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Dean catches on one day when he walks out of the bathroom with a towel at his hips. He goes rooting in his duffel for fresh underwear, and when he glances up he catches Sam staring. This is not a casual glance, oh look, there's my brother trying to wade through that mess he calls a duffel again. No. This is a stare, and Dean can't place it. He straightens up and lifts an eyebrow. "Something you like?"
"No." Sam turns away, but not so quickly that Dean can't see a red flush over his cheekbones.
Huh.
Dean goes back into the bathroom with his briefs, closes the door behind him, and gives himself a good, hard look in the mirror. The crows' feet at the corners of his eyes are growing new toes, and his freckles are coming out after the last couple of weeks, bumping around Florida putting down vengeful spirits of the piratical kind. Nothing to see.
A little lower down, now, that's a sight he's been avoiding for a while now. Because he's gotten soft, is the thing. He's been feeling a little bit Pillsbury Dough Boy, because his t-shirts have been pulling tight lately and he's had to start using a new notch in his belt – several notches over, by the time he admitted he needed to at all – and it's just weird, is what it is. He, Dean Winchester, has a belly.
But he looks at himself now, at the gut that's just starting to think about spilling over his waistband, and he admits that, yeah, he's gone soft in the most literal possible sense. He pokes himself in the stomach, and his finger sinks right in. Damn it.
Except Dean's Pillsbury belly is, he's fairly certain, what Sam was just staring at. It'd be a little embarrassing, except for that very interesting blush Dean saw.
Dean pinches some flab and jiggles it a little. He doesn't really see the appeal. He doubts most people would. The kind of people he tends to pick up in bars, for example, not that he's tried recently.
Thoughtfully, Dean puts his on his underwear and his jeans, and then he pushes the door open. He goes straight for the duffel again, but he watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam follows his path across the room with a whole lot more interest than one shirtless brother ought to warrant – unless you were planning to fuck him, maybe, but Dean knows that look on Sam, and this isn't that.
Dean pulls out a t-shirt that he, without ever allowing himself to think about it too hard, has casually concluded he won't be wearing again anytime soon. It's been weeks since he tried. He pulls it on now, and it's even more snug than he remembers, riding up a little and stretching taut across his belly. He bawls to Sam, "Dude, look what you did to my laundry."
Sam glances over, eyebrows high. That flush crawls across his cheeks again, but he scoffs and says, "I didn't do anything to your laundry."
"You shrunk it." Dean pulls at the hem. It doesn't do much to close the gap.
"The shirt's not the problem, Dean."
"What, are you kidding me?" Dean spreads his fingers across his stomach. "You calling me fat?" He gives the words a dangerous edge, but it's difficult, what with the way Sam's flush deepens.
"I'm saying lay off the deep-fried, man, before you start accusing me of sabotaging your darks." Sam ducks his head to stare resolutely at his laptop screen.
Dean hmphs and tries not to grin. It's always a good day when he gets Sam's number, although he's not just sure what he's going to do with this new information yet.
He needs some food for thought, is what. He wanders over to the bedside table, and in the drawer he finds what he expected: a stash of those sickly sweet granola bars Sam started hoarding a while back. Sam bawls him out for stealing them, which Dean considers an incentive. He's get half the bar stuffed in his mouth before he happens to catch Sam looking his way again.
That hungry look in Sam's eye? That's not because Dean's stealing his snack. It hits Dean then, and he just about chokes.
He takes a moment to make sure he doesn't die of oatmeal in the windpipe, and then he heads out the door to the Impala and lifts her hood. She's always good for a think, and hell does Dean need one now.
He thinks back, and he's honestly not sure how long ago it was that Sam started buying the granola bars and leaving them all over the place - piles on motel room tables, singletons stuffed in the Impala's glove compartment and wedged into the seats. Dean just thought Sam had picked up a sweet tooth somewhere. And it was, as the big brother, obviously Dean's duty to steal them from under Sam's nose and eat them himself. Which he did. A lot. Except for the peanut butter ones, because that was edging a bit too close to being actual food for Dean's tastes. Sam quit buying those pretty soon, though.
Possibly that should have clued Dean in.
Or if not, maybe he should have noticed how Sam's eyes always seem bigger than his stomach these days. Half of Sam's country breakfast platter ends up getting pushed to Dean's side of the table, and when Sam drags him to an all-you-can-eat buffet Sam still serves himself up the same salad he'd order at any family restaurant. More fried things for Dean, Dean figured.
The pieces fit; he's just having trouble taking in the picture they make. Dean's been stuffing his face even more than usual for months, and Sam's been encouraging him.
He palms his gut again, the soft pillowy new pounds that are all Sam's fault. Mostly Sam's fault. Not like Dean didn't enjoy putting them there, he just had... help. Secret, unasked-for help.
Dean formulates a plan.
...
Sam plays it cool for a few days. Dean's a little worried, now that he's finally caught on, that Sam's gotten spooked and given up the game. But four days after Dean's series of little epiphanies, they slide into the booth of a greasy spoon outside Jackson, Mississippi, and Sam orders up a fried platter the likes of which Dean knows he'll never finish. When the waitress turns to Dean, he says, "Yeah, I'll have the country fried steak, the mashed potatoes, the cornbread, some extra fries, a strawberry milkshake, and can I get a side of hush puppies?" It's more than he's ordered for himself in a while; he's gotten in the habit of finishing off Sam's meal, and he never even noticed.
When she's gone, Sam asks, "Hungry, Dean?" Nonchalant, totally careless of the answer. Right.
"As a horse," Dean agrees.
The milkshake shows up first. Dean paces himself. He's got plans tonight.
Dinner's a nice spread, when he's finally got it all laid out before him. He's excited about this. He's anticipating, which is a little weird, and something he'll have to think about later. For now: food.
The steak goes down easy, and the mashed potatoes, too. The hush puppies aren't the best; dry and a little overcooked. Dean eats them anyway. The cornbread is better, especially once he slathers it with butter and molasses. He munches through the fries and slurps up the last of his shake, and he's feeling good. Comfortable and well satisfied and maybe just a shade past.
He considers Sam's plate, still heaped with fried cod and fries and hush puppies, and says, "You planning to finish that?"
Sam glances up, and Dean wonders how he didn't see it before: that flash of white-hot interest before Sam schools his expression into something more placid. "Figured I'd doggy bag it. Why? You want it?"
This feigned indifference is going to kill Dean; when it comes to acting, they both suck. For now, though, he pulls the plate over to his side and tucks in.
The fish is good, cooked just long enough, the meat flaky and the batter all salty and crusted. Dean lingers over it, enjoying each mouthful – and each glance he sneaks at Sam – before he swallows it down. By the time he gets to Sam's fries, he's more than full; there's a tightness in his stomach and up into his chest. He takes a moment to breathe, and he presses the heel of his hand to his belly. It doesn't really help, but it's at least a different pressure.
"All right?" Sam asks. He's breathing a little more quickly, too. How did Dean never notice this?
"Fine." Dean unbuckles his belt, letting the tongue clank against the frame loud enough for Scam to hear. Then he gets down to eating the rest of the fries and Sam's chunk of cornbread. Those eaten and tucked away in his stomach, and he is officially fuller than full. Forget the hush puppies – they were crap anyway.
"You done?"
"Why, you got something else you want to feed me?" Dean smirks, but he is still not prepared for the way Sam's eyes go glassy with want – and not for a blow job, Dean's fairly certain. "Naw," Dean says, and watches the light go out. "Man, I am so full right now." He slides out of the booth and onto his feet, rubbing his stomach. "Maybe you were right about the fat thing, huh, Sammy? Maybe I should lay off the deep fried."
Sam shrugs stiffly. "Whatever you want, man."
"Damn straight."
When they get back to the motel room, Sam heads straight for the shower. Dean lies down on the bed – it's the only even approximately comfortable position right now – and amuses himself for a while thinking about what Sam's getting up to in there. Eventually, though, he props himself up and pulls his t-shirt aside to look at his stomach. He can see the bloat. He runs his fingers along the curve, and by touch alone he can feel how full he is.
A thought hits him – a dumb, pointless thought, since there's no Sam around to frustrate. Dean leans over to the bedside drawer and fishes a granola bar out of it. He looks at the shiny wrapper a while, and then he rips it open, sticks it in his mouth, and starts chewing.
He has no reason to want this. It's been longer than he can remember since he stuffed so much food into his stomach at once. He's starting to ache from the sheer volume alone. The last thing he needs is more.
He keeps eating anyway, savoring the flavors and all the different kinds of crunch, and he swallows. He palms his swollen stomach like he can feel the difference that one extra bite makes, which he can't. Then he goes ahead and bites off another. Third bite, and the wrapper is empty, and that's another two hundred calories sitting in Dean's stomach, pushing outward.
Dean leans his head back, closes his eyes, and lets himself float along on the surface of that fullness.
...
The thing is, Dean likes to eat. So maybe little brother has been conniving him to eat more, but that wouldn't have done diddly squat if Dean didn't love the taste of all different kinds of cooking, of sweet and salt and grease, of the textures as he chews and the satisfaction of swallowing. He's just never paid this much attention before.
Now that he is, it's kind of awesome, even aside from how often Sam goes for a shower after dinner.
His everyday goal, he has decided, is to eat as much as he wants of everything he wants, and then a little bit more. A place has pie, he has an extra slice, maybe two. The chicken dumplings are good, he just keeps on sitting there, shoveling it in until things start feeling tight inside. He chows down on Sam's granola bars anytime there in sight, until he gets tired of them and starts complaining, at which point they mysteriously disappear, replaced by cans of honey roasted nuts that he eats by the handful. Never Be Hungry is his new motto.
And he enjoys it. He enjoys it a lot. He wouldn't have said it was possible, but somehow eating is even better than before.
His goal on celebration days, when they've finished a job and no harm done, is to put as much food into himself as humanly possible. He tries out different foods, seeing which ones settle best, which ones he enjoys eating a lot of on the way to thoroughly stuffing himself.
One night they order in pizza and Sam watches wide-eyed while Dean eats a heavy-laden combo all by himself and then starts in another one. He abandons his pants almost immediately and his shirt's riding high on his stomach soon after that. He sits back against the bed frame and keeps putting it in, one saucy bite after another, even through the queasy ache of way too much cheese sitting in his stomach. Finally he leans back, miles beyond full. He can feel it inside, and he can see it, too, the way his belly has rounded out, distended and heavy.
Sam's gone to take a shower again. Dean's beyond caring. He lets his awareness float away until all he knows is the swollenness of his stomach, and he sinks into it.
...
Somehow he's surprised the day his jeans – one of the new, larger Goodwill pairs, the ones he laughed over when he bought them because he knew he'd never fill them out - just flat do not zip anymore. A wedge of belly wobbles there, absolutely refusing to be sucked in.
"Damn it," Dean says. He lets his jeans fall around his hips, and he looks at himself. He hasn't bothered in a while. That pudge at his middle was what started him on this, but he's been enjoying himself so much lately just pigging out that the original purpose faded into the background.
He takes his belly in his hands. There's plenty of it to be grabbed. Maybe he was soft before; now he's, well. Heavy. Pinched between his fingers are the fruits of all that food he put away. He's been eating like it's his sole purpose in life, and it shows. Right there on him in layers of cellulite, it's clear: Dean Winchester, fat schlub.
Dean's having trouble breathing. He sits down, watching how his stomach rolls into his lap. He should be horrified; Winchesters don't let themselves get into this kind of shape. He's not even going to think about what Dad would say. Instead he kneads the heel of his hand against his stomach and thinks about how starved he's going to be by the time Sam gets back from the library and how much it takes to fill Dean up these days. The thought alone makes him hot with hunger and other things.
He gets himself to the shower to take the edge off, and by the time he finishes he's come to grips with the fact that Sam has long since quit being the point. This well-fed belly that wobbles when Dean walks and won't be constrained by any jeans he presently owns, that he's stretched to capacity over and over again, this is the point.
And Dean's not done yet.
...
Dean doesn't beat around the bush. When Sam gets in with breakfast, Dean says, "We gotta make a stop in town today. I can't fit into any of my pants anymore."
Sam's stride stutters. He turns towards Dean, looking shifty. "Oh?"
"Yeah." Dean shrugs and slaps his hand to his stomach. "Looks like I got fat, Sammy."
Sam's clearly torn between staring at Dean's gut and looking as far away as possible. That flush is back on his cheeks. Dean never tires of watching it. Eventually Sam says, shakily, "Looks like you did."
"You don't mind, do you?" Okay, so maybe Sam isn't the point, but that doesn't mean Dean doesn't enjoy playing with him.
"Uh. No?"
"I didn't figure, since you've been pushing food at me for like six months now." Sam's eyes widen even more than before, huge and comical. Dean can’t be bothered to wait for Sam’s brain to come back online, so he grabs the McDonald’s sack out of his hand and sits on the bed. “You get everything I wanted?”
Sam’s brain may still be booting up, but his mouth manages words anyway. “You mean an obscene number of Egg McMuffins? Yes, Dean. Yes, I did.”
Dean already has one dug out and half unwrapped. “You know you love me like this,” He says, biting into his sandwich. Sam might have said something after that, some protestation of innocence, but Dean’s mind is on more important things now. Like the happy feeling of each mouthful sliding down his throat. There are items on the breakfast menu with twice as many calories – he’s checked – but sometimes even he wants volume without grease, and this morning is one of those times.
When he’s gotten five of them down he slows his pace a little; he’s got plenty of time to savor the other three. That’s when it finally occurs to him to look Sam’s way again.
Sam’s flushed, his eyes fixed so squarely on Dean that it takes him several seconds to look guiltily away after Dean catches his eye. “Hey, Sammy, don’t be like that. Don’t you want to appreciate your handiwork?”
“My handiwork,” Sam says faintly.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Come here, already.” He scoots back against the headboard, legs sprawled and breakfast belly bulging. Then he waits for Sam to get over himself and climb gingerly onto the bed. Then Sam just sits there, staring. “You can touch,” Dean prompts him.
Cautiously, Sam’s hand lands on Dean’s stomach. The touch goes straight to Dean’s dick. Weird, since he and Sam had sex just a couple of nights ago, and Sam touching him then didn’t do this. Then again, it was dark, and even if Sam had been staring at Dean’s gut then with the same intensity he was now, Dean couldn’t have seen it.
Sam’s hand quests over the roll of fat and into the valley under. He pinches, ever so lightly. “You did get fat.”
The words send Dean’s blood racing faster. He swallows. “Yeah.”
“Look at you,” Sam breathes.
“What do you see?” asks Dean, half curious, but suddenly half desperate to hear it from Sam.
“You’re so big,” Sam says. “And soft.” He takes a pinch of Dean to demonstrate. “You’re too big for your jeans?”
“Yeah.”
“And probably heavier, too. Can you tell, when you sit down?”
Dean’s flushed, too, now. “Not being heavier. Just, you know. This.” He pokes at the flab rolled out into his lap. “Kinda gets in the way, you know?”
“Wow. That’s... that’s a lot of Egg McMuffins, Dean. And I don’t just mean today’s.”
“A lot of granola bars, too.”
Sam meets Dean’s eyes. “How long have you...?”
Dean huffs. “It’s been a while now. You ain’t subtle.”
“And you’re not mad?”
Dean can’t help the grin that stretches across his face. “Guess not.”
Sam turns his attention and his hands to Dean’s belly again. “I can’t believe how big you are.”
“And getting bigger,” Dean says smugly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I figure after we get me some more pants, we could hit one of those Chinese buffet places, and you could stuff me as full as you want.”
“Oh my god,” Sam says. “What about now? Can I... can I feed you the rest of those muffins.”
Dean blinks. That wasn’t something he’d considered. “Sure, I guess.”
Eagerly, Sam reaches for the bag and pulls out one of the last. “These really are terrible for you. We’re going to find better food to fill that gut with.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dean says faintly. He concentrates on the food hovering in Sam’s hand, because otherwise he’s going to end up humping Sam’s leg instead. Every word is going straight to Dean’s dick. “They’re my arteries. Now put up or shut up.”
So Sam does. He lifts the unwrapped muffin to Dean’s mouth, and Dean obediently takes a bite. When he swallows, Sam puts his hand to Dean’s stomach.
“One bite doesn’t make a difference,” Dean scoffs.
Sam shrugs, unperturbed, and waits for Dean to take another bite.
Dean’s well and truly full by the time he’s done – not at his limit, because originally he just sent Sam out to get breakfast, not supplies for an exhibition of Dean stuffing his face, but still he’s past the point where even pie would hold any appeal for its own sake. He looks down at his stomach, which may or may not be visibly larger than it was three muffins ago. It’s hard to tell. “You figure people notice?”
Sam drops the garbage in the bin and sits back down. “You want people to notice?”
Dean swallows. This is getting a closer to the bone than he’s let himself think about yet. “Maybe?”
“You want them to see you can barely zip your jeans?” Sam takes a handful of Dean in each hand. “That you wear your shirts open because you’d pop the buttons otherwise?” Dean didn’t know Sam had picked up on that. “You want them to look at you and wonder how many pounds of food you have to put in here—” He pokes Dean’s aching stomach. “—every day to get this big?”
“Yeah,” Dean groans. “And we are three McMuffins past the point where this scene coulda gone the way you’re trying to go. You wanna show me how much you love these extra pounds I’m hauling, you’re going to have to jack off.”
“Oh, god,” Sam says, fingers already clumsily works at the button of his jeans. Dean gingerly leans in to help, but the angle is squishing his belly, and as soon as Sam gets himself unfastened Dean settles back against the headboard with a groan. Sam’s hand goes down his boxers, and it’s hardly any time at all before he comes with a shudder and a grunt. Then he crawls onto the bed and flops down next to Dean.
Dean’s not floating in post-orgasmic bliss, but this is the point in the morning where he’d be handing the keys over to Sam and taking a nap. So he does.
...
Their current podunk town of residence does not, it turns out, have a Chinese buffet. Instead, Sam and Dean end up at a burger joint offering unlimited cole slaw and fries alongside burgers the size of your head.
Eyes bright with anticipation., Sam watches Dean every move as he gets himself comfortable in the booth and unfolds the menu. It’s a little disconcerting, and Dean decides to ignore it. The menu helps; the descriptions have his mouth watering. He can already taste the items on the menu, can feel the heavy bulk of them sitting in his stomach. Eventually he settles on one Swiss mushroom with bacon and a double cheeseburger for the other. Double cheeseburger is classic.
After the waitress takes their orders and leaves, Sam leans over the table. “Are you seriously going to eat two?”
“What, you think I can’t?”
“I want to see you try,” Sam says, not even a little bit sarcastic. Dean grins. He should have stopped the game ages ago. Sam trying to hide his interest was funny, but it’s hot as hell, having him stare at Dean’s gut with that undisguised fascination.
Days later, it feels like, their food finally arrives. Sam has a single burger, relatively unadorned, and a side of salad instead of slaw, because he’s ridiculous like that. And Dean, well. Dean has two of the most beautiful and best smelling burgers he’s ever seen, not to mention two sides of fries. “So, bon appétit,” Dean says.
“Cheers,” Sam says, lifting his burger in salute, even while he stares at Dean’s.
Just to be clear: this burger place? Is awesome. Dean is coming back every time he and Sam are within a hundred mile radius, possibly more. The Swiss mushroom with bacon goes down smooth as pie, helped along by gulps of Coke. As soon as the last bite is in, he picks up the cheeseburger. Yup, just as wonderful.
“So.” Sam says, interrupting Dean’s make-out session with his burger. “How are you feeling?”
Dean swallows. “Fine?”
“I mean...” Sam glances around them. The nearest other diners are several tables over, but Sam’s voice drops anyway. “I mean, how does it feel?”
Dean blinks. “Oh. Um.” He sets his cheeseburger down properly, and then chews on a fry to help him think. “Good. Not full yet.”
“That was a huge burger you just ate.” Sam’s own burger is two-thirds finished. Dean wonders if Sam’s capacity is really that much smaller, or if Sam’s just paying more attention to what Dean’s eating than what he’s eating.
“It was great, too.” Dean rubs a hand thoughtfully over his belly. “But not full yet. I’ve got this whole other burger to eat.” He hoists it up and grins, and Sam shakes his head.
Halfway through the second burger, Dean starts thinking about slowing down. He’s not at his limit, but he’s to the point where he wants to savor each bite, for the new pressure it adds going down as much as for the flavor. Although that is also, to repeat, awesome.
“Feeling full?” Sam asks.
“Kinda.” Dean rubs at his stomach again. “I could stop now.”
“But you aren’t going to,” Sam says, eyes darkening with interest.
“Nope,” Dean says cheerfully, and lifts his burger for another bite.
Three-quarters of the way through, though, he’s hit a wall. “Happens sometimes,” he explains to Sam. “You gotta eat past it. Like those hot dog contest guys do.”
“That is so unhealthy,” Sam says, shaking his head, just like he’s not dying for Dean to take that next bite.
Finally Dean swallows the last of the burger. He’s got two man-sized burgers in him and however many ounces of soda, and yeah, he’s pretty damn full.
“I think those guys two tables over are watching you,” Sam says.
Dean glances over. He can’t tell that they’re doing anything of the sort. They look pretty intent on their own hamburgers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sam says softly. “They’re wondering if you’re going to eat that entire basket of fries.”
“ ‘Course I am,” Dean says. His stomach protests, but weakly. It knows the goal tonight was to get filled to the gills. So Dean starts in on the fries. Maybe one handful in, he feels a belch coming that won’t be denied. He covers his mouth, but the sound escapes anyway.
Okay, now the people from two tables over are looking at him. “Dean,” Sam hisses. His eyes are twinkling; he looks so damn pleased. “This is a family restaurant. Can’t you control yourself?”
Heat shoots straight to Dean’s dick. “Guess not,” Dean says, grinning. “Pass the ketchup, Sammy.”
The fries are good, too, and they require no cutting and minimal biting. Dean thinks he might be beyond both those activities at this point. His brand new jeans are pinching his waistline, and his breath’s a little short. And meanwhile the mass of hamburger and fries and a couple of bites of cole slaw is all crammed into his stomach, big and heavy. Massive. He feels massive.
Each fry is another point for Dean, though, a bit more bloat added to his distended belly. They feel good going down, adding to that ache, building it bigger. Building him bigger. He belches again, hardly managing to cover this time and too preoccupied with his own body to care whether those other people are looking.
“We should go.”
Dean shakes the lethargy away and looks up at Sam. “Why? I’ve still got fries.”
“Because if we don’t, I’m not going to be appropriate for a family restaurant.”
Dean starts to smirk. “That so?”
Sam rolls his eyes, but then he squirms the tiniest bit, and Dean can’t help but grin. “Something we need to deal with in private?”
“You’re hilarious,” Sam says.
“But we’re taking the fries with us.”
“We are absolutely taking the fries with us,” Sam assures him.
Getting up is a cautious operation. Once he’s upright, though, it eases the pressure along his waistline. “Lead the way, Sammy.” Slowly, like decrepit old men, they make their way to the counter – Dean with two or three meals worth of food in him, and Sam with a boner that Dean cannot wait to get a closer look at. “I’m gonna go out to the car,” Dean tells Sam.
“Don’t touch anything,” Sam says, giving him a look. “And I mean anything.”
“Sure, sure,” Dean says.
Once he’s outside, though, and has settled onto the passenger seat, his fingers itch to unbutton his pants. His stomach gurgles, overwhelmed, and he rubs ineffectually at it. “Really did a number on you tonight, didn’t I?” Eventually he gives up and closes his eyes. Even then, the only thing he can pay attention to is the pressure inside his belly.
Finally Sam comes out and slides behind the wheel. “How you feeling?”
“Huge,” Dean says, too uncomfortably full for banter. He feels another belch working its way up, and this time he just lets it out. That helps a little. A very little. He is so very full. “So, we going home or what?”
“Right, yeah.” Sam tears his eyes away from Dean and starts the car.
The ride home feels long. Dean belches a couple more times and at one point he starts working at his jeans, but Sam sees and slaps his hand away. “When we get to the motel,” he says.
Once they get there, door closed, Dean sinks onto his bed and groans. Sam bustles over. “Let’s fix those jeans, huh?” His fingers go to the button. He presses in onto Dean’s stomach, trying to get enough give to work the button, and Dean can’t help but groan again. And then he’s unbuttoned and rapidly unzipped, and he feels a lot better. Then he realizes that Sam is tickling the underside of his belly. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You’ve got lines,” Sam says, fascinated. His fingers brush lightly across Dean’s skin. “Where your jeans were. You’re all red.”
“Not surprised,” Dean grumbles. “You gonna rub my stomach, or is this just Dean Appreciation Hour?”
Sam looks startled, but then he says, “I want to see you first.” He helps Dean struggle out of the flannel over shirt and the plaid underneath, so all Dean has left is his t-shirt, straining to contain him. Now Dean can look down and see how full he is. And yeah, he’s full. The bloat is camouflaged these days by all the extra pounds, but he can still see where the skin is taut, the rise in his belly caused by the mass of food inside it.
Sam rubs his hand gently over Dean’s overheated skin.
“You can press harder, you know,” Dean says. “Like in circles?” Sam tries it, one firm circular motion against Dean’s lower belly. “Yeah, like that. Do that some more.”
Sam does. “I can feel how full you are.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. The massaging pressure feels good. It’s distracting.
“How do you feel now?”
Dean manages a grin. “Feel really good, Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“Feels good like this.” He pats his swollen belly. “I mean, it kinda hurts? But it’s not a bad hurt.” Dean pauses, embarrassed, but Sam nods him on. “It’s like, you’re sore after you do a job, but it’s a good sore. And I like it, feeling so full. Feeling big. Not that it’s a weight thing, exactly. It’s like, all that food, it’s right in here.” Dean runs his fingers along the side of his belly, feeling obscurely proud. “I can see it. Everybody could see it, if they wanted.”
Sam has stopped rubbing. His mouth hangs open, all his attention transfixed on the rounded fullness that is Dean.
“Sam?”
“Can I put some more in?”
Dean blinks. “Put more what?”
Sam scrambles to his feet and comes back with a to-go box. “I got you pie,” he says, popping it open. Inside, nestled like two lovebirds, are two slices. “One cherry and one apple. From the restaurant. That’s why I took so long.”
Dean takes a deep breath. Or actually a shallow breath, but as deep as he can manage at this stage. “I don’t know...”
“Just eat as much as you can. You were going to eat more fries, but this is better, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dean agrees, mesmerized. They are truly beautiful pieces of pie. And hell, he’s belched a bunch of air out and unbuckled his pants and gotten a tummy rub; he’s got all sorts of room. “You gotta let me feed myself, though, this time.”
Sam hands over the box and the plastic fork without complaint. Dean takes his first bite of cherry pie, and it’s as delicious as it looks. “Mm,” he says appreciatively. Then he sees how Sam’s eyes darken, and he says it again. “Mmm, this is good stuff.” He swallows it down and goes for another bite. He thinks about that first bite, joining the rest of his dinner in his stomach. More coming, he tells his stomach, and damned if the anticipation doesn’t make everything ache just that little bit sweeter.
He takes a break after he finishes the first piece. Sam rubs his stomach again. “You’re doing great,” he tells Dean earnestly, and Dean wants to flip him off or snark back, but he doesn’t have the energy.
“Feels awesome,” he says instead, not sure whether he means the massage on the outside or the food inside. It’s all bleeding together now. Damn, he’s full.
After a few moments, Sam says, “Okay, last piece.”
Obediently, Dean picks up the box again and takes a bite of the apple pie. Then another. He thinks that might be his limit, that he might be officially too full to eat another bite, but then somehow he does. And another bite. He groans in between bites now, pressing his palm to the side of his stomach to try and relieve the ache. Sam starts rubbing again. Another bite.
“You’re doing so good,” Sam says.
Dean grins weakly and goes for another bite. And then somehow it’s the last one, and he’s swallowed it, and then he lies back against the headboard of the bed and puts both hands to his belly.
“You okay?” Sam asks.
“I’m good,” Dean assures him tiredly. “I feel good. Don’t think I could stand feeling any better.” Sam chuckles. Dean looks down at his stomach again, following the curve that has escaped from below the inadequate confines of his t-shirt. He thinks about trying to pull it down, seeing how far it’ll go, but that’d mean moving. “Damn it, Sam, think I swallowed a bowling ball.”
“Nope,” Sam says, ghosting his fingers over Dean’s skin. “Just two oversized hamburgers, three fourths of a basket of fries, like twenty ounces of soda, and two pieces of pie. All right here,” he says, tapping each word out on Dean’s belly.
The litany makes Dean’s stomach feel even more swollen, somehow. “Did good, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.”
“Gonna take a nap now,” Dean says. Or rather, he’s going to lie there in a daze, enjoying every single pang and ache and gurgle.
“Hey,” Sam squawks. Jokingly, maybe; Dean’s too far gone to tell. “I thought there was something you were going to take care of for me.”
“Take care of it yourself,” Dean says, and closes his eyes.
The End