The first thing that strikes Dean, just like it does practically every morning, is how awesome he feels. Incredible the difference eight hours of sleep on a mattress that isn't twenty years old makes. Along with a few other things.

Light's shafting into his and Sam's room, Sam's side of the bed empty and cold, and no wonder. Clock on the nightstand says it's three hours gone since he got up to go to work. Dean's belly falls heavy into his lap when he sits up, and he absentmindedly scratches the side of it as he cracks his neck. He heaves himself onto his feet, only getting free of the memory foam on his second try. He can't remember if he had to do that yesterday or not.

He heads for the bathroom very first to take a piss and grab a shower, leaning forward over the toilet. Jesus, is morning wood ever a pain. Too bad Sam had to work today and Dean didn't wake up when he got out of bed. Used to be Dean could hardly stay asleep, with all the million little noises out there in the world that could be picks in the lock or a hand on the window. And now he's in bed next to something with a throat full of fangs, and he sleeps like the damn dead.

He's got to bend his elbows a whole hell of a lot to get at his dick. That's new for him, too.

Dean dumps yesterday's T-shirt and boxers in the hamper, like Sam's bitched at him to do at least a million times, then climbs into the shower and gets on the thorough scrubbing he needs after what the two of them did last night. They wiped down when they finished, of course, but he swears he can still feel the tackiness of lube all over his groin, and his hole. At least Sam's got a charm on that last thing that cleans him right up whenever he says the word, so Dean doesn't have to worry too much about it.

He soaps up wide hips, a plush ass, sensitive mounds he swears are big enough to be called tits (Sam objects to that word, but Dean sees the way he blushes and ducks his head when he uses it), nipples getting more sensitive the bigger they get. Flaming pentagram tattoo stretching out. And his stomach, of course. A demanding growl rips through it as he's washing his belly button.

The morning wood doesn't go away. Actually, the more Dean touches himself, maybe kinda-sorta imagining it's Sam's hands on him, the more it becomes a proper boner. So he winds up jacking off using Dove suds as lube, one hand braced on the same white tiles he shoots his load onto a few minutes in. Quick and dirty, but it gets the job done.

He styles his damp hair in the mirror when he gets out. He knows it doesn't matter, with only one person going to see him today, but it's routine. Not to mention that one person matters a whole hell of a lot.

After he's done primping, Dean just stands there a second, admiring himself in the mirror before he goes and gets dressed. He remembers what he used to look like before easy enough. Slim, hard, covered in lean muscle he put on working and training. Sam jokingly called him a "male model type" not long after they first met, and Dean's never been in love with his own looks or anything, but he knows it was accurate enough.

Now...well, he knows the muscle's still there because of the exercises Sam's got him doing, aimed at keeping him fit and healthy but not burning calories. He definitely ain't slim anymore, though, and he really doubts anybody out there'd describe him as a "male model" these days. Not with this large, round gut, framed by impressive love handles, or the soft chest, or the double chin coming up fast with a serious threat of a triple on the way. Dean takes all that in, along with his freckles, and the way his angry, knotted scars are starting to smooth out.

He knows it's weird. Not a lot of guys out there would be looking at this in the mirror and thinking how good-looking they still are, maybe even better than before. But Dean's doing right by somebody he couldn't live without, and for his part, Sam does a damn fine job of making him feel like the sexiest man on the planet.

Once he's had his fill of the mirror, Dean pulls on sweats and a T-shirt. He usually wears jeans, but is grudgingly starting to realize and admit that when he's not going anywhere, sweatpants are a hell of a lot more comfortable. Don't have any buttons or zippers he'll inevitably have to undo, either.

"All right." He rolls his shoulders. "Time to get to work."

Soon as Dean gets into the kitchen to make breakfast, he stops and curses out loud. The table's literally covered in seriously good-looking food. Why in the hell didn't Sam leave him a note? He wouldn't have dicked around so much in the shower (literally) if he'd known that all this was out here.

He grabs a platter of sausages to throw them in the microwave, but they're still warm. Piping hot, actually.

Dean shakes his head. Sammy and his spells. His first guess'd been witch, and he still thinks there's a kernel of truth to that.

The sausages are turkey, and the waffles are whole-wheat, because Sam insists on not just feeding him straight-up junk all the time. I'm sucking the fat off your frame, not the plaque outta your arteries, he says. Dean plays along because he knows the mother-henning feels good, but there's magic in play to keep his heart unclogged, too, not just rabbit food. So there's whole-fat whipped cream on the waffles and the bacon's real, along with the doughnuts. Dean knows Sam wouldn't mind if he put sugar in his coffee, either, but he just drinks it black, the way he has his entire life.

He goes for the newspaper as he eats, laid out neatly within his reach. Automatically, he starts looking for anything hinky, then forces himself to set it down. Then he picks it back up. If he finds something, he can just hand it off to one of the two dozen other hunters he's in contact with. Or active hunters, really. He's not involved in field work anymore, but it's not like he just sits around being useless. Most of what he does these days is networking, assigning cases and doing research. His official story is he got hurt, bad, and had to settle down with somebody to take care of him. Isn't accepting visitors, has all the help he needs, thanks.

Just can't run the risk of somebody finding out what Sam is. Even though he still has plenty of friends out there, a lot of them inherited from his dad.

His dad. Shit. Not for the first time, Dean wonders what he'd think if he could see him now. Fat. Out of the life for good. Not only fucking a monster he knows is a monster, a kind of monster that eats parts of people, but serving him. Literally fattening himself up for him.

Dean clears his throat, puts the paper away. There aren't any cases in it anyway, possible or otherwise. Might as well have left it where it was.

He goes ahead and checks his laptop, too, just for the hell of it while he's eating. See if anybody's e-mailed him needing help, even though they would've texted at least one of his phones if it was really serious. He grabs it off the counter, where Sam left it last night after using it for whatever the hell he uses it for, and opens it up.

It comes awake on Sam's last page: a jewelry site. Men's rings, necklaces, stuff like that. Lotsa platinum and leather. Expensive.

Dean closes the laptop again, puts it back where he found it with a swallowed pulse of guilt. Should've left that where it was, too.

But he's definitely stopped worrying what his dad would think.

Dean puts everything on the table away, easy. Sam's smart in a whole lotta ways, and one of those seems to be making stuff he picks up in the organic aisle at the grocery store somehow taste amazing. Rubbing his full stomach with one hand, Dean reflects on the fact that, the bigger he gets, the more room he's got for Sam's cooking. Just one of a whole slew of positives.

His walk's slow and rolling as he deals with the dishes, and he's got to stop every so often to burp. Sam definitely knows how to feed a guy breakfast. How to feed a guy in general, really.

Once the table's cleared, Dean heads into the living room with a stash of potato chips, candy bars, and soda. More than half the labels read "all-natural," but they really don't taste that bad. He gets all set up on the couch in the space that his ass has clearly worn in the cushions, laying everything out on the coffee table in front of him, and looks like Sam left a note in here for him, same as always. A full sheet of calories and portions, written out in neat, spiky handwriting. Dean rolls his eyes. Sam never misses an opportunity to try and make him do math. He appreciates it, he does, but he knows what he's doing. This is his full-time job and he'd like to think he's pretty good at it.

Dean's just turned on the TV, open bag of chips next to him and can of soda in his hand, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pries it out to see a text from Sam.

How are things going?

Good thing he got him before his fingers got all greasy. Well, greasier than they already are, after the bacon. Dean tells him, Just got into the office.

Finished breakfast?

You know I did.

Picture?

Dean grins.

Bored in court? he teases. Hope those slacks have lots of room in the crotch.

His shirt's already riding up, belly swollen from breakfast. The layer of blubber doesn't stop it from looking bloated, especially with how much he usually eats. He pulls his shirt up to his chest, holds his phone out in front of him, and makes sure that his gut, resting neatly in his lap, takes up almost the whole frame. Got the freckles, the belly button, the wisp of dark hair running down from it. He missed his calling - should've been a photographer. He doubts there's a real big market out there for his usual subject material, though.

Make you hungry? Dean asks after he sends the picture. The little bubble pops up on Sam's side of the screen, dots bouncing, then goes away. Then it comes back. Gone again, and then back, for a really long time...oh, jeez. Dean sighs.

You know I don't just see you as food, right? Sam finally asks.

You sure tell me often enough, Dean shoots back almost immediately. YOU know it's okay for you to see me as food right?

He sends another quick text, before Sam can reply: After all that's why I'm doing this: to feed my little monster. Well big monster, you're a giant. So do I make you hungry or not?

Sam finally relents. You make me hungry in more ways than one.

Dean grins, basking in his victory, and lets Sam get back to work. He's got plenty to do himself.

He spends the rest of the day the same way he almost always does: gorging himself as full as he can possibly get. He makes sure he's got plenty of food at hand just in case his belly gets too heavy for him to stand up. He's learned a lot of lessons doing this for as many months as he has, is even starting to think about having Sam put another fridge in here for easy access.

Dean's stomach steadily fills, rounding out. His shirt's still pulled up from sending Sam his picture, and it's not long before he couldn't fit it back down over himself even if he tried. The only breaks he takes from stuffing his face are to use the cocoa butter stuff Sam got him and stressed he massage into himself regularly. Doesn't want stretch marks. Dean doesn't mind, feels good to be fondling his own belly and love handles, and it makes his skin so damn soft. It's the reason his scars are even fading.

Well, most of them. Dean's fingertips, where his calluses are also on the way out, run over a cluster of perfectly round marks down on the side of his stomach, overlapping his hip and love handle, and he smiles.

Lunch is pizza, and after that, Dean munches through the afternoon with a belly that's practically solid. Good thing he gathered so many snacks around him. Sam texts about five, tells Dean to go ahead and order dinner, he'll be home a little late. Dean calls in burgers and fries from a place just barely healthy enough to be Sam-approved, and washes it down with beer. He set pie and ice cream on the coffee table for when he was done, but after that last beer, he's so full his breath's coming in little pants, so bloated he's trapped on the couch. Again. Eyeing the dessert he hasn't touched yet, Dean knows he'd be hard-pressed to fit it. Knows that if Sam were here, he wouldn't make him. Might not even let him.

But there's another thing about Sam. Even though he says Dean tastes good no matter what, that he tastes better when he's eaten healthy, Dean knows Sam's got a sweet tooth. A whole ring of them, actually, in the back of his throat. He really wants to give him a treat.

So Dean rolls himself forward with a grunt to snag the pie and ice cream, and settles in to pack himself just a little bigger, rounder, and fuller for his Sammy.

Like about three-quarters of his conquests, Dean met Sam in a bar.

There was a whole herd of big-shot lawyers slumming it after work, celebrating a win on some big case or another. Jackets tossed over stools and shirt sleeves rolled up, ties thrown over shoulders, sighing dramatically when the waitress told them they didn't have any of the two-hundred-dollar top-shelf whiskeys they kept asking for. Douchebags just fucking begging to be taught a lesson, in other words. Dean didn't even feel bad about shaking them down for a few hundred dollars in a few rounds of pool that were less games than bloodbaths.

He couldn't help the cocky grin that crept onto his face as New England accents came out strong and veins pulsed up by slicked-back hairlines. Finally, he turned down the demands for another round 'cause he didn't want to have to start taking watches and wedding rings. Too much trouble to pawn.

Sam was the only one who wasn't growling curses and threats about vague lawsuits in Dean's general direction when it was all over. They swapped numbers but didn't need to - they wound up going back to Sam's place after he shoved Dean up against the wall right outside the men's bathroom and kissed him like he wanted to eat him.

Dean sure as hell didn't mean to. But he spent the night. Left while Sam was still asleep, got a text from him later that day. Typical, desperate, "hoping-this-isn't-a-one-night-stand" shit about getting coffee sometime or something. Dean usually never replied to that sort of thing, deleted the convo and blocked the number if they kept on pushing, but he was in town for another few days gathering intel on his next case, and something made him write Sam back. He told himself it was because the kid sucked dick like a Hoover.

One coffee date turned into a handful of phone calls and texts while Dean was out of town, both ways, building up to at least one a day by the time he swung back that way. When he came through, there was dinner and sex. And he started laying down a reliable pattern. If he could travel through Sam's town, conceivably, he did, and soon the deal was that he was going out of his way to pass through Sam's neck of the woods. Spending the night when he didn't really need to. He texted and called a lot of people regularly when he was on the road, mostly other hunters, but nobody like he did Sam.

He tested him discreetly, bits and pieces during every date. Holy water in his wine glass, extra salt on his food, silverware made of actual silver. But of course he came up human every time. Dean hadn't expected anything else, seeing as Sam would've killed him already if he wasn't. He definitely would've copped to the antipossession tattoo on his chest.

Really, if anything, Sam was the opposite of a monster.

You broke, hunting. Picked up raw, bleeding edges to all your separate pieces. Being around Sam made those edges stop bleeding. Smoothed them down. The longer Dean was with him, the less he caught on things, the less it felt like something was buzzing toxic in the back of his brain and he was building towards a dark, ugly future of not being all that much different from the things he hunted. Sam was...soft. He was safe. How safe he was scared Dean sometimes, but not enough to make him leave.

It'd been about six months when Sam popped the question. Dean had told him he was a freelance security contractor, rough jobs, easiest way to explain the weapons and scars. Sam asked, when Dean had downtime during assignments, he knew he didn't have much, but when he did...if maybe he could come and stay with him? He knew it was a lot to ask, and Dean didn't have to if he didn't want to, it was just that he was complaining before about having to pay for a motel when he didn't want to do anything but put his feet up. And he could stay when he was hurt, too, Sam didn't mind, he knew he probably got knocked around a lot in his line of work. He knew he did, actually. (And here Sam's eyes flicked all over Dean's body, mapping scars under his clothes, face a mask of concern he was so obviously trying not to let spill over.)

Dean looked at him, the hair that was probably too long for a lawyer, the eyes, the moles, the huge hands that touched him so gentle after he came and his entire body was one raw, throbbing nerve, and there wasn't really any answer he could give besides yes.

It only took about a month for him to be shopping for new towels with Sam between hunts, stocking the pantry with stuff he liked on his own dime when he went to gas up the Impala, and when Sam casually mentioned his firm's Christmas party, Dean didn't bother asking if he wanted him to go or not. He already knew he was going. It was just what you did, as a boyfriend.

Dean's sunk into the couch, head thrown back, eyes closed, arms spread along the back of the couch, legs spread wide to accommodate the gut he's spent all day feeding. He'd be dozing if he weren't drinking beer. He's figured out a cool trick with his shirt and tits where he's got a bottle secured on his chest and a straw in his mouth. Paper, Sam insists on it. Just sipping away, no effort at all.

Dean hears Sam's key in the lock. The door swings open. He's got to burp, but waits until Sam steps fully inside and calls out for him, and then he releases a slow, rolling belch, followed fast by a satisfied groan.

He can practically hear the excitement in Sam's gait, how he's struggling to contain it, as he hurries through the apartment towards him. Dean's already smirking when Sam comes into the living room. He opens one eye to look at him, puts a hand high on the dome of his overfed belly, and drawls, "Long day at work?"

Sam doesn't answer, just stands there with his suit jacket draped over his arm and his hair slicked back all neat and professional. He's tense, breathing loud, so obviously trying to keep himself under control. There are few things out there Dean savors more than making that control snap.

He rubs lazily back and forth along his stomach. It doesn't take long for Sam to blurt, "You're huge."

Dean laughs, then burps again. "So what else is new?"

"Dean, I told you before you can't do this." Sam leans over to set his briefcase down, out of the way. "You can't eat this much. You don't have to, and it's probably not good for you...I've got stuff for you to stick to."

Dean can all but see the physical effort Sam's putting into keeping his voice even. And him leaning to the side like that let him see a lot of other things, too. Like Sam's cock, hardening against his thigh.

"I just get so hungry, though," Dean practically whines. "If I stuck to your plan for me, I'd starve to death."

He knows he's had a giant, dopey grin on his face practically this entire time. Being this full is a lot like being stoned.

Sam rolls his eyes. "D'you know how much work I've put into plotting all this out? The magic stuff and the actual nutrition, to make sure it's safe for you and you stay - "

"Didn't seem to matter so much to you at Thanksgiving," Dean points out, smirking again, and oh, yeah. Now Sam's blushing. "Remember that, Sammy? Feeding me twenty-four hours straight? Wasn't even awake for some of it, too damn full...and the spells, shit. Thirty pounds in a day - "

"We can't do that all the time, though," Sam interrupts, voice strained, smile tight. It's Dean's turn to roll his eyes.

"I know, I know. But you need to get over here and give your prize hog some love." He gives his stomach a firm pat. "Worked real hard for you today."

Finally, Sam breaks. He's on his knees in front of Dean in about a second and a half, between his wide-spread legs, hands and mouth on the gut Dean's been cultivating just for him. Rubbing, kissing, nuzzling, downright worshiping the damn thing, and it feels incredible. Dean groans, letting his head fall back again, legs opening a little wider even though it makes his hips creak. He pulls the bottle out of his shirt and sets it aside, then puts both hands on Sam's head, breaking up the gel in his hair so it gets soft and he can touch his scalp.

Sam eventually comes up. Too soon, in Dean's opinion. He's panting and blushing and all glassy-eyed, and his voice is hoarse when he says, "Much as I wanna just see where this takes us, it's Friday."

"Best day of the week," Dean replies readily, despite how much his dick protests.

Sam gets up, knees a little stiff, and hauls Dean off the couch. No way would he have made it up himself. Before helping him to their bathroom, Sam just looks at him, head tilted, hair mussed, cock very obviously hard in his slacks. Weeping some, too, given the tiny dark spot on the fabric under his head. They both get wet, but Dean spurts. Sam's a dripper.

"Y'know," Sam starts, slowly, "think I might've actually screwed up my calculations for today's calorie count. A lot. You're still down by a...huge amount."

"Guess you better feed me, then." Dean puts both hands on his bloated stomach.

After Sam gets his pockets stuffed full of candy, the waddle to the bathroom's a slow one. Dean pants, eyes half-lidded. He knows he can beg a belly rub and a blowjob from Sam later, easy as pie, and that's the only reason he didn't refuse to be shifted off the couch.

Well, that and really liking to hear the numbers. And the squares of chocolate Sam's slipping into his mouth every ten seconds. He knows what makes Dean tick.

"Three hundred and twenty-three," Sam reads off the scale in their bathroom when the numbers settle. He's got a hand resting casually on Dean's gut, over which Dean isn't even gonna try and read the display. "You're pretty close to a hundred and fifty pounds of gain."

Dean whistles. Sam tossed him another beer as soon as they were in the bathroom, and he takes a pull. "Damn. And that's fast, too. Even with the spells."

Sam just smiles, kisses Dean's jaw fondly, and goes to get the measuring tape.

He has him lift his arms. Dean belches again, casually. Isn't like Sam's gonna get on his ass about it...not at home, and not while he's so full.

"Fifty-five," Sam reads. Dean's dick pulses. There's one of those spurts. "But that's probably 'cause you're stuffed to the gills." He gives the side of his belly a pat. "In fact…" He slips a piece of chocolate into Dean's mouth, then his fingers, and Dean readily sucks on them. Sweat, sugar, paper. "If I measured you in another minute or two, you'd probably have another inch."

Dean laughs, a rumble deep in his soft chest.

Watching Sam roll the tape measure carefully back up, and knowing nothing's happening 'til it's put away all nice, he asks, "So, how was work? Never really answered me before, but you were sure at the office a long time."

"Wanted to get everything wrapped up before the weekend," Sam replies. "Don't wanna worry about anything while I'm with you." He's close enough he can give Dean's ass a squeeze, lightning-fast, then go right back to rolling. "You deserve better." He tips his head. "How 'bout your day?"

Dean smirks, cradled his stomach. "Awesome. Can't you tell?" He ignores his pounding groin for a second, checking out under Sam's eyes, his neck and hands, the hollows of his cheeks. Looks okay for now, but… "You need to feed?"

There's a pause. "Not yet. I'm good for a while."

"Good." Dean grunts. "Not sure how long you can hold out, but I'd love to put on another ten or fifteen pounds before you tap me again…"

"Uh, you sure you can do that?" Sam squints. "It's probably only gonna be another week or two."

Dean smirks. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Sam's hands have frozen up. He lets out a long, shuddery breath, then puts the tape down on the counter with a long tail still hanging off it.

Dean crosses the bathroom. His belly bumps into Sam half a second before he expects it to, startling him but not too bad. He puts his hands on Sam's narrow hips, tilts his head back just slightly to meet his eyes.

"So, now we got all your nerdy numbers outta the way, and since you don't need to feed…" Dean leans in, only a little give to his girth as he presses it into Sam, and kisses him. Their stubble rasps together. "...we oughta pick back up where we left off. I mean, I've been stuffing this gut all day." He hefts it with a grunt, but only a little, so it doesn't hurt when he lets it drop again. "And it's a huge pain in the ass to reach my dick once I get this full. So I've been hornier than hell for hours. I'm going crazy over here." He grabs Sam again, by the pert little ass this time. "So I need you to get dirty. Filthy."

"You sure?" Sam gasped at Dean's hands on his ass, now his brow furrows with worry. "Dean, I don't wanna say anything that's gonna upset you."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I know." He squeezes Sam's ass, presses his stomach into him harder, barely stifled a burp as he all but grinds against him. He would be, if his belly weren't in the way. His cock's practically cutting its way out of his sweats. "Are you or aren't you a monster, Sammy?" He brings a hand up to his hair, and the second he touches it, it's like he flipped a switch. Sam's eyes go all unfocused and sex-glossy, get even softer when he tugs. "I want you to be downright evil with me."

"I need you to know - I don't mean anything I'm gonna say," Sam gasps out, voice all grit and gravel.

"I know. Same as always. Only done this, what? A hundred times?"

Thank god, once permission's granted, Sam runs with it.

They'd gone to dinner, a place nicer than Dean usually walked into without an FBI badge and a cover story. Sam'd already had a spot in mind, had the server put them at a table secluded enough they could talk without anybody hearing them, but where they were still in sight of plenty other people. Dean took in details like that automatically. He'd also taken in that something was up with Sam, and was ready for half a dozen different breakup speeches. He'd heard "it's me or your job" so damn much, he found himself hoping Sam'd change it up and go with "I can't take you home to my parents" or even "I'm sick of you eating fucking chili fries in bed." He'd shattered a lot of Dean's other expectations, after all.

Earlier he saw it coming, less it'd hurt, even though he was already geared up to feel like his heart and lungs were falling out of a gaping, gushing wound in the middle of his chest.

Even resigned to getting kicked to the curb, all his walls up, Dean figured he might as well enjoy dinner, especially if Sam was paying. Halfway through an entree that could've been better, Sam put his fork down next to his salad.

"It's been eight months," Sam said flatly. "It's about time we were honest with each other."

Dean folded his arms across his chest, leaned back in his seat, met Sam's eyes unflinching. Number one, number two, or number three?

"I know you're a hunter."

Dean blinked. So far away from being a number it wasn't even a letter, practically an abstract shape.

"What?" He laughed on instinct, a short, incredulous chuckle. "I know I got a lotta guns, but I told you, they're all for work. I've never shot so much as a duck."

"We both know that that's not the kinda hunter I'm talking about."

Dean was looking around through the edges of his eyes, catching on to the fact Sam'd brought him out here so he'd be safe. So Dean wouldn't make any kind of scene. The most paranoid pieces of Dean, ones that'd saved his life more than once, started to wonder how many of the people in the restaurant were human. If all of them were in on it. Just how screwed was he?

He felt his jaw set, tension in every inch of him. Flatly, he asked, "What tipped you off?"

Sam laughed like he startled. "So much. You're really not trying very hard to hide it. Uh, let's see, the last names on your badge and your driver's license are different, and they're both Zeppelin references...there's that tattoo…" He was ticking things off on his fingers. "You tested me at least with silver, god only knows what else…"

"Yeah, and you didn't react to any of 'em, so what are you?" Dean demanded. "A witch?"

Sam shook his head.

"Vampire? Djinn?"

That hit some kind of nerve. "Of course not. I don't kill people, Dean...d'you really think I would?"

"Turns out there's a lotta things about you I don't actually know," Dean replied. "What are you?"

Sam straightened up, rolling his shoulders as he smoothed his hair back some, though he didn't need it. He made firm eye contact with Dean and said, "I'm a pishtaco."

"A what? A fish taco?"

"No, a pishtaco. Pistaku. 'P' as in Paul."

Dean stared at him a second. "That's not a real thing."

"It's a Peruvian fat sucker."

"A what?" Dean repeated. He looked Sam up and down, and really hoped he wasn't being insensitive or politically incorrect or something as he very slowly started, "You're not..."

"The original pistaku came in with the conquistadors." Sam leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands punctuating his words. In his natural element, even with how wound up he still obviously was. "I don't know if there was a name for us before the Inca gave us one, or, my personal theory, the conquistadors plugged their wounds with human fat - "

"What the fuck?"

"Yeah, I know. No wonder they had fifty different diseases. But, anyway...I wonder if we didn't work like wendigos initially."

"You know about wendigos," Dean said, flat. Sam shrugged.

"I know about a lot of stuff." He gave Dean an earnest look. "My point is that we're born now, not made. And we don't kill."

"So what d'you eat?"

Sam seemed relieved, happy, even, that Dean was asking so many questions. Dean figured he didn't have much of a choice in the middle of a restaurant. He wasn't even armed right now besides a knife in his boot, and he could practically hear his dad telling him how fucking stupid he'd been these whole eight months.

"Human fat."

"How?"

"I-it's...pretty gross, actually." Sam shook his head. "There's a proboscis involved. You don't wanna see it, trust me. But it doesn't hurt whoever we're feeding from unless we take too much."

"I've seen you eat human food," Dean stated, then made a "case in point" gesture at Sam's salad. Sam rolled his eyes.

"I only really need to feed every few weeks. Especially if I eat a lot in one sitting. Besides, I eat things besides human fat; you eat and drink things other than water, you have to, but you'll still die without it."

Dean had his arms crossed over his chest, fingers drumming on one bicep, teeth working at the inside of his cheek. "How d'you feed, then? Just hang out at the nearest McDonald's with a bottle of chloroform?"

Revulsion washed across Sam's face. "God, no. There's a pistaku in Minnesota. Maritza. She runs a weight loss clinic. There aren't very many of us in North America, and we're all pretty connected. The ones who live close enough go there to feed, and as for everybody else - " He tapped his chest. " - me included, she packs and ships what we need."

Dean made no effort to hide that he was trying not to gag.

"Well, I think it's less gross than, say, hearts!" He tossed his hands up. "And it doesn't kill the people we're feeding off. In fact…" He stabbed a finger at Dean. "We're doing them a service. They're consenting. Paying, even. It's totally painless."

"Sounds like you're all one big, happy family," Dean said with a sarcastic smile.

"We wouldn't survive if we weren't. That's why, if one of us starts killing, ten times outta ten, we take care of it before a hunter ever even gets wind."

"Oh, you do, do you."

Sam arched an eyebrow. "You'd never heard of us, had you?"

Silence, or close as you could get in a restaurant with music playing over speakers and forks scraping plates. The waiter swung by, wanted to know if everything was okay, if they were ready for dessert, Sam assured him they were fine for now with a diet version of that sweet smile Dean liked having flashed at him so much.

"You immortal?" Dean asked once they were alone again.

Sam snorted. "We tend to run healthier and stronger than the average human. But most of us still die in our seventies, eighties, nineties. Earlier if we get beheaded, hit in the vitals, somebody cuts off our, uh, proboscis...and we're vulnerable to silver." He almost smirked. "The test you did with the knife and fork hurt like a bitch. Took all I had to keep quiet."

Dean looked around. He mapped exits again even though he'd done it automatically on the way in, noted that nobody was paying any attention to them. Actually ignoring them, not pretending to. So Sam was probably the only threat to him in here. Eventually, he cleared his throat and leveled a flat stare at Sam. "Why're you telling me all this?"

"'Cause you deserve to know," Sam said with a shrug. "You more than deserve to know. I should've told you ages ago, but especially knowing what you are, I was...afraid to lose you." He took a deep breath, and rested his elbows on the table again before treating Dean to a downright soulful look from those mood-ring eyes. "I really, really like you, Dean. Not sure I've ever felt this way about anybody before."

Dean wasn't falling for it. "So you weren't targeting me for anything? Didn't wanna feed off me, use me for information?"

Hurt flickered behind Sam's eyes. "I like you, Dean. I'm - " He laughed, then flopped back in his chair. "I'm in love with you. There, I said it. D'you really think that everything I've done for and with you was just 'cause I wanted something from you? Were you using me for anything? You've met the real me, you've known me the whole time. Me not being human was the only thing you didn't know." When Dean didn't say anything, Sam very clearly declared, "I don't want to eat you. There's not a lot on you to suck off, anyway." His eyes strayed low. "Not in terms of fat, anyway."

Dean's dick, the traitor, twitched. He didn't let it reach his brain.

"Is you being 'in love' with me even allowed?" he asked, throwing up air quotes. "Is this some kinda Twilight bullshit? Will all your little friends be pissed about you telling me this?"

"Maritza's husband is human," Sam said dryly. "And she's definitely not the only one with a partner who isn't a pistaku. Nobody wants us walking around telling everybody we run into exactly what's going on with us, but the rules are a little different when we're. Committed."

There was another long relative-silence. This time, Sam was the one who broke it, tentatively asking, "What're you thinking?"

Dean let out a long breath, raising his eyebrows. "Well…" He pushed himself up with a grunt. "Thought I was finally doing the whole domestic, long-term thing, which was never really me in the first place. Thought I had...I don't know, this fucking oasis or something outside hunting. Which of course I didn't, nobody does, 'cause we call it 'the life' for a reason, it gets into every-fucking-thing and you can't get away from it, 'cause it sticks to you. Fangs, bloodsuckers, heart-munchers, wolves, black eyes, they can all smell that shit on you." He looked at Sam. "So of course it turns out I was fucking some kind of fat-sucking freak this entire time."

Sam winced, so hard Dean saw it. He felt guilty and hated himself for feeling like that, hated himself for hurting Sam like that in the first place, and everything was a giant fucking mess inside him and out. Sam'd been lying to him for eight months, thinking about what an idiot he was not to have figured it out by now. What a piss-poor excuse for a hunter. And Dean'd been working his ass off trying to keep all his shit bottled up and off Sam, couldn't pop the civvie's perfect little rainbow soap bubble world, had no idea Sam knew more than him this whole time.

"What d'you want from me?" Dean asked.

"I'm not gonna ask you to stay," Sam started.

"Good." Sam winced again.

"I-I just wanted to get all the cards on the table. Come completely clean. I want something real with you and we can't have that if we're lying to each other." He looked at Dean and it was so raw and open Dean had to look down at his steak, well done when he'd definitely asked for medium well.

"And what if I decide to do my damn job?" he asked the steak. "Just like I've been doing my whole life. Take care of the monsters."

He heard Sam draw in a very slow, very deep breath. "...I guess you can do that if you really want to. But you're not gonna be able to find the others through me, we're real careful about that. And I don't think I need to worry, anyway." A pause. "I know you as well as you know me, and you're not capable of that."

"Well, like I said earlier. Turns out I don't know you nearly as well as I thought I did." Dean looked at Sam. "And you just told me exactly how to kill things like you."

If he'd caught Sam out, Sam didn't react to it. "If you're that cold, man, go for it. But you should know by now I'm not just gonna lay here and take it." His eyes met Dean's. Dean glared back. "I took a calculated risk here, Dean. The risk's you leaving. The calculation's that you're not the kinda guy who's gonna throw away everything the two of us have built together these past few months over something that's been true the entire time we've been together."

Dean smirked, nodding to himself.

"Stick to law," he told Sam eventually. "Math ain't your strong suit."

He stood up, pushing his chair back, threw money he didn't bother to count onto the table, and walked out of the restaurant feeling like he had a sunburn on the inside of his body.

He made it a week.

Almost nine at night, and Dean found himself outside Sam's apartment with a value-size bag of pork rinds, pounding on the door. He hadn't really been expecting him to, hadn't thought ahead to what he was gonna do if he didn't, but Sam opened up on the tenth or so knock, wearing a sleep shirt that fit way better than it should've and gray sweatpants. He eyed Dean up and down.

"Surprised?" Dean asked when he didn't say anything.

"You're not drunk and you don't have a gun, so yeah," Sam replied.

Dean shoved the pork rinds into his chest and brushed past him. He heard Sam close the door, though he didn't lock it, and follow after him.

"What're you doing here, Dean?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Dean turned around and motioned to the bag in Sam's hand. "Those're my...y'know, my apology."

Sam looked at it. "Uh, these aren't really what I - "

"Thought that counts, right?" Dean interrupted him.

A sharp, shocked little laugh burst out of Sam. "Okay. So." He held up his free hand. "Just to recap. You...called me a freak, told me you were gonna kill me, and then walked out on me. For a whole week. And you think you can make up for all that with…" He rattled the bag. "Pork rinds." He shook his head. "I can forgive a whole lot from you, Dean, but you're gonna have to do better than that."

Dean's throat ached. Those jagged edges Sam'd healed down for him without even trying were back on all his pieces and he was snagging on everything. The buzzing was building again. He wished he'd never walked out of the damn restaurant, just went home with Sam that night. He wanted everything to go exactly back to how it used to be. He wanted to tell Sam all that but couldn't figure out how to, and didn't even know how he'd react to it. Finally, he found himself blurting out, "I haven't been able to sleep."

Sam's eyebrows drew together.

"I don't get a whole lotta sleep anyway, but this is different." Dean threw his hands up, starting to pace. "Everything's different, everything's bad." He laughed, bleak. "I guess my life just must've been all kindsa empty before, with all the space you take up in it now. I didn't even realize how much of me was tangled up with you 'til I tried to cut you out. And I'm not stupid." He looked at Sam. "I know that's all me. Doesn't have to do anything with you...with what you are, or any mojo you might be working."

"What're you saying?" Sam asked quietly, shaking his head.

"That I don't wanna cut you out." Dean stopped. "I don't care what you are, and I'm sorry I said everything I did. Did everything I did. I didn't mean it." He didn't say anything for a second. "What matters is that clinic's a real place, I checked it out. You were telling the truth about not hurting anybody, and even if you weren't...I'm starting to realize I don't care."

"Why?" Sam asked, slow.

"Why d'you think?"

"I wanna hear you say it."

"I…" Fuck. "I love you." Dean's eyes stung, and he hated everything but Sam in that second.

Sam put the bag of pork rinds down. Then he was right in front of Dean, and he was hugging him. Dean hugged back, tight as he could, didn't worry about hurting him. Sam kissed him, and he tasted like that stupid microbrew that was the only thing he bought, and that Dean would never admit was the best beer he'd ever had.

It was a second of bliss. Then Dean sighed, stepping back. Sam let him reluctantly go. "I wanna have some ground rules, though. First off, I'm not gonna talk about hunting unless you specifically ask me."

"But I could help," Sam pointed out. "I've got a lotta knowledge that doesn't have to do with pistaku, Dean."

"Yeah, I don't doubt that, but I need to keep you and...everything else as separate as I can." Dean made a shoving motion off to the side. "And I want it to be the same way with all of your…" He gestured uselessly as he tried to think of the right word. "Monster shit. I don't wanna hear it unless I ask."

Sam studied him. Dean was convinced, for a second, that he was about to throw him out, and no other monster had ever made him feel so afraid.

But then Sam nodded. "Guess I can live with that." He cleared his throat, and pointed at the pork rinds. "Not eating those, though."

"Then I'll eat 'em."

Dean staggers into the bedroom at Sam's push, trying to make up for how much being this full throws him off. Of course there's no way he'll fall. Sam's right there, practically glued to him, rock-hard cock rutting against Dean's plush ass as he starts to pull his shirt off. He mouths at his jaw, his neck, his lips, and Dean helps him struggle with the shirt. Soon as it's off, his tits fall into Sam's waiting hands.

Sam pants hot against his skin. "Jesus Christ, Dean, you're getting fat."

"Whose fault is that?" Dean asks, voice husky.

"Yours." Sam squeezes Dean's chest, then smacks his ass, hard. "Bed. Now. And those sweats'd better be off by the time you get there, or I'm making you burst outta them."

Dean's panting as he scrambles to obey, cock dripping. He suspected early on that food and sex are tied up together for Sam, especially when it comes to Dean, and he guesses he was right about that. Sam's a whole different animal when he's got the green light to go all-out.

Dean shucks his sweats and boxers, settling his ass onto the mattress, on top of the towel Sam put there only a couple minutes ago. He sinks into the memory foam. Sam's still standing near the door, just watching him, button down untucked and sleeves rolled up. The shape of his dick's heavy and straining along his thigh. Leaning back so his belly and the junk underneath is on full display, Dean grins and puts his hand on the side of his gut.

"Spent all day filling this up for you," he tells Sam. "I know how much you like to play with it. So get over here and appreciate all my hard work."

Sam's eyes darken with lust as Dean talks. Tie hanging loose around his neck, he grabs it and tosses it aside, then does the same thing with his shirt. Miracle he doesn't rip the buttons straight off.

Dean oughta wear a shirt with buttons on it one of these days. Maybe an old flannel. See if he can pop every last one before Sam gets home.

Sam makes a beeline for him, dropping straight to his knees between Dean's thighs and grabbing his belly. The lotion Dean's been using on it can't taste good, but he kisses and nips and rubs. He fondles his love handles, paying special attention to the circular scars over on the one side. He's rough, but careful not to be too rough with Dean's super-full stomach. Every touch makes Dean's dick jump.

"Look how good you're fattening up for me," Sam growls under his breath. "Look at this gut, these thighs, this ass...you're a natural, aren't you? How'd you not blow up years ago?"

"Guess I was waiting for the right person to do it for," Dean gasps out.

"Y'know." Sam's eyes are close to black when he cuts them up at Dean, hot and liquid. "You're probably already way too fat to ever go back to hunting. You're all mine now."

It feels like Dean sat on a live wire, something electric and filthy speeding through him from skull to cockhead. He pants hard.

"Definitely," he agrees. "Yours to do whatever you want with, Sammy...so." He grinned again. "What d'you wanna do with me?"

Sam already has an answer ready. "Suck your cock." He grabs it, one huge hand wrapping tight around the shaft. "Even this part of you's fat. But you better not come, I've got more in mind for you tonight." Dean hears him dig around in his pocket, plastic crinkling, and then he shoves a candy bar up Dean's belly for him to take. He's still got some in there? How many did he grab? "Eat that while I'm taking your dick."

Dean takes the chocolate, starts fumbling it out of the wrapper. Sam goes up under his belly and starts lapping at his cock, wasting no time, sucking on the very tip, swallowing the pre that Dean shoots straight into his mouth. He fondles his balls, silky hair brushing up against the underside of Dean's stomach. It tickles. He holds the weight of him up with his head and shoulders, and the pressure feels almost as good as his mouth on Dean's dick, even if it hurts a little, too. Dean feeds himself with one hand, uses the other to help Sam hold his gut up. And Sam gets to work for real.

Sam can't deepthroat, but he more than makes up for it. With his tongue, and his lips, and his fingers. He's got a whole lot of nerve, telling Dean not to come and then doing this to him.

Almost the second Dean pops the last bite of chocolate into his mouth, Sam shoves him down onto his back so he can get at his cock better. Dean's stomach spreads out some, but all the food he crammed into it today keeps it firm and round. Voice sex-rough, Sam orders, "Rub your belly."

Dean does, one-handed, digging fingers and heel in. He grabs one of his marshmallow pecs with his other hand, squeezing, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger. He pants, staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling. Good thing his control's improved so much since he got with Sam, especially with all the sex they've been having, more and more the heavier Dean gets. Otherwise he would've popped his cork ages ago.

He groans, a high-pitched edge rising out of the sound, and arches his neck as Sam whispers "Kathari," sending a lightning zip through Dean's hole, and then drops to the pucker of it. He just goes right for it. It's so intense it almost hurts, but Dean's definitely ready for it, shuddering and twitching against Sam's brutal tongue. He goes from licking to rimming and then full-on eating him out in under a minute, and then comes up for breath. Dean hears the pop of a cap coming off and lifts his head. He can't even see Sam over his own belly, and that's got precome drooling down his spit-slick shaft.

"Lube under the bed?" he rumbles.

"I like to be prepared."

Sam works Dean open with lube and warm fingers, back up on his belly kissing and nuzzling and groping the whole time. Dean judders when Sam brushed his prostate.

"Gonna make me burp," he warns. "Or come. Or both."

Sam just laughs, throaty and rough against Dean's happy trail.

It isn't long before the stretch and burn starts feeling all kinds of nice. Sam slips free, comes up and kisses Dean, long, taut torso curving over his belly. Dean tastes himself in Sam's mouth and loves it. Sam squeezes his love handle appreciatively, then gives his chubby flank a light smack and growls against his lips: "Hands and knees." He puts his fingers back inside him, just barely snags his prostate. "I'm gonna bury my cock in your fat ass."

Dean rolls himself over, hole clamping down on fingers that aren't there anymore, groaning loudly. He struggles up onto all fours, legs spread. His cock, laid against the underside of a stomach so heavy it pulls his back into an arch, is dripping, pre running down towards his belly button. He hears Sam stripping out of the last of his clothes and slicking himself up, and then he's climbing up onto the mattress behind Dean, taking hold of his wide hips. Using his love handles like they're intended, like is right there in the name.

Sam leans over to plant a kiss, gentle and burning, in the middle of Dean's back. It sends impatience searing through him. Kinda sucks holding up this overfed gut, after all. He can't wait 'til it's big enough to just rest on the mattress while Sam fucks him.

"What'd you call me that one time?" he asks huskily. "A cake you can fuck? Well...this cake's been rising all day, and it's about damn time I got some cream filling."

There's a startled silence from Sam, and then a burst of shocked laughter. "Oh, my god. You're so bad at this."

"You pronounced 'awesome' wrong." Dean spreads his legs a little further, knees scraping across the towel. "Just get inside me right now. So goddamn empty."

"That's hard to believe. With the way you gorged yourself today." Dean feels Sam's head at his eager rim, and then he's pushing in with a groan, sliding home all the way to his balls. Dean gasps at the feel of him. Can't get over how damn thick he is. "Getting huge back here, Dean. So soft...but that's not surprising, considering all you do all day is sit on this thing and stuff yourself. You're so good at it."

"Yeah, I am." Dean grins even as bliss washed through him. "What can I say? This is my dream job."

Sam starts to fuck him. Skin slaps against skin, heavy balls swinging into Dean's ass, harsh pants and groans rolling out of Sam. He keeps up with the dirty talk, but it starts to fall apart as his pace picks up. Dean just hears snatches of how big he is, how soft, how much he can eat...how good he smells. And the way he knew Sam means it makes his balls prickle and tighten.

There's not really a whole lot he can do, full and heavy as he is, but sit here on his hands and knees and take it. "All yours," Dean grunts, squeezing his eyes shut. "All for you. Take such good care of me, fuck me so good...my cock's fat?" He laughs, breathless. "How 'bout that monster you somehow - " He moans. "Stuff into your slacks every morning?"

Dean's cock weeps down the curve of his belly. He's sure that if he could see it, there'd be a thin, clear trail running down to drip off his softened, widened belly button. The skin of his stomach, kept nice and soft by his lotion regimen, provides perfect friction for his dick. Sam's spit and the lube gushing down from Dean's own hole help. He's kinda fucking his own gut but guesses he'd have to be moving his hips for that to actually be what's going on; mostly, Sam's just shaking him with the force of his movements.

Sam's head catches on Dean's prostate, filling his belly with fire, and there's so much of it to fill now. He was never into anything like this before, but the way Sam touches him and talks to him and fucks him these days...well, hard for a guy not to pick up a new kink or two.

Dean can tell Sam's starting to get close from his breathing, and his desperate grabbing at Dean's sides. Might as well help him along. He pants, "One of these days, I'm gonna eat so much while you're at work I won't be able to lift a finger. Won't really be good for anything but - fucking, but you'll have to move me yourself to get me where you want me." He grins. "Maybe one of these days, I'll - be there already without ever even eating a bite." He squeezes his eyes shut, cock twitching. "How many meals will you be able to get off me then?"

Sam comes with a shout that sounds a lot like Dean's name, and spills himself hard and hot and shuddering inside him. Dean's kind of surprised; it's been a while since Sam came first, but he stops thinking about that real fast. Even while coming, Sam's still thrusting inside him, though his movements are breaking up. The jolt of Sam's orgasm in Dean and against his dick sets off his own climax. Come splatters all over the underside of his stomach and the towel underneath him.

And he's never been a big fan of fate or destiny or anything like that. But as the aftershocks rock him, wave after wave of pleasure and giant cock and hands on and in him, Dean feels like he's exactly where he's supposed to be. Doing what he was put on Earth to do.

Things went pretty well after Dean came back. Or they went back to normal, at least. Sex, Dean living with Sam when he needed to, no talking about hunting or fish taco things. But a year and a half after they'd first met each other, Dean started to notice there was something...wrong with Sam.

He'd been with him a couple months this time, laid up on his couch first with a sprained knee and then a dry spell in the monster world. Keeping himself busy with TV, pizza, beer, and his boyfriend, seeing him every day, it took Dean longer than it should've to notice the change in him, especially with how slow it started out.

Sam's hair lost its shine bit by bit, cheekbones showing through a little more, eyes getting red rims and dark bags. He slept a little more, then a lot more, and Dean started finding chocolate strands gone dull on Sam's pillow and in the shower. When he was awake, Sam was either bitchier than usual with him or quiet, staring off at nothing. He was eating all the time but somehow still dropping weight.

Dean didn't say anything when he did pick up on it, figuring Sam had a cold or something (whatever he was got those, right?) and trying to help him out. Humidifier, extra blankets, taking naps with him without being asked, going easy on him when he snapped over something, making his favorite foods. But when it started getting really bad, he finally had to ask him.

Watching Sam attack his third plate of the chicken-and-vegetable thing Dean had made for him tonight, one of his favorites, Dean cleared his throat. It took Sam a long time to look up at him, and he didn't bother letting go of his fork when he did. All the table manners he seemed to care so damn much about had been out the window for around a week now.

"You got a tapeworm or something?" Dean asked, and Sam frowned. "Just seems like you're a bottomless pit lately, man."

"Eating as much as I always have," Sam replied shortly. "If we wanna talk about eating a ton, maybe we oughta talk about you."

"C'mon, don't be a bitch," Dean complained. "I'm worried about you. You're eating like a dump truck and you still got ribs popping out, and this morning alone, I found enough hair in our bed to make a wig."

"Just some kinda bug," Sam mumbled, not meeting Dean's eyes. "I'll be over it soon, promise."

"You don't trust me enough by now to be honest?" Dean asked blankly. "I'm not walking out again on you telling me the truth. Way past that stage now."

"I don't know what's going on," Sam tried.

"Oh, bullshit, Sam, don't play dumb with me." Dean rolled his eyes. "You know there's something up with you, and I know you know. I also know you probably know what it is, and if you don't, we can figure it out together."

They sat there in silence, staring down at their plates, and a flashback to the restaurant they'd carefully avoided since Dean came home cut him like a straight razor to the palm. He looked up at Sam, and asked, "How long's it been since you fed?"

Sam's eyes widened. "You don't wanna talk about that stuff."

"I'm asking you. Specifically. Means you can talk about it." Dean pushed his plate out of the way. "I wanna know how long it's been since you last fed."

The way Sam was looking away told Dean he was right on the money. Finally, Sam heaved a sigh, closed his eyes, and quietly said, "Going on eight weeks now."

Dean sat back in his chair like he'd been shoved there, appalled. "Holy shit!" Eight weeks? What was the human equivalent of that? "How are you even upright?" He stabbed the table with a finger. "Look, you need something right this second. Call up Maritza or whatever and have her overnight you a box of lard. I'll pay the shipping charges if you need me to." Sam wasn't looking at him, shaking his head, and Dean demanded, "What?"

"Maritza's gone," Sam said quietly.

"What're you talking about?"

"I-I don't know for sure what happened. Something with her brother." Sam threw up his hands. "But she's gone, and so's her husband. Their clinic shut down. That's why I haven't been feeding."

"What're all the other fish tacos doing, then?" Sam gave Dean a look that said he really wasn't in the mood. "Fine. Pistaku."

"A...little bit of everything," Sam said, then quickly added, "They're not killing people. None of them. I just haven't found a good option yet." He looked at Dean dryly. "Don't really wanna go the chloroform and McDonald's route."

"You could Fight Club it," Dean suggested. "Y'know, break into a plastic surgeon's office and - "

"Yeah, there are already some of us out there doing that and I really, really, really don't want to," Sam interrupted.

"Then we'll think of something else." Dean looked at Sam. "How long can you go without feeding?"

Sam slowly shook his head. "Probably a lot longer than you can without eating, but not forever." He sighed through his nose, itching at his hair. Strands of it draped themselves over his shoulder. "This is my problem. I'll...figure it out."

Dean stared at him across the table. Five seconds, ten, twenty. Then he said, "Feed off me."

Sam's head snapped up. "What?!"

"You heard me. I want you to feed off me."

"I can't do that," Sam said immediately, shaking his head again. "I can't ask you to - "

"You're not asking, I'm offering." Sam was still shaking his head, firmer now, so Dean stood and yanked his shirt up over his stomach. "Look, there's plenty for you here."

It wasn't like Dean ever weighed himself regularly. He had no idea what was normal for him. But in the time he'd been staying with Sam, he imagined he'd put on over twenty pounds. He had a round, firm little gut coming up, that and his budding love handles muffin-topping over the waistband of his jeans. Those jeans had gotten practically tight enough for the seams to creak on his ass and thighs. He'd noticed it all, but hadn't been particularly worried about it. Seemed like he always gained weight during his downtime and then lost it again hunting. Now wouldn't've been any different, but this worked, too.

Sam stared. And he was looking at Dean a lot like he always did when he was shirtless, but there was something else mixed in, too. Reminded Dean of how he felt when a waitress set a huge bacon cheeseburger in front of him after he'd been too busy pounding pavement all day to eat. But then Sam clamped down on it and looked firmly away, and quietly said, "I won't do that."

"Why the hell not?" Dean demanded. "What, am I not good enough for you?"

"No, it's the opposite, Dean. I'm afraid of hurting you. 'Specially with how I am right now."

"So it's better if you hurt somebody else, then?" Sam was silent. "Are you not hearing me? I want you to do this."

"And I don't. Are you not hearing me?" Sam snapped back. "Drop it, Dean, we're done talking about this. I'm not using you like that."

Dean opened his mouth. Sam told him, much more firmly this time, "Drop it." Then he picked up his plate and left the kitchen.

The next morning, Sam slept through his alarm, would've been late to work if Dean hadn't physically shaken him awake. He looked even worse than he had last night when he finally did get up, even after a shower and breakfast. His lips were cracked, he split a nail just buttoning up his shirt. He had to cinch his belt to the last hole and his slacks still hung loose on his hips.

It really hammered home for Dean that he was watching Sam starve to death.

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe he should've respected Sam's decision and let him figure it out on his own, or at least help him come up with another solution. But did you just stand back and let somebody fling themselves off a bridge because they could make their own choices? Or try to figure out another place for them to land when you already had a trampoline handy? Dean didn't see any option here but dirty pool.

He remembered the look in Sam's eyes, two different types of hunger all twisted up like they'd always been the same thing for him. He kept it in mind, and that guided him easy enough.

Dean had just been eating what he wanted, but now, he went out of his way to pig out. Four or five meals a day with snacks in between each one, trying to keep himself eating constantly, and his stomach as full as it could get around the clock. He'd more or less counted on making himself sick, but was shocked to find out that, actually, he kinda liked it. It didn't even hurt as bad as he thought it would after the first day or two, especially when he rubbed his belly with one hand, massaging at knots and gas bubbles, and fed himself with the other.

He touched his stomach a lot when Sam was around, more than he honestly needed to. Playing with his flab, patting it, just resting his hands on it. He figured it'd draw his attention to it. And Dean really made an effort to stay stuffed and keep gorging when Sam was there to see him.

He'd been thinking about getting new clothes for a while. God knew he needed them. But Dean didn't bother now, just wearing his old ones around the apartment. T-shirts that hugged his every curve and rode hard up the shape of his belly, jeans gone shiny in the ass with the eyeholes stretched out on the flies, flannels with straining buttons that showed off doughy, freckled flesh between them. He actually popped a couple of those buttons, most in front of Sam, without even trying. Dean was uncomfortable as all get out and could swear it was all getting tighter by the day, but he really wanted to show off how much he was eating. All the weight he'd gained. He even played around with the idea of going out and buying clothes that would've been too small for him even if he hadn't been porking up, but he never got around to it.

Basically, Dean was putting on a hell of a show, and Sam was watching. He saw his eyes on him at all times, felt his hands practically every five minutes before he snatched them away with a curse, like they'd wandered over without his permission. Not to mention the thing with the midnight snacks.

It hadn't been part of the plan, Dean just started getting hungry in the middle of the night. Wasn't like that was super new for him, what with his appetite and fucked-up sleep schedule, so he didn't think much of it. When he got back to bed with his stomach stuffed full of ice cream or whatever and hanging over the waistband of his pajama pants, round inside his too-tight sleep shirt, Sam'd propped himself up on the mattress with one elbow, watching him with pupils so huge his eyes were almost black and a stone-faced expression. He always rolled over without saying anything when Dean got back in bed, but Dean could feel Sam was still awake when he dropped off again.

Sam made it an insane, dangerous three weeks. After one, he told Dean he knew what he was doing and it wasn't going to work. Dean shrugged innocently, said he just liked eating, and he knew Sam did, too. Better hurry up and figure out how to feed.

After two, Sam stormed over to Dean on the couch, grabbed his shoulder, and snarled at him to cut it the fuck out right now. Dean, completely unfazed, asked him if he'd found a new way to feed. He'd end it all right this second if he had. But of course he hadn't.

At the end of the third week, Sam stumbled his way to work, looking like a scarecrow. Dean almost didn't let him go, knew he could've easily stopped him, but Sam demanded to be let out the door and at least he wouldn't be alone at his firm. When he came home, Dean heard him fumbling the keys in the lock. He let him in after about a minute of it. Sam fell immediately against him, teeth on his neck, kissing, nipping, licking, moaning. Desperately, he whimpered, "Sure? Want this?"

"Wanted it this whole damn time," Dean replied, and carried him to the bedroom, waddling a little as he went.

Afterwards, they were laying in bed, Sam curled against Dean with his head on his shoulder, a soft burp and gentle noise of contentment rolling out of him every so often. Dean's arm was wrapped around him. Sam's belly, drum-tight and obscenely swollen, a pretty impressive chunk of Dean's new pounds inside it, rested hot against him. Dean's own stomach was still full, but the layer of fat on it was mostly gone, love handles shrunken. His skin was maybe a little looser, but he didn't think there was a ton of difference there.

He was prepared for it to hurt, was okay with it. But it didn't really hurt that much at all, barely stung a little when the fangs on the proboscis (Sam was right, it was gross, but Dean'd seen worse) latched on. It did feel kinda weird getting liposuctioned, but it only left what looked like a big, fresh, perfect circle of a hickey down low on the side of his stomach. Sam's huge hand was currently laying gently on top of the mark, sweat on his palm burning in a way Dean sort of liked.

"Doing better?" Dean asked eventually.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am." Sam burped, then quietly said, "Thank you. This bought me a lotta time."

Dean was quiet. After a minute, he asked, "So you still ain't found an alternative, huh?"

Sam sighed heavily. "I keep running down options, but they're always dead ends. I-I don't even know what I'm gonna do, Dean."

"...what if you...just kept doing this?" Dean asked tentatively.

Sam snorted. "I think you're about tapped out."

"But I won't be for long if I keep doing what I have been the past three weeks," Dean pointed out. "Hell, the past few months, even. Spending all my time trying to fatten up for you."

Sam pushed himself up, frowning down at Dean. "You'd have to quit hunting." When Dean nodded, he shook his head. "I can't ask you to - "

"I don't wanna hear that again." Dean cut him off. "You're not asking, I am, and I want this. I can't watch you go through this again." He gestured to him. "Can't do it. It'll kill me." He smirked. "Look, I'll even enjoy being your feedbag. I mean, kinda what I'm good at...sitting around on my ass, stuffing my face and getting fat."

"If we did this, it'd be really hard on you," Sam pointed out. "We'd have to figure out a diet and exercise plan so you could gain and lose a ton of weight and stay healthy, and even that wouldn't be enough. I'd have to bring a lotta spells into play, create some of my own, even…"

"You're smart. You'll figure it out."

"I couldn't figure out how to feed myself."

"Well, this'll be a lot easier than that was," Dean said reasonably. "And that would've been pretty easy, too. If you weren't…" He smiled up at Sam, cupping his jaw and brushing a thumb over his lips. "Y'know, you."

Sam avoided his eyes. "It's not just about it being hard, I - " He took a deep breath. "Don't want you to start worrying I don't see you as a person. I don't want you to feel like a-a cake I can fuck and not my partner."

"Cake I can fuck" normally would've gotten a giggle out of Dean, but he tamped it down for the moment, and stated, "I love you, and I wanna take care of you. Good as you've taken care of me these past eighteen months. You...fixed stuff in me I didn't even know was broken, and I walked out on you." He swallowed. "Still haven't made that up to you."

Sam pulled his chin out of Dean's hand, so Dean grabbed his shoulder to keep him in place. "I wanna do this. And not 'cause I feel obligated or anything." He smirked. "God knows I rock at sitting on my ass and stuffing my face with junk food. Might even be better at that than hunting." Finally, he saw a little bit of a smile from Sam, and grinned back. "Yeah, you know."

Sam was quiet for a long, long time after that.

"Please," Dean told him softly, "lemme do this for you."

"Okay. Okay." Sam smoothed a hand back over his hair. Not nearly as much fell out this time. "Fine. But we're gonna be careful about it, all right? And it's only 'til I can figure out a different way to feed myself."

"All right," Dean agreed.

He never asked how that search was going, and after a few months, Sam stopped bringing it up, even shook off the guilt.

Dean couldn't have cared less.

Maybe about twenty minutes have passed since they finished up. The worst of the come and spit and lube and sweat has been wiped off but they didn't getting dressed or anything, just kinda basking in the glow on their big, comfy bed. Sam's head is on Dean's chest, which is definitely getting to where it's easy for him to use it as a pillow, and his hand's on Dean's stomach, just lazily rubbing. He does that a lot after sex. And when he's thinking, or bored, or just needs something to do with his hands while they're watching TV. Dean's not sure he's ever told him how much he likes it.

Dean's just starting to think about how great some jerky sounds right about now, after all the candy, when Sam breaks the silence.

"Y'know, you're a lot bigger than I expected you to get," he comments softly, casually. "Putting on weight a lot faster, too."

Dean glances down at the shaggy head on his pec with a frown, squishing his double chin. "That a bad thing?"

"Of course not," Sam assures. "It's great, actually. The smaller the percentage of your body weight I take when I feed, the easier it is on you."

"What, you mean you can't completely drain all this blubber?" Dean teases, smacking his own flank. Sam snorts.

"Of course not. Not without some kinda spell, at least...I'd burst otherwise."

"Well, I'd really love to see you try," Dean mentions. "I love that basketball belly you get after you feed real good. Can't do much besides moan and burp, super cuddly…" Sam's not looking at him, but Dean can see a blush on his scalp, so he relents. "I'm just glad this is working out so well."

"Mm-hm," Sam agrees, and kisses the spot Dean's collarbone used to be, just thick, freckled padding now.

After a little bit, Dean asks, "So, all the other fish tacos. How're they doing? You're still chatting on the regular, right?"

"Yeah. Course." Dean feels Sam frown against his skin. "Some're doing a lot better than others. Nothing's really filled the void since Maritza...we're struggling."

It doesn't take a whole lot for Dean to guess, "You feel bad, being able to feed off me. Not going hungry."

"Course I do."

"You shouldn't."

"I really can't help it, my...people are suffering." Sam tosses up a hand.

"Yeah, yeah, Moses, I know." Sam usually crashes out for an hour or two, at least, after they fuck, but he's wide awake right now. Dean shouldn't have brought up the other pistaku, dragging this ugly tangle of emotions to Sam's surface.

"I just...wish there was more I could do," Sam murmurs after a while.

Time marches on, measured out by their heartbeats, fallen into sync. That happens and Dean hasn't ever been able to figure out if it's a monster thing or just a long-term couple thing. Not like he's ever been in a two-species relationship before. Or a committed one.

Dean clears his throat. "What if I fed 'em?"

"What?!" Sam's head shoots up, eyes a greeny-amber color as he stares at Dean. "All of them?"

"Maybe not all," Dean allows, "but the ones who're really scrabbling, at least. You can do what Maritza used to, y'know, pack it up and ship it out. 'Cause even if they're nearby, I don't know I'm down with having anybody's lamprey thing on me but yours."

"Even to feed that many, you'd have to get…" Dean can literally see Sam running all kinds of nerdy calculations in his head. "...huge. Just enormous. And feeding everybody the way that Maritza's whole clinic did. If you ever worked up to that." Sam takes a deep breath. "There aren't that many of us out there, like I told you, but we're still talking, like. Breaking the world record for the heaviest person ever." Dean notes that he specifically shied away from wanting to feed every pistaku out there. Sam's just kinda landed on that as a natural endpoint all by himself. "Would you really be okay with that, Dean?"

"It's for a good cause," Dean points out. "And if I'm packing on the pounds super fast already, and you can figure out how to still keep me healthy and happy, I don't see why not."

Sam looks troubled, lower lip in his mouth. Dean sighs.

"I want this more than anything in the world," he states. "And not just 'cause it's the right thing to do." He slides his hand down to Sam's cock, kisses him, growls against his lips, "Feed my fat ass 'til I smash every piece of furniture in this place."

Sam's cock thickens, same as Dean's.

"Th-there's something else I wanna ask you," Sam says, kinda panting, and Dean thinks about his laptop, sitting on the kitchen counter. What he was apparently looking at last night.

"If it's what I think it is," Dean replies, kissing Sam again, "answer to that's hell yes, too." He grins. "I don't gotta have a diamond. Just get me something I'm not gonna grow out of."