Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10335026.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      dean_winchester/alistier
  Character:
      Alastair_(Supernatural), Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      AU, non-cannon, ABO, non-con, NSFW, Dark, DemonDean, Demon_Dean
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-03-17 Updated: 2017-03-25 Chapters: 2/? Words: 2467
****** Not Stolen, Given ******
by savvybo
Summary
     After a tragic accident, Dean's father John made a deal with the
     Demon Alastier. Instead of trading his own soul though, he gave away
     his son, who's young life would be scarred and changed forever from
     the cruelty of the demon lord. Becoming his slave and soon to be
     custom made Omega, the boy resigned to his fate but not to give in or
     up. Slowly coming to understand just what an Alpha was, and what his
     place as an Omega was supposed to be.
***** Day's Long Past *****
“Daddy?”
The boy’s gaze stared back towards the mouth of the cave from where he came, to
the man standing there now but a silloete.
“Daddy??”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t even look back. The strange slinder man simply
took Dean’s hand in his own despite the boy trying to pull it away. His touch
was cold, it was hard, and it made Dean uncomfortable.
“Daddy!!!!”
John didn't turn around, he didn't even look as Dean struggled in the man's
grip and tried to run back to him. As the boy cried and called for him, trying
desperately to get his attention. John did nothing to acknowledge his son, as
though he didn't even notice he was there. As though he didn't even remember
him one bit.
Dean was five when his father traded him away. He was five when his childhood
ended. Five when his father forgot him and gave him to the demon Alastier to
ease his own pain, with no reguard for the child the demon took.
---
The young boy woke on an old mattress in an old cell. Every muscle in his body
hurt, and he didn't try to sit up. His clothes were gone, his time here had
been short so far, but from the moment he'd gotten to this… place, it had been
pain he hadn't even known possible. He could feel warm blood leaking over the
insides of his small thighs, and the sting of where He had bitten Dean. Bitten
him while he tore him open, while He touched him in ways even his young mind
knew were wrong. He'd called him such mean things, such nasty things.
Dean felt his eyes starting to fill with hot tears again. One stung, the
surrounding flesh swollen from where he'd been struck for biting the man. He
was so scared, so cold, so hungry… dean had been here for at least a week. Or
was it longer? He didn't know. He hadn't learned that yet… he didn't even know
where he was. The last thing he knew was the cave, was seeing his father just
staring off to the sky. Ignoring Dean’s calls. Ignoring him. And then he felt
heavy, like he was being hugged too tight, and then… nothing. Nothing before
waking up in that room.
The boy sniffled, hands shaking as he wiped his nose with his palm before
pulling his legs up to his stomach. He could feel some of the dried blood on
his skin cracking and pulling the small hair on his legs, and the strain of
torn flesh deep in his core. Dean felt sick, he felt wrong, and he felt dirty.
But there weren't any warm bath tubs where he was, just the cold smelly
mattress and the wet walls. There was a bucket in the corner, but it smelled
even worse then the bed, even so small dean had figured out that it was to be
his toilet.
The young boy hiccuped a small sob, but he was too tired to do much of any true
deep crying. Too weak, too hungry, too thirsty. Any tears that did manage to
spill over, he wiped with his fingers and licked them right back off. He didn't
mind the salty bitterness anymore, he even found that sometimes the walls would
get damp enough for droplets to form… he didn't mind much anymore that they
tasted like dirt. It hadn't taken him long at all to not mind. He was just
scared, and he just didn't want to die.
He’d thought he could wait to eat, wait till something better would come. But
it never did, and he soon found himself eating whatever He happened to drop in,
as few and far between as that often seemed to be.
The boy looked at his knees, they seemed….more knobby already. His stomach hurt
and nothing felt good. All of his limbs felt just so heavy, he was so tired and
so cold. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his Dad again, to go back, to
see his Mom again. The boy swallowed thickly before resigning himself to look
around again, for now just moving his head as he survayed his surroundings.
Just a dirty empty cell. That’s all this was, all this place was. There were
other rooms, he knew this, he’d been in at least one. But he’d been with Him,
and there had been so much pain brought to him, he could still feel the ache in
his lower back and between his legs. That man, He kept saying things Dean
didn’t understand. How he was going to work, how he would change soon enough,
to just give in. That he would like it soon enough. None of that made any
sense. Dean couldn’t even think of why it would ever make sense.
With another hiccup he pulled his arms and legs underneith his body before
crawling to the wall. Placing a small hand on it, he felt the cool dampness of
the stone. The grime that covered it reminded him of the same grime he used to
find underneith logs by the creek behind his home.
Dean missed his home. He wanted to go back, wanted to ask his Dad why he didnt
turn around and stop this man from taking him into the cave, stop this man from
hurting him so bad. Stop this man from everything, ask his Dad why he didn’t
protect him… Why he got so mad. Dean hadn’t meant for any of that to happen, he
didn’t even understand most of it himself…
But John of course had blamed him for Her Death.
---
Dean paused to look around some as he slowly forced his way to his feet. He had
to move, he remembered his mother telling him it wasn’t good for little boy’s
to sit still for too long. There were little stones and small bones from either
peices of “meals” He had given him or poor creatures that had gotten stuck in
this strange Hell Dean found himself in. Wiping his eyes again he kneeled down
and picked up a smalls stone, thinking back to when he would find some in the
creek and how he could make white lines and drawings on the bigger rocks around
his home. They were like natural pencils Dean liked to think, and he thought
maybe he could somehow still do something...fun here.
Dean grabbed one of the stones, rolling it over in his palm as he examined it
closely. It had to be right. Just right.
Dropping that one, he picked up the next one, this one was more narrow and long
unlike the last, which was round and jagged. This one was better, this one
should work better. Dean held it in his hand as he leaned forward and against
the wall, pausing with the tip of the stone right over the surface as he
thought of what he would draw. What he would write. What would he write? He
didn’t know how to write too well, he hadn’t learned much after….
It came to Dean then, what he should write. What he should draw. What he should
do. Quickly, he began to scratch at the wall, the word he knew best how to
write. His knuckles scratched against the wall, even rubbing the skin off but
he didn’t stop. He furiously scratched to make the letters show, his young face
twisted in a slightly pained scowl and eyes filled with determination for his
task.
After a short time, he moved back to look at his work. D E A N. His name,
written big and proud across the wall. That Man had kept saying he was a thing
now, a toy to be used and broken and even despite being so young? Dean hated
that thought, that suggestion. Despite being so young he understood something
important. This man had stolen him, stolen the light from him, but he wouldn’t
steal his name. Dean would hold on to that as long as he could. He hadn’t been
here long but he resolved to fight back, one way or another.
***** Struggle *****
How long was it now? Dean didn't know, but his name was now carved into the
wall hundreds of times maybe. His stomach was sunken in, he could count his
ribs.
How long.
Dean thought of his mother, he didn't cry as much anymore when he did. He
didn't cry as much anymore at all. His lower back hurt, there was a bump right
over his waist, right above his butt. It seemed to be growing with each day
too, and He loved touching and poking it. It always made dean shout. It hurt,
it felt… sensitive. Dean had also noticed his sight seemed sharper these days.
Was it days? He hadn't seen the sun in so long. Hadn't even felt the wind.
The young boy quickly lurched himself over the side of his filth covered
mattress and emptied what little his stomach held, he'd been so damn sick….
After catching his breath, dean looked down at the mess he'd made. It wasn't
the first time, and he felt it wouldn't be the last. There wasn't much, but a
few pieces of half digested food in the bile that now splattered the floor. It
smelled sour. It smelled bad, but still his stomach growled at the small
pathetic pickings. What he'd eaten before wasn't specifically good to start
with, but here he was… imagining eating his own vomit. Was it worth it? He
already knew there was no telling when He would be back with food, or if that
food would even be worthy of being called such. There was no telling.
Dean remembered what his mother had told him once, if he plugged his nose it
might not taste as bad. If he chewed really fast it might not taste as bad. The
young boy swallowed thickly before slowly reaching over with a trembling hand,
and picking up one of the small chunks of partially digested food from the
bile. Dean held his breath before tipping his head back and dropping the chunk
on his tongue.
It was god awful. Disgusting and he had to fight the urge to gag again, forcing
himself to chew it and swallow. Dean did not want to do that again, ever.
Yet in little time there he was, picking through vomit old and new for anything
salvageable. Anything he could somehow pull any sustenance from. When there was
nothing else to be found, Dean stopped and looked at what he'd done. How he'd
behaved. He felt disgusting, filthy. Like some sort of pig getting excited over
slop. He felt like a pig.
It had been some time since He'd been in the cell, and dean had taken up
passing the long hours with sitting against the corner where his bed was. He'd
count his ribs, count the number of rings and lines on his fingers. Sometimes
he'd pick at healing scabs, others he'd carve more drawings into the wall. The
nub on his back was growing, and he couldn't see it well but he thought it
might be growing hair on it as well. Dean tried not to think about it too much.
Finally, after so long and so much waiting, the small door at the bottom of the
metal one that opened to his cell slid and let in a blinding light. A hunk of…
well dean wasn't sure but it looked like meat was tossed in before the small
window snapped shut. Dean didn't even have the time to scramble over and try to
grab for the brightness, but he did try. This only resulted in him hitting his
head on the door and opening old scabs on his finger tips as he tried to claw
it back open. Dean could hear a faint laugh from the other side, but it was
fading. Leaving. He didn't know any more if he wanted Him to come in or not, if
he needed to see someone else or not.
After several futile attempts to get the window open, dean's attention went to
the slab of mystery meat. He could tell from the sound it had made it was raw.
His father had brought home raw meat, and when he'd slap it down on a cutting
board it made the same sound. The same wet sound.
Dean moved over to the thing, first poking it with his finger before picking it
up and moving it around in his hands. It didn't smell too sour, just… cold and
matalic. It left his hands wet and sticky, but his mouth watering. Dean tried
to imagine a chicken nugget or something much more appitizing as he slowly sunk
his teeth into the meat and bit off a piece.
It was as if a new instinct overtook the boy, and he was tearing off chunks of
the mystery meat as quickly as he could swallow them. It was oddly fresh, sure
it was raw, but it was food. That was what was important. It was new, fresh
food. It was something to keep him going, and dean did not want to die.
No sooner had dean inhaled the flesh and was licking his fingers clean when the
room started to spin. Dean tried to stand, his feet wobbling and his hands
shaking as he tried to balance himself. Something was very Wrong.
The young boy reached out, even his vision going blurry just as he started to
process the simple fact that he was falling. Dean hit the ground hard, he
couldn’t exactly stop himself from tumbling over let alone halt his fall. He
groaned, trying to push himself up as a light hit his eyes. Dean could hardly
pull his head up by now as he saw His shoes.
He was here. Did he make Dean sick? What was going on?
He tried to say something, tell Him to go away and leave him alone...To not
touch him, but all that came out were pathetic whimpers. The man knelt in front
of the small boy, and simply chuckled to himself. Dean couldn’t even pull away
when his long cold fingers ran through his hair, still making his stomach want
to turn.
Alastier grinned as he took hold of the boy’s hair and turned his face up to
him, turned his gaze to meet his own to see just how well his little cocktail
of drugs had worked. He was relatively pleased, though a little discouraged
with just how well it had worked.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun little toy… You’ll thank me too...Made sure
you’re gonna be nice and loose like a good little slut you are”
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!