Actions

Work Header

Territory

Work Text:

Dean thinks there are at least four, but maybe seven. They pace and nudge around his helplessly sprawled body, their great, heaving flanks brushing against his bare skin, and an occasional wet nose nudges at a nipple or at the sensitive skin of his young belly.

He remembers the hunt; he remembers his father taking the basement and leaving him to handle the well-lit upper floors of the house alone. He remembers seeing it before he heard it, which is strange – typically, the growls and the hot, harsh pants of breath between drool-slick teeth give hellhounds away before anything else – but the unnatural drag of dust working a stripe along the dry floorboards betrayed a paw: far too close, far too quick. Dean already knew he’d lost.

Immense weight slamming into his back drove his shoulders to the floor, his kneecaps colliding with floorboards with a force that kicked up dust. Rolling and twisting an arm up, he’d squeezed off at least two or three rounds before the handgun was wrenched from his palm, but if any of the bullets found their mark, they hadn’t done much to deter the beast – or beasts, he remembers realising quickly, the paws landing on his back too many in number to belong to one animal. He’d yelled – frustration; exertion. Not a cry for help. Dean isn’t a kid anymore.

I’ll be four days at the very most. Take care of Sammy. I know you can handle this yourself.

The crushing pressure on his back had relented and he was dragged by the limp, bloody ruin of his right arm across the floorboards (he remembers – vividly – a set of vicious teeth sinking mercilessly into his arm just above the elbow) and toward the sunken back hall of the building, where ivy and branches pried the walls open and the house and forest became difficult to tell apart.

Things bled together after that. He must’ve taken a hell of a hit to the head. The sky went dark, went brown – a cavern in the stone where the trees met the cliffs, maybe – but the air no longer carried the clean scent of pine and earth, and each rasping breath Dean took was acrid. Sulphuric.

The first sensation that breaks the surface and brings a flutter of consciousness to his eyelids is a wet, cool nudge to his inner thigh. He twitches away, groaning weakly, but the absence of clothing doesn’t register until the hound’s muzzle pushes again, further up, pressing at his soft dick. A huff of hot breath rolls over his skin; drool marks a thin line between the two points. Curling his lower body instinctively, the haze in his brain falls away and Dean feels his stomach turn to cold lead.

“No,” he mumbled, kicking and twisting helplessly. His legs barely have the strength to support their own weight. His broken arm lies, twisted, in the dirt at his side. “C’mon, no. No – no – no-“

The hot, open-mouthed panting turns liquid and silky all at once and Dean grits his teeth against it, shutting his eyes tight against the filthy shiver that jolts through his limp teenage prick. Long, curling laps of the hellhound’s tongue lay themselves thickly and urgently along the soft shaft, wetting the flesh with sliding stripes of thick saliva. His one good arm scrambles desperately at the floor around him as though he can drag himself away. A soft snarl by his ear and the heavy weight of paws on his chest are all the warning he needs, claws leaving neat clusters of puncture wounds directly between his nipples. Dean whimpers and shuts his eyes tight.

His dick begins to lengthen and thicken at the insistent working over, the drool now sliding down in warm, tacky trails to his balls. The hunter is just – reluctantly, and ashamedly – beginning to enjoy the attention (it’s disgusting, he’s disgusting, and he shouldn’t find it even slightly pleasurable, regardless of how earnestly the hellhounds are trying to push their tongues into the slit of his cock) when they shift their attention further back, behind his balls.

The sudden assault of licks to his asshole makes him twitch violently and a sharp, involuntary grunt bursts from Dean’s lips. He doesn’t touch that, not even once, not even drunk, not even for a dare. It’s strictly a one way street down there. He doesn’t even like to think about it. A rising, awful sickness claws up from his stomach – and yet – fuck, his dick is swelling at those slick, loose swipes, his insides going all fluttery and hot. Dean gasps into the dirt. His opening flexes unsteadily, confused and sensitive. He balls his hands into fists and, just minutely, his hips jerk back and forth once. Just once. His cock bobs heavily, erect between the columns of his thighs, and the hellhound backs away. Dean instantly misses the touch, sticking his drenched ass out further in invitation.

"Ungh… fuck, no, come back,” he grunts, rolling his hips, and lets out a pleased moan when the beast’s snout pushes firmly back in to continue bathing his dick, balls and ass in close, attentive licks.

“That’s it – shit – mmmh.”

Dean’s eyes roll into his skull and he rocks his ass backwards. He can’t deny the tug of pleasure tightening up his balls, or the blissed-out glow sitting low in his stomach as the huge dog tongues his ass. He can cope with this. As long as nothing starts poking inside, the teenager thinks, he can cope.

Several others pace around him, the weight on their paws leaving tell-tale traces in the earth, which he follows absently with his eyes as pleasure warms his gut. He’s just considering reaching out for one – to encourage another muzzle between his legs – when one of the hellhounds paces closer, its furry body flush against his side. It shifts its weight, arranges its rear legs close to where Dean’s face is leaving marks in the dust, and then the hunter feels a hot, liquid stream collide with his cheek as it cocks a leg and begins to piss.

He chokes and spits, his throat making a gurgling sound as he reacts too late and the nasty taste floods his mouth. It sprays across his face, through his hair and up his nose as the hellhound proudly marks its territory. It empties itself in a relentless, powerful stream. Dean squirms and groans, humiliated and soiled, and still the hounds lick his asshole.

If Daddy could see you now, he thinks, and shame colours his cheeks beneath the smudged dirt.

The place between his shoulder blades is pinned agonisingly heavily, the weight making it difficult even to draw breath, but then it settles more evenly down his spine and Dean rattles in a desperate breath. His body struggles to support itself. His ass has never felt more vulnerable, forced up in the air, and then he feels something slick and smooth and bulky nudge between his spread thighs.

He tries – really fights – kicking back, snarling, his ass and thighs trembling with the pressure as he struggles to crawl away, even to put a scant inch between his vulnerable opening and the monstrous, greedy dog dick thrusting back and forth in the beast’s attempts to mount the teenager. Dean knows it’s a losing battle. His fingers slip on the ground, and then he feels a fat, blunt pressure against his asshole. It’s too thick to feel like it’s about to slip inside; it’s pushing clumsily, slipping back and forth up and down his crack and butting against his balls. It’s like a fist.

All his exertion and frustration comes out in a roar as it becomes a tug of war, Dean dragging himself away like his life depends on it while huge paws claw him backwards onto the massive thing driving between his spread thighs. The hellhound is winning. It’s no longer humping him in a rhythm, but forcing Dean’s body back onto its cock in one long, continuous, unrelenting surge of strength – and then, at breaking point, the hunter’s tender, swollen hole is forced to part and swallow up the very tip of the hound’s cock.

Dean sobs as the hellhound yelps with satisfaction, pushing the drooling cockhead in and out of the sodden pink cave. Dean’s rectum mouths uselessly at its slit, quivering helplessly in confusion at the shallow but punishing fuck. He’s beginning to think that he might get away with this intact, but then the claws begin urgently pawing at the torn skin of his sides, and the hellhound happily buries another inch – maybe two – into the silky channel within. It’s far, far too much, like sitting on a can of soda. Dean whines in pain, his ruined, raspberry-flushed rim fluttering uselessly around its fat girth, both desperately trying to shit it out and also suckling it deeper. His body doesn’t care which way the thing goes; it just knows that it needs to move.

The fight has left him weak, and the pain becomes too dizzying and intense for Dean to protest any longer. He collapses to the dirt, ass in the air, and whimpers as the hellhound drives all its weight into its hips, the colossal force demanding entrance.

He can’t guess how deep it’s gotten – maybe five or six inches – but then something gives and the rest of the enormous prick plunges deeply into Dean’s delicate gut. He cries out sharply, tears joining the tracks of dog piss running down his cheeks at the overwhelming fullness and pressure in his belly. Looking down, he can see the slight bulge of its cockhead against the flesh of his abdomen. It’s carved a place open for itself, opened him inside out, and now it’s fucking gently, using Dean as nothing more than a warm, tight toy.

If it’s not a foot long, it’s not far off. Dean can feel the immense drag and snap of the hellhound’s thrusts, so strong that it feels as though they’re threatening to plough his stomach. Another one of the creatures nuzzles at his face – maybe two – and he can feel the splash and warmth of another one pissing itself over his flank, marking him up, making sure every other hound in hell can smell who this bitch belongs to. It’s filthy but a shiver runs right to his dick. He doesn’t know why, and he blushes at how disgusting that is – blushes. Like a schoolboy. He thought he’d lost the ability to blush at the age of twelve.

With a startled, soft cry, he registers another long doggy tongue attending to his cock. His erection had flagged from pain but the hot, wet, thorough licking soon has it throbbing; Dean covers his face with shame. After the initial pain of being split open on the monstrous thing inside him, there’s only slick, fat fullness – the sensation of his insides being compelled to part. Every slippery inch of the hellhound’s dick drags across Dean’s prostate, which by now is stimulated to the point of milking. It’s wrong and awful and he weeps at the disgrace of it, but a fat bead of come wells up in the slit of his own dick a moment later. A hellhound laps it up immediately.

The fuck settles into a bruising rhythm and it becomes impossible to ignore the orgasm building in every inch of Dean’s body. The hound inside him jerks and stiffens, the massive prick swelling impossibly further, but then it pulls hastily out and paints the backs of his thighs with a slew of creamy fluid. Dean’s asshole collapses into a pretty, fucked-out gape; a deep red tunnel right to his core. His insides barely get a reprieve before another hound steps in and fucks its own dick into the sloppy mess left behind.

He’s never felt anything like it and the second beast has barely settled into pounding his ass before Dean feels his sac tighten up to his body, thrill and horror warring for dominance as he feels himself blow his load. He moans, long and low, the rhythm of the fuck making the noise jar in his throat with each thrust.

Dean doesn’t know how many cocks he takes or how many times he empties his own balls against the ground beneath him over the next few hours. He’s so weak he can barely lift his own head. His sides and back are dripping with come and drool and piss where they’ve repeatedly marked him, his trembling ass having taken the worst of it. The centre is puffy and wet enough that it looks more like a pussy than an asshole – one or two of the hounds have cocked their legs up to piss directly over it, the warm liquid washing the tender, sleek flesh and running down his thighs to join the puddle of come between Dean’s knees.

The final hellhound mounts and fucks away at him, and the pack know that this is the bitch’s final test. If he hasn’t been broken yet, it’s the alpha’s knot that will truly demonstrate whether Dean will ever be capable of birthing a healthy litter. It begins to swell and catch on Dean’s wrecked rim as the hellhound grunts and snarls, its hips jackhammering away, immense penis ramming back and forth until the knot is too big – Dean wails with pleasure – and then it seats itself comfortably inside and pulses fatly. Surge after filthy surge of fluid gushes forth, moving deeper through Dean’s insides.

Dean whines and squirms. It feels like he’s eaten too much. His guts protest and ache as the alpha continues to flood them with seed and he hopes that once the stream ends that the knot plugging his ass will deflate, but the hellhound merely shifts its weight and shows no signs of dismounting. It isn’t finished yet.

Dean lets out a long, hoarse groan through bared teeth as he feels the huge weight in his ass twitch and push as the leader of the pack begins to let loose a powerful jet of piss directly into the soft, slick ruin of his insides. There will be no mistaking whose pack this bitch belongs to. It pumps and swells deeper and deeper into his system, flooding his intestines until they are forced to open up. Though he’s slumped in a boneless heap on the floor, Dean suddenly struggles to lift his hips; the pressure in his gut is growing, and when he manages to push himself to his knees, he looks between his legs to see a fat, rounded swell: a parody of a pregnancy where his abdomen is usually a slim, flat plane. Moaning, he happily lets the hellhound relieve itself. His fucked-out hole quivers hungrily at the base of the hound’s knot, piss leaking out in occasional squirts. Dean’s cock gives one final, valiant twitch and leaks a little trail of fluid as he comes one last time, and then he passes out.

 

***

 

Dean isn’t aware, but it’s exactly a year since he was dragged to hell and made their bitch. This is his third litter, and the largest yet. Three weeks ago his huge, pretty, rounded belly had strained to deliver seven big, strong pups.

He lays on his back, ass supported upwards to present his breeding cunt for the hellhound preparing to mount him. The puffy, fucked-out hole has been used a dozen times today already; it’s only just recovered from the birthing, and the pack are impatient to breed Dean again, to get him fat with load after load of come. The velvety, deep-pink entrance gapes and mouths feebly at the air. There’s a thick, excited growl and then there’s the massive, punching pressure of one of the pack’s cocks planting itself inside – Dean moans with delight, his eyes unfocused and pleasure-hazed. His insides squelch lewdly with the mass of sticky fluid already dumped inside.

Two of his newest pups lay on his chest, their tiny mouths fixed firmly to the tight, baby-pink buds of his nipples as they leak steady, sweet trickles of milk. The little nubs are extremely sensitive – he’s come from being milked before – and the tits are plump and heavy, but small and neat. Dean sighs and massages the creamy, soft swell of his full breasts with both hands, encouraging the milk into his babies. They’re sleepy and their stomachs are pretty much full, so he changes them out for two others – their tiny paws knead instinctively at his swollen tits and suckle hungrily.

His body rocks back and forth as his gaping pussy is fucked helplessly open.

His fertile womb takes another gush of semen.

His newly small, useless cock twitches with a dry orgasm that leaves him mewling, and his tits squirt fine streams of milk down his pups’ throats at his body goes into overload.

This is Dean’s whole purpose, and there’s nowhere he’d rather be.