder at the sound.  He opens his arms without
thinking, pulls the kid back into his lap.
The image on the screen wobbles when the dog brushes past the camera tripod,
nearly dislodging it.  When it settles, the screen contains the breeding bench,
the bound boy, and the largest dog Sam has ever seen.
The dog is enormous, as tall and long-legged as a Great Dane, but barrel-
chested and with the narrow, powerful hips of a boxer and a blocky head. It
makes a beeline for the immobilized boy.  On the screen, Dean laughs, tickled
when the cold nose nuzzles his bare foot for a moment. He gasps when the
beast’s long pink tongue curls around his knee, moans when the dog roots
higher.  Sam cringes at the thought of those sharp teeth so close to Dean’s
hairless balls, his flaccid cock. But on the screen, the boy is rocking his
hips against the binding, trying to wriggle closer. 
“Uuunh—oh! Bobby! He’s,” Dean’s shocked squeal is high enough for his voice to
crack audibly on the computer, “His tongue is ih-inside me,”   He tries to lift
himself off the dog’s questing snout, forgetting for a moment that he is tied
down. He can twist his head just enough to look over his shoulder, to catch a
first glimpse of the enormous animal that is going to breed him.
“Told ya, not wet enough n’he knows it,” Bobby grunts from behind the camera,
unsympathetic.  “Diablo’s a professional. Just let ‘em do his thing.”
Dean—the real Dean, the flesh-and-blood omega in Sam’s arms—jerks suddenly. 
“Okay?” Sam asks.
“Uh, yeah,  I just.  I,” Dean sounds as disconcerted as Sam has ever heard
him.  “I’m getting…wet.”
“Oh.” Again, Sam doesn’t know the protocol for this.  “Do you want to stop,
or—”
“No!”  Dean interrupts and then, more calmly, “No.  I want to see it.  I just
have to…”
He writhes, turning in Sam’s arms gracefully despite his distended belly, and
there’s a brush of smooth, hairless calf right against Sam’s dick.  A flash of
the red haze Sam associates with knotting and by the time it clears, Dean has
pulled off his borrowed sweatpants and straddles Sam’s thigh in nothing but his
old t-shirt.   The neck of it gapes so when he leans back against Sam’s chest,
Sam can see right down to one tight brown nipple.  He puts his hand there, on
the hard point, under the guise of balancing Dean.  The kid sighs and presses
into the touch.
A steady stream of throaty whimpers have been dripping from the computer,
rising in pitch, and Sam returns his attention to the screen just in time to
see Dean’s nubile body go rigid.  In the stirrups, his toes point like a
ballerina’s, his hips buck against the pommel horse, and his diamond-hard
little dick spurts a surprising quantity of cum onto the black leather before
he sags back against his bonds.  Diablo roots once or twice more between the
kid’s clenching asscheeks before moving around the breeding bench to lick up
Dean’s spending.  He lopes, slow but somehow ominous, like a lion preparing to
pounce.  Sam can see a long, red cock bobbing against the dark fur.  
The picture shifts again as Bobby detaches the camera from its tripod and walks
it over to the breeding bench.  Bobby must fancy himself as a director because
he starts the next shot with an artsy image of Dean’s toes, then trails up one
gangling preteen leg. With the dog occupied, he can focus on Dean’s hole, pink
and wet, tightly furled despite Diablo’s attention. 
“Such a pretty cunt,” Bobby says lowly, and Sam has to admit he was thinking
the same thing.   He can feel the boy’s wetness, now, seeping into the thigh of
his jeans.  Somehow, without realizing it, his left hand has worked its way
under the shirt, baring Dean’s belly on that side.  He’s cupping the kid’s
swollen pectoral: the boy feels hotter there, inflamed, like the milk is
warming him from beneath his skin.  When Sam thumbs his nipple, Dean’s hips
rock.  The movement is involuntarily: his eyes are focused on the computer
screen, just like Sam’s.
On that screen, two thick square fingers—Bobby’s fingers—push against Dean’s
hole.  The camera records the way the skin dimples, how the pinkness goes pale,
resisting for a long minute before the kid’s slim hips hitch and his body gives
in. There is a tremulous moan as the fingers sink in, feeling for the tender
spot inside, and it’s not from the computer.  Sam kisses the next moan right
out of Dean’s luscious mouth. 
“I was just…remembering,” Dean shifts into the next kiss, sucking Sam’s tongue
as he centers himself on the Alpha’s lap.  His bare legs dangle on either side
of Sam’s knees.  “Bobby let me play around with some of the smaller dogs, while
I was pregnant the first time.  But I hadn’t been really stretched since Rufus.
I just wanted it so bad.”
A squawk from the computer. 
“That’s enough,” Bobby admonishes as he slips his fingers free and swatting at
Diablo’s haunch.  “Get out from there! Kid’s bound to be sensitive.” A moment
later, the camera is returned to its tripod. Sam lets his kisses wander along
Dean’s jaw and finally contents himself with nipping the omega’s ear and
mouthing his throat. He wants more of Dean’s sweet mouth, but he is unwilling
to take his eyes off the screen.
Bobby, his flannel plaid visible from the chest down, takes up his position on
the far side of the breeding bench.  “Relax. I’ll just help him in, if he needs
it,” he assures the boy tied in front of him.  He runs a soothing hand along
the kid’s bare back, pausing adjust a twisted strap.  “Then I’ll step back so
he don’t get possessive.  But I’ll be right here if you need me,  ‘Kay?”
Dean’s response is muffled.  “Camera,” Bobby says gently, massaging Dean’s
lower back, “buyers are gonna wanna see your face to prove the bloodlines.
Ready?”  Sam finds his own free hand has curled over the kid’s bare hip, his
thumb skimming the boy’s ass.  When Sam glances down, he sees Dean’s wetness is
spreading; his crack shines with it.
On screen, Dean obediently turns his head on its velvet pillow so he faces the
camera.  “Yeah.  “’m ready,” he slurs, looking contented and sleepy.
Bobby whistles quick and sharp; Diablo suddenly reappears, obedient as the
best-trained sheepdog.  Or maybe just longing for a promised treat. A second,
low-pitched whistle and he rears up for a second—another flash of that
violently pink cock—and then his paws come crashing down on the bench’s upper
platform, just barely missing Dean’s strapped elbows.  The animal’s weight
startles a huff out of the boy, audible even over the computer. 
The dog’s hips churn hard and clumsy, humping the small of Dean’s back, then
bucking against his thighs, eager but inaccurate until Bobby’s hand slips along
his dark flank and guides the arrowhead-shaped dick to its target.
“C’mon.  Good boy, that’s a good boy.  Just a little more now,” Bobby coaxes,
and Sam doesn’t realize he’s talking to Dean until he hears, “Bear down—let
yourself open. You want those pups, right? Just like that, yeah.”
Dean is so eager. Sam can see him brace his knees, straining to lift himself
against the straps, tipping his pelvis like he’s offering himself up.  He’s
panting nearly louder than Diablo and he yelps when the thick pink dick catches
his hole. 
“Shh, just relax,” Bobby ruffles Dean’s hair before setting a comfortingly
heavy hand on the back of his neck.  “He knows where he’s going now.”
Diablo stills for a split-second before giving a few speculative thrusts. (“Oh,
oooh yes—Oh!” Dean’s voice warbles through the speakers).  And then the beast
attacks.  A single long plunge concentrates all the strength in his powerful
hindquarters. Dean’s pale back bows under the onslaught.  His hands grip the
edges of the breeding bench as though they were bound, too.    His head snaps
up, shaking off Bobby’s hand; his mouth opens on a silent cry.  Now Sam can see
why the breeding bench had been necessary. Two more punching shoves—Dean’s
whole body convulses in the bindings each time—and then Diablo’s sizeable balls
are nestled against pale asscheeks and he is fully sheathed in the boy.      
The big, dark canine form pauses for a moment, the slavering head resting on a
freckled shoulder, as though recovering from the work of opening the tight
bitch beneath him.   But then the natural instinct to breed takes over.  The
dog moves his forepaws to the lower level of the breeding bench, locking over
Dean’s waist as though to bind him tighter.  His hips start the quick, greedy
rabbiting that Sam knows from letting Jay loose at the dog park.     
“Is he in?” Bobby asks from behind the camera.
“Yuh-yeah.  He’s…ooohh, he’s. Big.” Dean’s voice is tense, jumping with each
thrust.  “He’s. So big.  Bobby—he’s—unh!! He’s stretching m’meee!” The boy
wails with pleasure. 
Diablo is short-haired, not an ounce of fat on his muscled body.  There’s
nothing to obscure the camera’s view of his single-minded assault on Dean’s
hole.  The boy’s pale skin glows between the dark upholstery of the breeding
bench and the sleek, shining blackness of Diablo.  The dog’s fur muffles the
smack of groin meeting ass.  In the silence, Sam can hear panting, wetness,
 the rattle and creak of the heavy wooden contraption.  Diablo is powerful
enough to shake the solid breeding bench, never mind Dean’s young human frame.
Bobby somehow keeps his eyes on the prize. “Did he knot yet?”
“Nnn,” Dean can’t even manage the word at first.  “Soon,” he pants. His eyelids
are fluttering. “I—unnh!  Big!”  His vocabulary seems to have abandoned him.
 “Yeah, I know it is, boy.  Bigger before he’s done.” 
“Yeah, gooood,” Dean moans tremulously.  “Good boy. Deeper.  Put those pups. 
All the way. In me.” He’s talking to the dog, Sam realizes.  He’s forgotten
Bobby, forgotten the camera, forgotten everything except the massive canine
plowing him.  The boy is flushed, maybe drooling, whimpering shamelessly. It’s
better than any porn, nothing scripted, nothing fake. Just the actual recording
of what it’s like to be thoroughly taken.
Sam suddenly becomes aware of Dean’s little shoulder jostling against his own
chest. The boy’s right hand disappears below the curve of his belly.  He’s
jerking himself off violently, working in time with the dog on the screen. 
When Sam traces his way between Dean’s slick thighs, he finds the kid has a
death grip on his dick.  He remembers the boy saying it got harder to achieve
pleasure later in pregnancy—he must be frantic. 
“Shh, shhh, let me,”   he coaxes, easing his hand to cup Dean’s hot balls.  He
wants to get his mouth on them, to sooth Dean’s tortured dick with his tongue. 
But that would mean looking away from the screen just as Diablo’s thrusts are
getting shorter and deeper.
Dean whines in frustration.  “But I need…”
“I know.  I know what you need.  Let me give it to you.”  Sam doesn’t know what
kind of social disgrace awaits an Alpha who knowingly mates an omega that’s
been taken by animals.  Alphas are at the top of the food chain; they don’t
accept anyone’s sloppy seconds.   But already he is tipping Dean forward,
bracing the boy's hands on the coffee table on either side of the computer that
continues to show a video of himself being brutally, blissfully fucked. 
With the coffee table’s support, Dean can get his knees onto the couch on
either side of Sam’s.  He lifts his hips, presenting his hole to Sam.  Wet and
pink, it’s so tight Sam wouldn’t believe anything’s ever penetrated it, except
that he’s can literally hear the evidence—Dean’s recorded pants are still
spilling from the computer.
Sam touches him there, feels the muscles wink under his finger. 
“Please,” Dean is looking over his shoulder, desperately. “Please!  I haven’t. 
Since Diablo.”
Sam’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean.  An excuse: does Dean think he’s
more likely to get fucked by an Alpha if he hasn’t been ‘playing around’ with
dogs the way he did during his first pregnancy? An incentive: Dean had said he
liked to be tight, and if he hasn’t been taken in a month, he certainly will
be? A simple explanation: Bobby had waited until the pregnancy was established
before letting Dean enjoy the relief of smaller dogs, and this time, Bobby had
disappeared before that could happen?
Sam pulls Dean’s hips flush with his own.  His cock rides the wet channel of
his crack, the head leaving a sticky mark on the kid’s low back. Dean is
suspended between the couch and the coffee table.  His belly sways. 
“The…pups?” Sam asks, hearing how rough his voice has grown.  He’d like to
imagine he was the one who had given Dean that big belly.  But he hadn’t.  And
he won’t do anything to hurt the boy.
“They’re safe inside me,” Dean  pleads.  “Just go slow.”
As if there was any other way, as tight as Dean is.  He takes Sam’s cockhead
easily enough, bearing down with an experienced roll of his hips but yelping at
its size when it pops in. 
“Wait! Wait…” he pants and it takes him a gratifyingly long moment to adjust to
the stretch before be eases back to swallow another inch.  
As he inches into the boy, Sam can look down the expanse of his back to see the
computer screen next to his shoulder.  Diablo is deep into his mating rut (and
into his mate), so Bobby has brought the camera closer to the breeding bench to
capture the details and indulge his inner artist.  Sam times his thrusts with
each new shot:  the scratches on Dean’s ribs from Diablo’s gripping paws, the
winking asshole under the dog’s stiffened tail,  the hollows that appear when
Dean’s asscheeks flex, the glazed pleasure on the boy’s face when Bobby reaches
under his suspended body and pinches a nipple to get Dean to look at the
camera. 
Diablo is too close to knotting for Bobby to video the actual point of
entry—the dog would attack before he’d let anyone that close to his bitch.  But
Sam doesn’t need video for that: he’s got a live show right in front of him. 
Dean hunches his hips, making his belly shake, and a few more inches of Sam’s
thickness slides into his stretched hole.  He groans and Sam digs his fingers
into the tight muscles of the kid’s back.  The boy is so tense here, his legs
spread too wide for comfort while his belly hangs heavy in front. He's too
small for an Alpha, just as he was too small for anything named Diablo. Not
that he seems to care: another few inches, another groan, rising into a whine
as Sam pushes just a little deeper.  Finally, Sam nudges something inside that
makes Dean jolt.
“Shh, shh—that’s it, good boy,” Sam senses he’s gone about has far as he can,
he must be right up against Dean’s womb.
But the boy growls impatiently. “More. Help me.”  
“No,” Sam says, sternly.  “That’s enough for now.” Dean is going to have to
learn that being taken by an Alpha is not the same as spreading his legs for a
dog.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     The end--short and smutty!
Sam runs his big hands along the boy’s taut body to take the sting out of his
denial.  He can’t thrust properly, not with Dean balanced between his lap and
the coffee table, so he makes the boy clench around him playing with his cock
and balls. Dean’s so small, Sam can cup him in one big hand: the boy’s cock is
only half-hard, but his balls are pulled up so tight they twitch when Dean
rolls his hips.  Sam’s other hand starts on Dean’s thigh but somehow creeps
around to his belly, the thick curve below his navel.  Sam is surprised all
over again at how firm Dean’s belly is: swollen and stretched, almost hard. 
Sam maps the whole globe with his palm before finding a hint of softness—the
puffy flesh around Dean’s thick nipple.   
“Yeah, yeah—so full,” the voice is so slurry with arousal Sam doesn’t know
which cock-stuffed boy said it: the one in his living room or the one on the
computer screen.  To be honest, Sam had nearly forgotten about the breeding
video. 
Sam glances at the screen just a Bobby cuts across the camera and kneels under
the breeding bench.  He put his hands on Dean’s bare belly, visible between the
two hinged sections of the bench.  Sam can see him massaging the muscles there,
easing the strain on Dean’s hips from the pounding he’s taking.  Diablo’s
strokes are hooking into Dean, tugging him against the straps with each short,
deep thrust. 
“There now, I can feel ‘im starting…” Bobby croons. “Push back.  Go on, open up
and let him in.”
That’s what breaks Sam’s resolve.  The idea of those hairy old hands on Dean’s
lean, empty belly, coaxingthe boy through the act of impregnation, actually
feeling the start of the knot that would hold him until he was well and truly
bred. 
Sam puts his arms around Dean, his palms flat and low under his belly. He lies
for a moment along his back, just as Diablo had, and then hoists the kid back
onto the full length of his dick.
The boy is not just hot and wet—he’sstrong, muscled inside from Bobby’s
training and from carrying the pups.  And with his uterus so full, he’s even
tighter than nature meant him to be. The whole sensitive length of Sam’s cock
is wrapped in Dean’s overstuffed young body as it clenches and flexes and
struggles to make room for him.  Sam is aware of each whimpering breath the boy
takes, his hot smooth back expanding against Sam’s chest. Each twitch of his
hips, pelvis so fragile between the big belly and the battering ram of Alpha
cock.  Distantly, he registers bitch-like yelps, Dean’s breathy wailing through
the computer speakers (“Gon’, gonna cum”), the dog going nuts outside.  Beyond
that, there’s just the slick, swollen body in his arms and an overwhelming need
to knot it.
 “C’mon,” Sam growls, feeling his knot swell against Dean’s rim. “Lemme in.” 
Fuck, he sounds like Bobby. And maybe Dean thinks the same thing, because he
obeys. The high sweet moans of stretching are replaced with dirty grunts from
deep in Dean’s chest as the knot punches in, then pulls against his hole, and
finally settles, throbbing inside him.
Dean sags against Sam’s broad chest, flushed and panting. The kid’s slender
limbs jump and tremble with aftershocks.   Sam kisses his shoulder, his
throat.  He feels dizzy, like he’d float away without Dean’s belly to pin him
to the ratty couch. Red haze clouds the corners of his vision. He’s never
knotted so fast in his life. He’s gone faster than Diablo: on screen, the dog’s
apple-sized knot is just starting to stretch Dean’s hole. The boy’s hips jump
against the binding straps each time the knot pops into him, but otherwise he’s
draped limply over the breeding bench like it’s the only thing keeping him from
collapse.  And maybe it is: he’s clearly well past his third orgasm. 
“Oh, yeah,” Sam hears Bobby say, “here he goes.  Deep, Diablo! Fill ‘em up!”
The man has found his way back to the camera and focuses it on Dean’s face,
catching the quick flash of surprise the moment the knot catches and holds.
“Tha’ss it,” Dean slurs, indicating that he’s been watching the film as closely
as Sam. Sam doesn’t have to ask what he means.  It’s the instant of conception.
The camera catches the way Dean’s forehead furrows, how he bites his pretty lip
against the strain. Then his mouth falls open on a long whine. The flush on his
chest licks up his throat, visible when he arches, trying ineffectively to pull
away from the incredible pressure.   Bobby detaches the camera from the tripod
and lets its gaze slide up Dean’s body.  Diablo is slavering over the kid’s
narrow back, still as a statue except for his lolling tongue and his hips
grinding against Dean’s plush ass.  The camera catches Dean’s pretty, clenched
toes, his fluttering lashes, and then Bobby’s hand is on Dean’s, unlacing the
wrist restraint, peeling his fingers  away from where they grip the breeding
bench.  Once freed, the boy’s hand goes instantly to the patch of his stomach
between the sections of the bench.  Sam can see the boy is already beginning to
swell, the belly pushing out over the edge of the bench as the beast fills him.
“Fuck!,” Sam’s hips pump, lifting Dean’s weight, and the kid gasps when the
knotted cock bumps deeper.
Sam freezes. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Nnn, good,” Dean says, shifting in Sam’s lap.  “Jus’—cervix. Gentle. 
‘m…really full.”
“Yeah—I just.  Didn’t realize you’d be able to, you know.  See.”
“More’n see,” Dean drags one of Sam’s hands to his belly.  Sam feels something
else—a flutter, then a pulse, deep inside. The pups reacting to their carrier’s
pleasure. Cervix, Dean had said, and just to test it, Sam bucks his hips
again.  Another gasp from Dean and a quick, internal ripple.   Yeah: Sam is
knot-locked right up against the mouth of Dean’s womb, exactly where Diablo had
been a few short weeks ago. 
“This where he was?” Sam grunts, suddenly jealous.  “That—animal? Up inside
you? Making you all big? So round?” He punctuates each question with a deep
thrust: on the last one, Dean sobs and spasms, climaxing so hard Sam can feel
the contractions outside and in.
Contrite, Sam gentles him through it and is rewarded when Dean shifts Sam’s
hand lower, just between his hips.  Under Sam’s palm there’s a slow, distinct
throbbing…too rhythmic to be puppies. “Mmmm,” Dean hums, almost to himself,
“you’re filling me so good.”  Thick Alpha spunk with nowhere else to go…Sam has
to set his teeth into the meat of the kid’s shoulder to keep from moaning out
loud.  Dean does it for him: a sweet, throaty sound as he squirms uselessly
against Sam’s knot. “Gonna be,” he gasps, “sore tomorrow.”
“Sorry,” Sam kisses Dean’s throat.  He doesn’t even try to sound sincere.
“S’good…it’ll make for—ah!—an easy birth.”
Sam does moan then, imagining Dean’s pale young body writhing and stretching to
push out what Diablo had put so deeplyin.  Scene of crime or not, he’s going to
fucking take Bobby’s house down to the studs to find that birth video Dean had
mentioned.  Except, of course, he doesn’t have to.
“Stay,” Sam cradles Dean against him, still-knotted, belly and all.  “Stay here
‘til the birth.  Longer, if you want.”
Dean tips his face up, so sweet and delighted that Sam has to kiss him. “I’d
like that,” he says, simply.  “I’ve always wanted a home.”
He nestles down against Sam’s chest, one hand idly plucking a nipple. Over his
head, Sam can see the forgotten laptop, still playing.  Dean, flexible and
fucked out, has been untied and turned on Diablo’s knot: boy and beast are face
to face, missionary style, with the kid’s slightly swollen belly between them. 
One long teenaged leg is hitched over Diablo’s slow-rolling hips and Dean’s
hands rake through the dark fur on the animal’s back.  The distant expression
on his face is one of dazed, blissful pleasure.
“Jay’s  here…or we can find you another sire,” Sam offers, “something, uh,
bigger.”  He wants to bite his tongue off rather than share Dean with anyone,
but he’d never deny his omega anything.  His omega.
Dean brings Sam’s hands back to his taut belly. It sways when he chuckles.
“Don’t worry…I know you’ll take good care of me.  And very soon we’ll have more
big dogs than we know what to do with.”
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