Self-fulfilling prophecies, and other fun things.

 

This is a sort of continuation to “For a fudging ghoul” by melitta4ever.

(http://melitta4ever.livejournal.com/7653.html)

Warning for pre-established “sextoy Sam, watersports, urethral play” with mention of it continuing but very little explicit action. This is written mostly with the intent of showing a possible repercussion of John and Dean's actions rather than any continuing kinkage (although there is a little).

 

(Is this what they call a remix?)

 

 

 

Self-fulfilling prophecies, and other fun things.

 

 

 

Sammy Winchester had always been his favourite, the yellow-eyed demon decided.

 

Okay, maybe not his favourite to win the big prize - at least not at first - but after infecting more than a hundred six-month-old infants, Samuel Winchester had been a refreshing change.

 

Not even for himself, but for his lineage. It had been pleasure itself to taint the last scion of the great Campbell hunter bloodline - descended from Colt himself, no less. It had been even more pleasurable when the stupid woman who'd traded her son's future for her squeeze's dull life hadn't even bothered to keep track of the date. A daughter of the greatest family of hunters on the continent, and she had willfully ignored the deadline of a deal made with a demon.

Really, she'd deserved to burn - if only so that kind of sloppy thinking didn't spread.

 

Samuel himself hadn't been anything particularly noteworthy, of course. Cursed one baby, cursed them all as they say. In general Azazel barely even noticed them. What fun were babies to torture for their own sake? The under-developed lumps of flesh could only perceive pain and fear at the most base levels. A man you could feed snippets of his own genitalia to and make him chew each piece a hundred times before swallowing. A baby just wouldn't - couldn't - comprehend it. All the best techniques were wasted on them, making them good only for the suffering their suffering had on others.

 

But boy. What a difference a decade and a half could make.

 

15 was, in the old days, one of the first stages of manhood. In ages past, Azazel's little gift could have begun manifesting at that age simply due to the greater trials of life, pushing the body to advance faster. In this modern, pampered age - majority at 21? what a joke - he didn't expect anything to happen for at least another 5-10 years.

 

Until one day he'd felt something. A pulse. No, barely more than a tickle of power, right at the edge of his senses, tugging from him like a thread pulled loose.

 

One of his human children had come into their majority early. And they weren't wasting any time accessing the unholy power tethered to their soul.

 

He'd investigated immediately, of course. And oh... what he'd found...

 

John Winchester, bereaved husband turned hunter turned child abuser, had created the perfect atmosphere to forge an anti-Christ from a child of previously pure spirit.

 

And the icing on top? He told himself he was doing just the opposite.

 

Oh, there was no doubt the man was twisted. Twisted enough to believe his justifications wholeheartedly. Anything less than total belief wouldn't have corrupted his eldest child the way it had, something Azazel had laughed to see.

 

These humans. They could teach demons a thing or two, eh?

 

A cursory look through John's mind had laid it out for him, as easy as a picture book.

 

John, grieving and lost and drunk, thinking himself crazy for what he'd seen, slowly coming to grips with the reality of what existed on the fringe of belief.

 

Dean, motherless and traumatised, fixated on his father and brother as the last stable points in his life. Depending on John and caring for Sam. Obeying one and tending the other.

 

John, hunting and lonelier than ever, occasionally curling into his eldest child for human touch and love and forgiveness, hugs becoming rutting becoming sucking becoming fucking. Dean, old enough to be talked into it, but not old enough to understand how obscene it was - how dangerous it could become.

 

And then, the point where it could have all gone differently. Where John, who never mentioned it when sober, who barely touched his son when not deep in his drink and desperate, would have eventually made it clear to even Dean how what they did was not 'normal'. Or right. Or something that should exist in the light of day. How it was shameful and desperate and one day would destroy them all.

 

If that had happened, Dean would have grown up protecting Sammy. He'd have learned to deflect, to sacrifice, to distract. He'd have offered himself willingly to spare his brother, molding himself into one half of a certain prophecy that Azazel himself only vaguely believed in. Most importantly, it would have eventually tapered off. Dean would have gotten too old, John too shamed. Sam, ignorant.

 

Instead, John had stumbled onto a pattern. Then another. He'd pieced together enough of Azazel's movements and widespread misinformation to come to a conclusion that was both correct and incorrect. He believed - chose to believe - that his youngest child was evil. Even, in his heart of hearts, began to blame the youngest for what he'd done to his eldest. And so bent, so guilt-ridden and rage-driven, he'd decided not to end but to punish. To train his son the way a plant was trained to grow at the whim of the gardener.

 

And so he lay hands on his youngest, sparing his oldest. Trained his oldest, too, to enjoy the change. Smart enough, even then, to know that without Dean's committed belief, it couldn't work.

 

And so, twisted branches all of them, they grew.

 

Sam grew up stunted and fearful, nourished intermittently by a brother who still loved him - in a broken, limping way - just enough for John's plan to ultimately fail. And fail in the best of ways.

 

Now, looking as fragile as a twelve-year-old, the newly-fifteen Samuel Winchester stared wide-eyed at the yellow-eyed man only he could see, as his father and brother prepared for bed.

 

The boy himself was bound - hands at the headboard and rope around his knees pulling them up and out as well. His mouth was gagged - a bar of rubber allowing him to swallow but not muffling his whimpers. His cock was erect and painfully held there by a cockring that looked dangerously tight. From the tip protruded a clamped tube. His stomach was swollen slightly, distended. A thrashing dildo, turned up high, had been shoved deep into his ass and buckled in so it couldn't be forced out.

 

Sam's shock at seeing the demon caused his sounds of pain/arousal/discomfort to lessen, making his father frown and come over to roughly massage his swollen stomach until the boy - eye slammed shut and tears dripping - writhed and whined on the bed.

 

Azazel had to admit - he kind of liked John's style. It'd be a short trip for this man to become a demon, once he was down under.

 

Dean looked over at the sound, lust and concern clear in his eyes. He worried for his brother, but only so much as that the pain wasn't a result of irreparable damage. He was too conditioned, too used to linking the sounds his brother made with the swell of blood in his cock. Even now, his naked body reacted to the picture his little brother made, flushing with blood.

 

Dean intended to stay awake, Azazel noticed. John was older now, less ready to fuck his youngest at the drop of a hat but was in turn much more prone to cruelty. He'd filled Sam's belly with nothing but cum and urine and would drift peacefully to sleep to the sound of the buzzing dildo intermittently hitting against Sam's prostate, constantly sending shock-waves through the too-full bladder and bowel and making Sam weep and moan and whimper. Even now, as he curled up to sleep, he left one large hand on his son's belly, petting it like it was swollen with child instead of his father's jizz and piss.

 

But Dean?

 

Dean slid into bed opposite his father, on the other side of Sam in the king-sized bed. He lay on his side, eyes at half-mast as he trailed lust-filled eyes over his brother's twisted features, bloated belly, spread legs and constantly-stimulated hole. He stroked himself to lazy completion, cumming over his brother's skin and absently rubbing it in afterward.

 

His intent was clear in his mind, something he'd begun to do more and more often as he got older and - Azazel had to laugh - kinder. Dean intended to wait until their father was asleep, then turn the dildo down - not off - and release Sam's legs so he could sleep more easily.

 

He wouldn't release the pressure on his brother's cock, bladder or bowel. He wouldn't release his hands. He would offer only a sliver of kindness as evidence of his love and it - being more than Sam got from anyone else - would be gratefully received.

 

Or not, Azazel decided, sending the eldest to sleep with a nudge against his mind.

 

He'd rather have Sam to himself tonight.

 

Sure enough, eventually Sam opened his eyes once more - seeming surprised to still see him. Azazel smiled kindly, well-practiced at the expression, and reached forward to release Sam's legs himself.

 

Sam groaned as the shift in position changed the feel of everything else, but soon enough was looking up in confused - slightly frightened - gratitude.

 

The buzz of the dildo was still reasonably loud, so for that reason more than any other he gestured at it with a quizzical eyebrow. Want me to get that too?

Sam nodded fractionally, wary of promised relief thanks to the multitude of times his father had merely used such moments to make the boy thank him for doing something even worse right afterward.

 

So Azazel simply turned the machine right down. So quiet it barely registered and moving so slowly Sam relaxed back with a look of obvious relief. He didn't seem to notice that Azazel himself had neither turned it off nor removed it.

 

Hey, he was still a demon!

 

“How're you doin' there, Sammy?” He asked gently, not bothering to remove the gag. He rather liked seeing Sam's perfect little white teeth gripping it, lips split and slick on either side. Besides, it gave him an excuse to go rummaging in Sam's head.

 

Sam thought he was an angel.

 

It took everything he had not to throw back his head and roar with laughter. It was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

 

“Sorry it took me so long to find you.” He said quietly, only a slip of amusement escaping him - and to Sam, it probably looked like warmth. “Your father has been hiding you since you were a baby. I only found you tonight because you finally managed to call.”

 

Sam's brow furrowed. He twisted his head slightly, an unconscious attempt to rid himself of the gag, but too used to it to even think of asking him to. His curiosity was clear enough, both in and outside of his mind.

 

How?

 

“You're special, Sammy.” Azazel said clearly. “You can do things other people can't. And earlier today, when you did one of those things, I felt it - it's how I found you.”

 

Now he watched Sam's memories flicker and fly, as the boy tried to work out what he could have done. Azazel saw the moment easily enough - power tinted the memory.

 

Dean had been looking to add to Sam's belly before bed - had come towards him with the intent to fuck his face till he came, then relieve himself afterward and watch his little brother suckle his cock like he couldn't get enough.

 

Sam, in pain and desperate not to imbibe any more fluid, had wished and wished and wished his brother would take care of himself in the bathroom so hard.... that Dean had. With only the slightest bit of confusion, Dean had had an unfulfilling jerk in the shower and pissed down the drain rather than a mind-blowing fifteen minutes of Sam's mouth.

 

Carefully, Azazel nudged that memory. Made Sam recognise the swell of power that had made his wish into reality.

The boy stared at him, wide-eyed with sudden hope.

 

“You can do more, you know.” Azazel promised, leaning forward slightly and cupping the boy's angular cheek in one hand. God, John had been starving his son for so long - no wonder his body was forcing his powers to awaken early. The kid's hindbrain was doing everything possible to keep his body alive and get him out of whatever perpetual bad situation he existed in.

 

“You can do anything you can think of, if you try. You can make your brother stop hurting you, even though he says he loves you. You can punish your father however you feel he should be. You can protect yourself, make it so no other person on earth - and there are a lot like John, I promise you - can do to you what's been done your whole life.”

 

He leaned back, smiling encouragingly.

 

“You'll need to practice - but the more you do, the sooner you can start controlling your own life.”

 

Bingo. The words lit a fire in Sam's eyes, the way the concept of punishing his father or Dean hadn't.

 

All the kid really wanted was freedom. To not hurt anymore. To not be hurt anymore.

 

Idly, Azazel wondered if the kid was aware enough of 'normality' to feel like the sex-slave his family used him as.

 

“Tell you what.” He offered. “I'll even help you out. From now until the rest of the month, I'll make sure your dad and your brother stay asleep no matter what, until dawn each day. You can practice however you like - maybe starting by freeing yourself from the bed. Have a piss and a shower, maybe order your family around - it's easier when they're not awake to resist.”

 

He paused. Sam's face was twisted again, this time in concentration. Azazel felt the boy's soul brushing against the thread of power, fumble-fingered but so intensely focused that the end result was the same.

 

His gag simply fell apart.

 

Tied down, slowly but constantly being fucked, bloated full and kept there, the first thing he did was free his mouth to speak.

 

“Who are you?”

 

Azazel's eyes glowed in the dark.

 

“I'm your guardian angel, kid. And I'm giving you the chance to have everything you want - to make your own future.”

 

Sam swallowed, awe and hope and gratitude radiating from him. He didn't even think to ask his 'guardian angel' to release him, already automatically assuming it was intended to be a sort of training for his power. Assuming the yellow-eyed stranger was leaving him like that as a form of help.

 

Too amused to let it go, Azazel leaned over him.

 

“Here. A little incentive.” He grinned, teeth gleaming in the dark as he cranked the dildo back up to full speed. The sudden, machine-violent thrashing inside him made Sam stiffen and cry out. Still, as Azazel stepped back to disappear from sight - but still watch, obviously - the barely-fifteen boy gasped out a properly grateful 'thank you'.

 

Yep, it was official.

 Samuel Winchester was his favourite.