This was a request from someone who wanted to remain anonymous.

They asked for a Weecest fic based off of a line of Sam's in the very first episode (incidentally, that line is now the title of this story). They suggested that the reason behind that particular line could be that a demonically-possessed Dean was stuffing Sam every chance he got, and specified that the demon shouldn't totally take over (at least, not at first) and that I could go just as hardcore with this as I wanted. Basically, they told me to run with it, and I did.

I ran so far with it that I think I'm in Canada now.

Or maybe Greenland.

Yeah...this turned out a lot longer than I thought it'd be...and there's a lot wrong with it, but I'm proud of it anyway.

WARNING (in case you didn't catch these in the description or the paragraph above): Contains Weecest (both Sam and Dean are underage), stuffing, weight gain, force-feeding, possessed!aggressive!Dean, chubby!scared!Sam.

Anyway. Requests, I take 'em, from everyone and for everything.

PM me if you're interested.

Sam

"Sammy!"

Dad's voice, rough and loud and angry with just a little bit of fear in it, jerked Sam out of sleep so immediately he doubted he hadn't been awake the whole time. Shaggy hair messy, today's T-shirt and a pair of worn sweatpants rumpled, he sat straight up in bed and threw the thin covers off. Immediately, the chill of a summer night in Northern Washington hit him, but he barely noticed. His dad and brother had gone out on a hunt, leaving him at home because they thought it looked "really damn dangerous." He'd had trouble falling asleep without Dean sprawled out in bed next to him, but it looked like they were back now.

Dad had thrown open the door of the motel room and flicked on the lights, and was standing there looking grim, a duffel bag full of weaponry and gear slung over one shoulder and his other arm supporting a pale, shaky-looking Dean. Sam felt a lightning bolt of fear and nausea strike in his stomach, seeing that, and he automatically swept his gaze over him, looking for wet blooms of red against the denim and flannel he was dressed in. But he didn't see anything that gave away a wound. Maybe it was on his back...but at least he was conscious, and (sort of) standing. That had to be a good sign.

"Little help here?" Dad asked gruffly. Sam scrambled out of bed, immediately shivering when his bare feet hit the icy linoleum that carpeted the room, and made a beeline for them. His heart fluttered with sudden fear when he got closer to Dean and saw how unfocused his eyes were.

"What happened?" he demanded, taking the majority of Dean's weight when Dad shoved him at him and kicked the door shut. With an arm looped through his older brother's armpits to hold him up, he almost staggered, but caught himself before he could start looking like a total idiot. Dean was sixteen, just over six feet tall, and bound in lean, wiry muscle. In other words, really, really heavy. Especially for Sam, with his slight build and embarrassingly-short stature.

"No idea," Dad replied, locking the door and then digging a canister of salt out of his bag to repair the line that had been laid down in front of it. "We got there, ran around the neighborhood for two hours, and didn't find a single trace of the damn thing we were after. Then we split up, and..." He hesitated, crossing the room and dumping his bag at the foot of the bed he'd been sleeping in. "Dean must've run into something. I heard him screaming, but whatever it was was gone by the time I got to him. He's been catatonic ever since."

"So...he's not, like..." Sam guided him to their bed, and let go of him, watching with mingled concern and relief as he sat down on his own with a sigh, closing his eyes. "Actually hurt?"

"I checked him," his dad said flatly. "He's not bleeding." Heading for the bathroom, he paused in front of Dean and crouched down, grabbing his chin and pulling one of his eyelids back to look at his eye, business-like. Dean twitched a little, like he was waking up, and reached up to shove his father's hands away with a scowl. "Yeah, looks like he's fine." He stood up, and turned to Sam, absentmindedly reaching out to ruffle his hair. "You find anything, though - a bit or a cut or anything - come get me, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Sam said automatically, nodding. Dad nodded back, stepping out of his boots, then went into the bathroom with an exhausted sigh. He closed the door, and Sam hard the shower sputter on a couple of minutes later.

"Sammy?" Hearing Dean's voice, quiet and slightly out of it, Sam turned to him. Dean was blinking up at him with tired green eyes, his hands clasped between his knees and his shoulders hunched inwards. He looked a whole lot younger than he actually was and a whole lot more vulnerable than he liked to act. Sam felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, despite the fact that Dean was usually the one who took care of him and he secretly liked it that way. He put a hand on his shoulder. They were way too old for hugs or hair-stroking, but he still wanted to try and provide him with some reassurance.

"You okay?" he asked, automatically looking him over for injuries again. Dean reached up and rubbed a hand through his sweat-matted brush cut, grimacing.

"Yeah...still in one piece, at least." He gave him a weary smile, which faded into a slight frown as he glanced around the room. "Dad got me home, I guess. Remind me to thank him."

"You don't remember coming back?" Sam asked, his voice worried as he took his hand off of Dean's shoulder and sat down next to him.

"Nope. Everything's sort of fuzzy - I barely even remember the hunt," Dean replied, busily tugging off his flannel button-down and the T-shirt underneath it. Completely abandoning the last traces of his trance, he turned his back to Sam, then glanced at him over his shoulder. "No holes?"

"No holes," Sam assured him, though he was still concerned. Just pale, creamy, freckled skin, stretched over the angular shapes of Dean's shoulder blades and dotted here and there with old scars.

"Great." He tugged the T-shirt back on, then wriggled out of his boots and jeans, leaving just his boxers. "Anyway. Something must've caught me in the head, knocked some stuff around in there...but I'm just fine now." He smiled at Sam, the expression warm and real this time, and leaned over to ruffle his hair. Sam was grateful for the touch - it was comforting.

"You might have a concussion," he pointed out, drawing his legs up and folding them.

"Doubt it," Dean responded dismissively. Sam fidgeted.

"Well, you should at least have Dad take you to the hospital tomorrow," he pushed. "So they can check your eyes and stuff, make sure you're not really hurt."

"You worry way too much. You know that?" Picking up his clothes and dumping them at the foot of the bed, out of the way, Dean moved to turn off the lights. "I'm real sorry that we woke you up, though." There was a click, and Sam blinked in the sudden, near-complete darkness. "You should try to go back to sleep."

"So...you're sure you're okay?" He tried, one last time, to put his own mind at ease. There was something...off, something twitching in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe it wasn't that important, if he couldn't even figure it out.

"Yeah, Sammy. I'm awesome," Dean told him amiably, pulling back the covers that Sam had twisted up when he got out of bed. He nodded to him, then snapped his fingers in the direction of the mattress, directing him back into bed. Sam obeyed, burrowing in under the sheets and the bedspread. He was used to Dean guiding him with slight movements and small sounds. It was a staple of their relationship. "Just really tired. And I feel a little weird, but I'm sure it's nothing a good night's sleep can't fix."

"Dean," Sam started, his concern coming back, but his brother shut him up by resting a gentle hand on the curve of his scalp. Whatever he had been going to say next died in his throat, and he closed his eyes.

"I'm serious, now. Stop worrying so much - you're only twelve." As Sam nestled a little deeper into the flat motel pillow, which smelled like the bleach it had probably been cleaned in, Dean lay down next to him. His weight made the bed creak, and Sam was childishly comforted by his presence as he pulled the covers up over himself. He had almost managed to go back to sleep when Dean rolled over, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him close.

Sam made a surprised little sound, hazel eyes springing open. It took a second for his sleep-fogged brain to gather all the clues - a warm chest pressed against his back, strong arms cradling his upper torso, steady breath ruffling the hair on the back of his neck - but, as soon as he did, they all fit together in his mind with a near-audible snap. He tried to squirm away, making an annoyed, uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat.

"C'mon, Dean, I'm not five anymore," he snapped, sitting up and shoving Dean's arms off of himself. "Seriously, what the hell? We haven't slept like that in years...it's just weird now."

"Okay, okay, sorry," Dean said, sitting next to him, and holding both hands up in a universal "take-it-easy" gesture. "You're not really all that fun to hold anyway, Sammy." He reached over and poked him in the chest, but didn't take his finger away. Instead, he ran it down over the ridges of his ribs, and Sam swatted at his hand. Not hard, just enough to show him he wanted him to cut it out. "Way too bony."

"I'm going through a growth spurt." That was what Dad had said, at least, after they'd visited Caleb and he'd commented on Sam's appearance. "My weight and height aren't all balanced yet - "

"Please." Dean laughed a little, but at least he took his hand away. "You're, like, five-foot-nothing. You're tiny, and you're gonna stay tiny. Growth spurt my ass."

"Jerk," Sam shot at him, laying back down. Whatever mild awkwardness there had been had passed.

"Bitch." He heard the smile in Dean's voice as he said that, then felt fingertips on his stomach. He squirmed again, sighing exasperatedly. "It was better when you were five. You were so soft - all that puppy fat. Felt so good to cuddle with."

Sam stayed silent for a few seconds, eyes open in the dark and eyebrows drawn together. This was starting to get just a little bit weird. He nudged Dean's hand off of his belly, still covered by his T-shirt, and looked up at him.

"If you're still 'feeling weird' tomorrow..." he said. He didn't bring his hands out from under the sheets to put air quotes around the words, but he thought his tone implied it. And Dean would make fun of him mercilessly if he ever actually air quotes around something. "...I'm making Dad take you to the ER, even if you won't ask him."

"I think I'll be fine." Dean reached over, and patted his flat stomach. Sam felt his forehead crease in confusion. "Go to sleep now. I think we're shipping out tomorrow, since this hunt turned out to be a bust.

Sam looked up at him again, and caught a flash of his eyes right before he turned away from him and laid back down.

In the weak light filtering through the curtains from the nearby highway, he could have sworn they were a solid, glossy black.

Sam

Sam woke up to a smell that was pretty common in the mornings for his ragtag family: something greasy, fried, and (its only virtue) piping hot. He stirred where he was cocooned under the covers of the queen-sized motel bed, and sensed an empty space next to him. Dean was already up. That wasn't weird in of itself, since he was just an innately early riser and Sam wasn't. What struck him as a little strange was the fact that he'd let him sleep instead of hauling him out of bed.

He rolled over onto his back and sat up, feeling his hair sticking up in a wild, chocolate-brown cloud around his head. Dean was in the kitchenette, short, dirty-blonde hair still damp from a shower and a worn Guns 'n' Roses T-shirt falling loosely over his chest and back. He'd been rummaging in a plastic bag on the tiny slab of counter, but when he looked up and saw that Sam was awake, he smiled brilliantly at him. Finding a package of paper plates, he dropped it on the table, next to two grease-spotted paper bags and a carton o milk. Gesturing to one of the bags, he exclaimed, "That gas station down the street sells bacon."

Sam squinted. "Is it any good?"

Dean stared at him for a second, before emphasizing, "It's bacon," like it was an explanation.

"Where's Dad?" Sam asked, scratching his cheek as he glanced at the other bed. The bedspread was pulled taut and neat with military efficiency.

"Library. Looking for our next job." Dean shrugged, ripping open the package of plates and pulling out two before turning around to dig through the bag again. He turned up cups, but no silverware or napkins. "He told me I was in charge of breakfast."

Sam swung his legs off the mattress, frowning at the digital clock on the microwave. It was about nine. "How come you didn't get me up?"

"I figured you were tired," Dean replied, beckoning him over. "You can sleep if you want to, Sammy."

Sam laughed, because he figured he was being sarcastic, but it actually didn't seem like it. He stood up, trying unsuccessfully to pat his hair down. He yawned widely as he made his way over to the small table. Dean nudged the bags towards him, popping open the carton to pour him a glass of milk. Sam peered inside one of them. Doughnuts.

"You might wanna shower first," Dean told him, as he reached in and grabbed a glazed one with sticky red filling oozing out either side of it. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it was warm. "Or at least brush your hair before it bites somebody."

Sam rolled his eyes, biting into the doughnut. Sweet, gooey, greasy - exactly the sort of cheap, fast fare he'd been all but raised on. He was twelve, and he wouldn't be surprised to find out his arteries were already clogging.

"Dude, I'm not even kidding, that's some serious bedhead." As Sam dropped into a chair, Dean ran a hand over his hair, flattening it with smooth, broad strokes. He let him, cramming the rest of the doughnut into his mouth and reaching for the plastic cup full of milk. Because he had no idea when Dad would come back and demand they leave, he chugged it, wiping the back of his hand across his lips and stifling a burp when he was done. Still a little hungry, he reached for a second doughnut, eating this one more slowly only because he didn't want to make himself sick. He'd learned the hard way that inhaling too much food at once had some pretty nasty consequences.

"D'you think you could, like, stop...petting me?" he asked, looking up at Dean as he popped the last bite of the doughnut into his mouth. He didn't actually mind him smoothing down his hair. He just felt somehow obligated to put up boundaries.

"Sorry." Dean's hand stilled on his head. "I mighta gotten a little carried away. Your hair's a real pain in the ass, though, Sammy. Ever thought about getting it cut more than twice a year?"

"Dad cuts it way more often than..." He trailed off, because Dean was moving to crouch next to his chair. He took his hand off of Sam's head, reaching for the hem of his T-shirt. Sam squirmed a little, uncomfortable, as he pulled it up to expose his slightly-inflated belly. He examined it with a weird intensity in his eyes, and Sam couldn't help being reminded of last night. Especially when he put a hand on him. He looked at his eyes, but - still green, not black. It must have been a trick of the light. He didn't know what solid-black eyes meant, anyway. "Uh. De." The nickname slipped out before he could stop it. "What're you doing?"

"Just...y'know. Checking." He took his hand away, but didn't pull Sam's shirt down. He hurriedly did that himself, as Dean straightened up and then dropped into a nearby chair. He looked at him, and, well...it was almost a leer. Sam felt like ice water was trickling down his spine. "You're not full yet."

"What? Yeah, I am." He shifted. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"And you think that that means you're full?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "C'mon. Eat a little more." He pushed the paper bags closer to him, refilled his glass. "A couple more doughnuts, some bacon..."

Hesitantly, Sam reached for the bag of doughnuts, randomly grabbing one with a chocolate glaze. He could probably handle one more without getting a stomachache, though he didn't know why Dean wanted him to keep eating. He'd never ordered him to before, despite the fact that Sam didn't exactly clean his plate on a regular basis. He didn't like a lot of the stuff they usually had.

"Why?" he asked before taking a bite. Dean smiled.

"Well, I don't want you to get hungry," he answered. "You're a growing boy, Sammy." He laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back. "I worry you're not getting enough."

"Um." Sam bit into the doughnut. He couldn't see any reason not to. "Are you...still feeling weird today?"

"Nah. No, I'm a lot better, now." His smile widened. "In fact, I feel just great. Good as new. So - see? You didn't have to worry about me at all." The smile became a little fonder, and Sam couldn't help but feel a bit better. There had been something almost predatory in his expression before, something he really didn't like. Eating carefully and sitting up totally straight, so most of his stomach area was hidden from Dean by the table, he couldn't help but focus on his eyes. They stayed a deep, jewel-like green. He didn't even know what he'd do if they turned black, but he figured he'd better watch anyway. He swallowed the last bite of what had been his third doughnut, and Dean's eyes - still green - flickered to the full glass of milk. "Go on. Drink up."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Sam unconsciously put a hand on his belly, grimacing a little at the thought of another glass of milk inside of him.

"You'll be fine," Dean encouraged, unlacing his fingers. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, clasping his hands down between his spread knees. "It's not gonna kill you."

Well, that sure put it in perspective. Sam resisted the urge to role his eyes, and just reached for the clear plastic cup instead, taking a gulp before he could change his mind. It sat heavy and cold in his mouth, and he felt his eyebrows draw together right before he swallowed. It tasted a little funny. Not actually bad, just a lot sweeter than it should be. He hadn't noticed it before because he'd been drinking so fast, but it jumped out at him now. He glanced at Dean, who had fished a doughnut out of the bag and was eating with an occupied expression on his face, like he was thinking really, really hard about something. He'd tasted spoiled milk before, because Dad wasn't too great with expiration dates or refrigerating things, and this wasn't like that at all. He decided not to bug him about it, and took another drink, then another. It was surprisingly good.

By the time he finished, he'd gotten full enough to be physically uncomfortable, pastries and milk stretching a stomach that wasn't used to holding so much. Sam burped, a tiny, hiccup-y sound, and licked his lips, swiping the last traces of sweetness off. There had to be something weird with the milk; he reached for the carton, wincing as he felt his breakfast slosh inside him, and looked it over. His eyes widened.

"Dean!"

Dean, who appeared to be satisfied after only on doughnut and hadn't been paying much attention to him, glanced at him with raised eyebrows.

"This isn't milk." He shook the carton at him.

"It's not? What are you talking about?" Dean reached for it.

"It's cream," Sam snapped, handing it over. "You just had me drink two glasses of straight cream." His belly gurgled uncomfortably with the realization. "It's going to make me sick."

Dean stared at the carton, brow furrowed, looking completely perplexed. Sam felt a sudden surge of childish frustration - he was hurting and he wanted Dean to pay attention to him, to make him feel better - but immediately stamped it down. He wasn't a little kid, and he wasn't totally dependent on his older brother anymore. Besides. If anything, he should be pissed at him for screwing up.

"I coulda sworn..." Dean muttered, then trailed off. A couple seconds later, he shook his head. "Whatever. You're not gonna get sick." He put the carton back on the table, then leaned forward a little. "It might help if you ate a little more. Y'know, to soak up the cream. Dilute it or something." He shrugged, casually.

Sam leaned back in his chair, fully aware that the position made the slight bulge of his stomach even more obvious, and scowled. "You're full of it. How the hell would eating more help?"

"Sammy. Language," Dean replied, the words sounding automatic. He and Dad cussed like sailors, but, for some reason, Sam wasn't allowed to. Not around him. He almost always reprimanded him when he swore. "Anyway...c'mon." He nudged the bag of doughnuts just a little closer to him, pulled the top open just a little wider. "I'm your big brother. Trust me on this.

Sam hesitated, extremely aware of how uncomfortable the pressure in his belly was, and Dean picked up on it. He turned the bag towards himself slightly, hooking a doughnut out with one finger. He offered it to Sam, eyebrows raised.

"Eat, Sammy." He shook his head. "It's not gonna hurt you."

He believed him, because Dean had never and would never hurt him. He always did whatever was absolutely best for him. So he took the doughnut, and bit into it, enjoying the sweet taste of it despite how full he was. Dean patted him approvingly on the shoulder.

Dean didn't let him stop eating after that doughnut, despite the fact that a whiny note had wormed its way into his protests. He just shoved another one into his hands and refused to take no for an answer. His stomach was actually starting to hurt by then, so he had no idea how Dean coaxed him into eating it. Or drinking another full glass of the cream he must have accidentally grabbed instead of milk, or digging more than a few strips of bacon out of the bag they were in and eating those. He squeezed his shoulder each and every time, smiled lovingly at him, and dropped something else into his hands.

"Dean - Dean, stop," Sam panted as soon as he had swallowed his latest mouthful of bacon. He was slouched in his chair, legs spread in an effort to be more comfortable, belly swollen into an obvious, painful curve with sugar and grease. Soft, pale skin was visible in a wide strip between the hem of his T-shirt and the waistband of his sweatpants, stretched taut. He let out a quiet burp, then winced and shifted his weight, because it hurt. Actually, it really hurt. Worse than some wounds he'd gotten while hunting. "Stop it. I'm so full - I really can't eat any more."

"You're done, huh?" Dean's head was cocked slightly, green eyes fixed completely on Sam's stomach, which struck him as just a little weird. He glanced up to look at him, a small smile on his lips. "Okay, Sammy, if you say so...but there's still plenty left, if you change your mind."

Sam shook his head rapidly, clapping a hand to his mouth to stifle another burp. "No. No way. That was definitely way too much, I shouldn't have - " Another burp, as he tried to haul himself into an upright sitting position. It didn't seem to relieve any of the painful pressure. " - let you talk me into that. I'm..." He put a hand on his aching belly and trailed off. But Dean seemed to get what he meant.

"Yeah, you're real full, aren't you?" He leaned forward and poked him, but gently. Sam winced anyway, brushing his hand away and murmuring out something about how it hurt. "So much you can see it. You're still pretty tiny, but it's obviously just how much you crammed into your little belly. Like you swallowed a balloon." He tapped a couple of fingers on his stomach. Sam scowled and shoved him off of himself again, a little rougher this time.

"Cut it out. What'd I just tell you?" he demanded, yanking his shirt down and his pants up self-consciously. They were too tight over his middle, but he didn't care.

"I know, I know, it hurts. Poor Sammy," Dean soothed, putting a hand on his knee and squeezing affectionately. "Man, even your clothes look a little stretched." He smiled at Sam, who couldn't quite bring himself to smile back. "You're absolutely adorable, with such a round, full belly. Did a lot better than I expected you to."

"Uh..." Sam started uncertainly, pulling his shirt down further. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing super important." Dean shrugged, then stood up. He made a slow circle around Sam's chair, lowering his hand to trail his fingertips over the curve of his stomach while he did. Sam shifted a little, some part of him liking the contact but other parts nowhere near sure about it. "It doesn't really matter. You're hurting, huh? From eating so much?"

"Yeah - " Sam did his best, but it came out sounding a little bit like a whimper. He had a full-blown stomachache, he felt way too full and bloated to the point of pain, and he didn't like the sensation of being packed so full of so much rich, greasy food. It was way too early in the morning for him to be this miserable. And he was angry at himself for being so pathetic. A rawhead they had gone toe-to-toe with in Illinois had ripped a massive, bloody gash between his shoulder blades several months ago, and he hadn't shed a single tear. Where was that strength now?

"Okay, little brother. Okay. Let me - " Dean laid a heavy, warm hand on top of his belly, and Sam shivered, but he abruptly stopped talking when the muffled roar of a familiar engine reached them. Letting go of Sam (who was weirdly disappointed and didn't know why), he went to the window and swept the curtains aside. "Shit." Scowling, he turned around, and quickly stalked back over to Sam. "Dad's here, we gotta go. I'll pack everything up." He reached down, grabbed his shoulders, and hauled him to his feet, none too gently. Sam gasped in sudden pain, both hands flying to the rounded, sensitive bulge of his stomach. He clutched it as Dean shoved him in the direction of the bags that held their clothes, holding back another whimper. "You get dressed, brush your hair - " Something salty was suddenly stuffed into his mouth. Another slice of bacon. " - and have a little bit more." While Sam chewed, slightly bothered but having no other choice, he gave his belly a couple of soft, affectionate pats. "We've got a long drive ahead of us, so you can just lean up against me and digest a little before we stop for lunch."

He swallowed, grimacing as that made the strained ache in his stomach worse, and looked down at himself. The small-but-noticeable bulge eclipsed part of his feet.

"I'm probably still going to be pretty full at lunch," he pointed out, the very thought of eating another meal - ever - making him grit his teeth.

"Yeah, we'll see. Hurry up." Dean moved away from him, in order to gather up the pile of dirty clothes that had been steadily accumulating at the foot of their bed.

Sam thought he'd throw up, bending down to grab some clothes, but he managed not to. His distended belly was a constant, unwelcome reminder that he'd overdone it (and at Dean's urging - it was a little weird to think about) as he swapped out his T-shirt for a fresh one. After a second's hesitation, he pulled a hoodie on over it, because he didn't want Dad to see him and make fun of him for being a pig. That was easy enough, but the jeans he stepped into were a lot harder. He could get them zipped, but the button...he didn't want to risk it. He thought that it'd be way too tight, and was going to just leave it undone until he was a little less full, until Dean strode over with the strap of a duffel bag over his shoulder and asked, "Need some help?"

"No, I'm fine, I just - " But his large hands were already working the button through its denim slit, callused knuckles brushing against his bare skin, and Sam grunted as the waistband was drawn tight. "Dean, no, it hurts."

"You're okay. If it was really bad, I wouldn't've been able to get 'em buttoned at all." He shot him a smile, even as Dad opened the door of the room to call them out to the Impala. When Sam started across the room, walking right next to Dean, and reached for his waistband, his hand was gently pushed away. "No, leave it. You don't want your pants to fall down, do you?"

Sam admitted that no, he didn't. As his older brother opened the door and gestured him through, he noticed that the salt that had been in front of it was spread all over the floor. Almost certainly from when Dad had left. Dean had never repaired the line after he went to the library.

He thought it was just a little sloppy, especially because Dean obeyed Dad's every order immediately and followed his rules with a near-religious fervor, but he didn't really think it was weird. It was forgotten by the time they reached the car, and he wouldn't understand the significance until much later.

Dean

Dean had absolutely no idea what was going on.

He knew, without a doubt, that he was kinky, twisted, and sick beyond belief, but, then, he'd known that since he first entered puberty and started noticing girls and other guys and - it still made him cringe a little, even now - his own brother. He'd known since those soft hazel eyes and that silky brown hair and that smooth skin had started putting butterflies in his stomach, even though the owner of all those things was just a little boy and, oh, yeah, related to him. He'd known since Sam had started training and helping out on hunts, making the last of his baby softness melt away, and Dean'd missed it when they hugged or brushed against each other, leading him to realize that he really liked a...different body type.

But he'd never acted on any of those things, and he'd thought that there was now way in Hell he ever would. He wouldn't touch Sammy at all in any way that wasn't purely brotherly, even if, by some screwed-up miracle, he felt the same way. After all, it wasn't the kid's fault his brother had something so wrong with him, and Dean loved him way too much to ever take advantage of him. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he hurt him, considering how amazing and perfect and precious Sammy was. So he wanted to hold him close, nuzzle into his hair, and whisper haphazardly about what he felt for him, but, instead, he slept in the same bed as him and never touched him. He thought about cupping his face and gently kissing those delicate rose-bud lips of his, but he just smiled at him. He loved the idea of holding a happy, chubby, completely-full Sammy tightly on his lap, cuddling with him, but he didn't encourage him - ever - to eat past the point of being full.

Dean didn't remember what had happened on last night's hunt. Just the vaguest recollection of his jaws being forced open and something halfway between a liquid and a gas pouring rapidly into him, but he was pretty sure that that'd been a nightmare. He'd felt weird when he snapped out of whatever had been wrong with him, but he hadn't realized just how weird until he'd up and acted on a fleeting thought about holding his brother. Just rolled over and put his arms around him, which was a massive no-no. He didn't do this, he wasn't allowed to do this - but Sam didn't freak out quite like he'd expected him to. Probably because he didn't know about the creepy, incestuous feelings that Dean had for him, but that was more than okay. So he'd just rolled over and gone to sleep, figuring...well, crisis averted.

And it might've been, if his self-control hadn't been just as absent this morning as it was last night. First of all, Dad had left, and he hadn't redone the salt line in front of the door. He hadn't made a conscious decision to forget about it, it'd just sort of slipped his mind, and he was pissed at himself because it'd been stupid and dangerous. And then there had been the thing with the cream. He would swear under oath that he'd grabbed milk, and he hadn't even known that that gas station sold straight cream (though he'd be lying if he said that some part of him wasn't glad about the mistake, because the knowledge that there were three whole glasses of cream in Sammy's bulging belly...he just couldn't get over it). But the thing that bothered him the most, more than anything else, was that he'd stuffed him. He'd coaxed his sweet, innocent baby brother to eat and eat and eat until he was full enough for his jeans to cut into him painfully.

He'd liked it. He'd liked watching Sam obediently cram doughnuts into his mouth and chug cream just because he'd told him to, and a tiny little part of him had loved it when he begged him to stop. Mostly, though, he'd felt bad. No, he'd felt terrible, he'd absolutely hated himself, because he'd done something so sick and horrible and he might've hurt him.

The self-loathing had drained away almost immediately, leaving him just wanting to fix it. To take care of him, to make the pain go away. Then Dad had showed up, and even that was gone. There was just pleasure and enjoyment. Which was why he'd stuffed another strip of bacon into Sammy's mouth and helped him button his jeans, even though it'd obviously caused him pain.

Why the hell had he done that? He wanted to be gentle with him, if he was suddenly going to just completely throw all his inhibitions out the window and do this no matter what. He wanted him to feel safe, and loved, and he didn't want to hurt him. He never had.

So why was some part of him pushing for it now?

He didn't know. He didn't even know why he was acting on his urges all of a sudden, but...

He couldn't stop himself from liking his newfound bravery. Just a little.

Dad was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to a Styx song on the radio, up in the driver's seat, and Dean was sitting directly behind him with his long legs stretched out as far as they could go without hitting the seat. Sometimes he rode shotgun, being both the older and the taller of his father's two sons, but, today, he'd insisted on sitting in the back with Sammy. He was glad he'd made that decision. Sam kept shifting his weight, whimpering almost silently as he tried and failed to find a comfortable position. As Dean watched, lips pressed together guiltily, he messed with his hoodie on the other side of the car, his lips slightly parted as he gasped and panted in discomfort. When he moved in a certain way, the small, rounded shape of his full belly was visible through the thick fabric. Dean felt blood pound down to his crotch. He sighed deeply when Sam's small hands reached for the button of his jeans, but hesitated, glancing over at him out of the corners of his eyes as he bit his lip and moved his hands away.

"Sammy," Dean said, keeping his voice gentle and low enough that Dad wouldn't be able to hear him. Sam looked over, eyes wary and slightly hooded, as he slouched on the bench seat with his legs spread wide in an effort to just be a little bit more comfortable. "Come over here." He patted the seat next to him encouragingly, then stretched out an arm.

Sammy looked up at Dad, biting his lip with his eyebrows drawn together. He wasn't paying any attention to them. He rarely did, when he was driving and they were in the back seat. When they were a little younger, it used to be a time for Sam to scoot over and cuddle with Dean without their father shooting a disapproving "Aren't you boys a little old for that?" at them. But with Dean's attention taken up with girls and, secretly, guys ninety percent of the time ( a distraction because what he really wanted was sick and wrong and wouldn't even fly with himself), and Sammy getting older and more fiercely, desperately independent, they didn't do that so much anymore.

"Why?" Sammy asked, matching Dean's volume. He absentmindedly put a hand on his stomach, and Dean mentally stomped down the arousal that the gesture sparked in him. But something let it flare right back up. He gritted his teeth and tried to think past his half-hard cock.

"You're obviously not doing too good over there," he said. "C'mere. Let me see if I can do anything for you."

"What're you going to do, feed me more?" Sammy asked with a wry little smile. The words were joking, but there was an undercurrent of something else - pain or fear - that made Dean wince. He was the reason for that.

"No. No way, you kinda look like you're about to pop already. I wouldn't do that." He shook his head, feeling his face settle into an expression that he somehow knew was just the right mixture of concern and apology. He hadn't made a conscious decision to do that. "I just wanna make you feel better."

"Just how're you gonna do that?" Sammy looked skeptical.

"Get over here, and I'll show you," Dean replied, making an encouraging little gesture with his outstretched hand. "C'mon, I won't bite...what's the matter? Shy?"

Sammy snorted. "No. I just..." He hesitated, and straightened up. The position forced a tiny burp out of him, one that made him jump a little like he had just hiccuped, and it was so cute that Dean fervently wished he had done this with him way before now. But only for a second. "I'm fine where I am. I can deal."

"Sammy, seriously. It's gotta hurt, being so full," Dean pressed, folding his arms across the sharp little pectorals of his narrow chest.

"Yeah, it does," Sammy said, leaning his head against the window on his side and closing his eyes. "Stop reminding me, Dean...I'm fine."

Dean let it go then, because it looked like he dozed off. Sleeping with a full belly was good; it meant that the calories in there were more likely to be converted into fat - and he didn't want to wake him up because he didn't get enough sleep as it was. There were always dark circles under his pretty hazel eyes, and it couldn't be healthy for a kid his age. That far outweighed the other reason. Or, at least, it should.

He ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, hissing through gritted teeth as he thought, angrily, I love him, he means freaking everything to me and I don't even know what I'd do if he hated me - I don't want to hurt him, he's not my sex toy - I don't have any right at all to use him like this. Why the hell do I keep feeling like this?

The answer, when it came, wasn't what he wanted at all. It didn't even really address his question.

He's mine, isn't he? Completely mine. I carried him out of a burning building and I've looked after him ever since. I should just reach over and grab him if I want him. It'll be fine.

The internal voice sounded like his own, he guessed, but he had no idea where the words had come from. His hands twitched with the sudden need to hold Sammy, but he quelled it. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, and hoped that he wouldn't have any other thoughts like that one.

Of course, that went out the window when they stopped around noon, in a small town with one street that held all of its restaurants, stores, bars, and other important buildings. Including the library, which Dad parked the car in front of with the excuse that he wanted to do more research before they rushed headlong into their latest hunt. He didn't want or need Sam and Dean's help, despite Sam's offer and Dean's insistence that they were practically full-fledged hunters already. Dad just looked back and forth between them - small, dark-haired Sammy, leaning against the car with his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie (and, incidentally, looking and acting a lot better than earlier, so he must have digested quite a bit), and tall, dirty-blonde Dean, standing in front of him with his boots planted shoulder-width apart and his arms crossed defiantly - and didn't seem very impressed by what he saw. Instead of taking them into the library with him, he pulled out his wallet, dug out a stack of bills without looking at how much was there, and shoved it into Dean's hand.

"Get you and your brother something to eat," he said, while Dean transferred the money into his own wallet. He quickly counted it as he did so, and was a little surprised by just how much there was. He thought about saying something, but...decided not to. It might come in handy later. "No alcohol, Dean. None. I know there are bars around here, and I know you have more than one fake ID, because I made some of 'em for you. But they weren't for this, and Sammy's still a little young for that, and you definitely don't need any right now. Not even beer."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied. He hadn't planned on it anyway. Just the taste of the stuff made Sam violently sick, ever since a friend of their dad's, down in Salt Lake, had given him a beer when he was way too little to handle it. And Dean himself didn't like the feeling of being drunk, or even buzzed, because it was too close to real impairment. It was just hard to say no when Dad tossed him a bottle after a successful hunt and wanted to chat over it.

"And don't let him out of your sight." He fixed him with his dark, serious gaze, giving him a heavy "man-to-man" look. "Go ahead and hold his hand if you have to, to keep him from wandering off. I..." He trailed off, glancing away and shaking his head. "Something hasn't felt right to me since last night. No idea what it is, but I want you two to stick together. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean repeated, nodding. Dad nodded back, then turned and vanished into the town's rather-humble library

When he started to lead Sammy down the sidewalk and asked what sounded good to him for lunch, the response was less than enthusiastic. He said he didn't really want anything to eat at all, because he was still full from breakfast. His stomach didn't actually hurt anymore, he just wasn't hungry. Dean changed his mind, though, with an encouraging hand on his shoulder and some gentle talk. Within minutes, they were sitting at a tiny outdoor table at a burger joint, Sammy reluctantly chowing down on a cheeseburger dripping with grease while Dean stole fries from the red plastic baskets of the several other meals settled in front of him. He'd made the excuse that he was incredibly hungry, after eating only one doughnut for breakfast, but, needless to say, he planned on most of this ending up in his little brother's stomach.

He'd wanted to lay a hand on that stomach before he even started eating. Feel out the shape of it and how he was doing. But he'd thought that that might just be a little too weird for Sam to shrug off, so he hadn't. It seemed to be pretty much the only urge he'd managed to control. He wasn't sure how he'd known exactly what to say and do in order to wrangle him into this, or why he thought it was okay to stuff him again. But Sammy was eating, his belly getting fuller and fuller, and Dean honestly couldn't focus on anything else.

It didn't take a whole lot to get him to eat past the point of comfort, just like it hadn't that morning. Three burgers and a whole lot of fries seemed to be all he could handle before Dean honestly started to worry that he'd get hurt. He'd complained, multiple times, that he was full, or that the food was too greasy, but he kept eating when he was told to. He squirmed in his chair while Dean watched, biting his lip in an effort not to whimper in pain, his stomach a taut, round shape that was visible even underneath his baggy hoodie. Like a medicine ball. He had to be in a lot of pain, considering that his jeans were still buttoned. He hadn't undone them while he was eating, and the button hadn't popped off.

But wouldn't that have been awesome if it had?

"Full?" Dean asked quietly, shoving that thought out of his head. Sammy's eyes were half-closed when he looked over at him, and his mouth was open as he panted, pink tongue poking out. With him slouched in his chair to accommodate that swollen belly, Dean really couldn't have asked for a more pornographic image.

"You could, um - ow, ow, ow..." He'd shifted into a different position, but quickly moved out of it. Apparently, it hadn't felt that good. "You could say that." Sammy grimaced a little. "How come you kept watching me to keep eating? This is..." He looked down at himself, and bit his lip again. "This is way too much."

"Oh, c'mon, don't blame me. I didn't make you eat." But, oh, man, he'd wanted to. "You're just kind of a pig." Dean stood, gathering up the debris of their lunch and dumping it into the nearest trash can. He walked over to stand beside Sammy's chair, acting impulsively when he put a hand on his head and stroked his sun-warmed hair. "Nah..." he continued thoughtfully, "you're a little too...little to be a pig." He tipped Sammy's head back, smiling down at him. "You're a piglet, Sammy."

You're my piglet.

Sam just rolled his eyes. Dean knew that he'd gotten pretty used to jabs about his size a long time ago. Putting his hands on the wrought-iron table, he pushed himself to his feet with a grunt of effort, then promptly stumbled, his center of gravity obviously having shifted a little. Dean caught him with an arm around his shoulders.

"Whoa, there," he said, hiding a smile. "Careful. Don't hurt yourself - we'll take it nice and slow, okay? Gotta get you back to the car so you can sit down."

"Hurts," Sammy muttered. Dean gave him an affectionate squeeze.

"Yeah, I know, you overdid it," he said, nodding sympathetically. "But you'll be just fine in a few hours. C'mon, lean on me if you have to." He slipped his arm down around his torso in order to support him better. "I think I said it this morning, but this is just way too cute."

"'M not cute," he growled, looking away, and Dean couldn't tell if he was actually making him uncomfortable or if he was just being a pissy teenager. He hoped for the latter.

It was slow going back to the Impala, and Dean ended up making a lot of decisions that he wasn't too proud of, later. A bad one was cupping one hand around Sammy's stomach. A worse one was squeezing a little bit, making him gasp and then burp. But, hands down, his absolute worst decision was the one to listen to the voice in the back of his head that had suddenly sprung up and suggested he feed him more, and stop for ice cream.

Sammy looked up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes when he brought a bowl of vanilla back from the counter and set it in front of him. Dean ruffled his hair, giving him some bullshit line about it helping, and, miraculously, he bought it. At least, he must have, seeing as he ate most of it. Dean hurried him back to the car after that and made him lie down on the bench seat, with his hoodie off to make a pillow. Sitting next to him, he was worried by the size of his belly and how much he'd eaten. His jeans cut harshly into him, but something wouldn't let him undo them for him. His shirt had ridden up a little, exposing pale, tightly-stretched skin. Dean ached to touch him, wanted desperately to fix at least a little bit of what he'd done here, but he wouldn't. Not without permission.

He'd like it if I rubbed his belly, though. He's hurting so bad - he'd love it.

Dad came back to the car as Dean was drumming his fingers on his thigh, Sammy's sneakers pressed against his hip and reminding him of what a horrible person he was. He scowled, because his father hadn't come from the library - he'd come from the bar across the street. Freaking hypocrite. Sammy almost certainly would have demanded that Dean drive, if he'd noticed. But his head was nestled into the soft polyester of his hoodie, his eyes glazed and his breathing slow and shallow. Thankfully, the obliviousness was two-way - Dad, just sober enough not to kill them all, didn't notice Sammy's overstuffed stomach.

They stopped at a diner around seven o'clock, by which time Sammy's jeans fit him again. Dean's first thought was to remedy that. Sammy only protested weakly when when he ordered for him - appetizers, meal, dessert. Dad, looking over some notes he'd taken, didn't pay any attention to them at all. Dean told Sam to eat, and he did, giving him worried, nervous glances every once in awhile. But his belly ballooned back out into a food-packed globe anyway, his jeans so tight that it was practically a miracle they didn't break. His hair hung into his eyes, and there was a faint blush running along his cheekbones. The sharp, prominent shapes of them had been budding in his round face as he lost the last of his baby fat, but they'd be invisible again soon if he kept this up.

Back in the car, where it was totally dark except for the warm, distant lights of the diner, Dean was waiting for Dad to come out after paying the bill and trying to pick a loose thread out of his jeans when Sammy snuggled up against him. He stiffened, absolutely shocked, but that lasted for less than a second. Then he had an arm around him, pulling him closer. Sam grunted a little, burying his face in his chest, the curve of his stomach pressing against Dean's hip.

"He, there, Sammy," he murmured softly, hesitating before gently patting his belly. But not for long.

"De...it hurts," he whispered back.

"I bet it does." Dean dug his fingertips into him through his shirt and started making small, soothing circles. "Here, baby boy, see? I can help...that feel better?"

Sammy whimpered a little, pressing closer. Dean felt an involuntary, predatory grin stretch across his face.

"Poor little Sammy," he whispered into his hair. "You're not used to this, are you? I mean, you fill up so fast." He flattened his palm and rubbed, gently cruising his hand up and down over Sam's belly, even though he wanted to press so much harder. To squeeze. To smack, and make him scream and cry. Some part of him cringed away from the thought, but another reveled in it. "Don't worry, that's not gonna last too long. I'll stuff you fuller each and every day, and you'll get to loving it."

"Dean, what..." Sammy squirmed against him, obviously uneasy. "What are you talking about? I can't keep eating like this. It hurts too much. All today - I - why have you been acting so weird? Why do you want me to eat so much?"

Dean might have answered, if Dad hadn't reached the car just then and hauled open the driver's door, dropping into the seat.

"Couldn't find a credit card that their scanner would take," he offered by way of explanation, without glancing into the back seat. "Sorry. Let's find a motel, get some shuteye - Dean, I'm probably going to be gone all day tomorrow. I need you to stay with Sammy."

"Okay. No problem," Dean replied, hand tightening possessively on Sammy's stomach. He was distracted by his little brother trembling against him but not pulling away, and only barely remembered to add, "Sir."

Dad was silent for a few seconds, and Dean was pretty sure he knew why. Usually, when his father told him to take the bench with Sam for a hunt, he fought it tooth and nail. He hated being left behind, usually, he hated being treated like a little kid - which was why it was so weird for him to just agree immediately. He just hoped that his dad didn't ask too many questions about it, because he'd never been good at lying to him.

Dad glanced over his shoulder to look at him, and his bushy eyebrows drew together as he saw how close Dean and Sammy were. Dean had the weirdest urge to yank his brother closer and bare his teeth, make it perfectly clear that Sammy was his, but he let it go.

"He ate too much," he explained. "He doesn't feel good."

"Well, I can believe that," Dad agreed grudgingly. "I saw what he ordered on the receipt. What were you trying to do, eating all of that? Make yourself sick?" The last two questions were directed at Sammy, who didn't answer. He just let out a quiet, miserable little moan and, reluctantly, burrowed a little deeper into Dean.

"C'mon, give him a break." Dean lowered his head to Sam's, nuzzling into his hair. It didn't even occur to him that his father might find that odd. "He's going through a growth spurt...he's just fine. Aren't you?"

When he looked back up, his dad was staring at him, expression troubled.

"Dean," he said slowly. "Son. Lean forward a little, let me see your eyes."

Dean obeyed, hearing Sammy squeak in discomfort when he shifted his position. It had to be hell on his full belly - he felt a momentary flash of resentment towards Dad. Who was examining his eyes with a frown.

"Must've just been a trick of the light," he muttered finally, turning away. "Dean..." He hesitated. "Do you want me to take Sammy tonight?"

"Nah, we're fine." Dean leaned back, and felt Sammy press into him again. Somewhere, on the very edges of his mind, he was just barely aware of his fear and confusion, and he wasn't quite sure how. But he also sensed his deep love for him, and his need for comfort, and the fact that, right now, he just had no one else to turn to for it. He was still just a little kid, and he needed his brother, no matter how little he might understand his behavior right now.

"Sure?" Dad asked, starting the car.

"Yeah. Totally," Dean replied, giving Sammy's stomach a couple of loving pats and imagining the slender, angular frame against him gone soft and round with fat. "I'll take care of him."

Sam

Sam knew that he should have drawn firm, no-nonsense lines after the sheer weirdness of that first day, or maybe even during it, because his failure to say anything seemed to have given Dean the go-ahead to do whatever he wanted with him. And, anymore, he seemed to be just tuning out all his protests. He let him sleep as late as he wanted to, encouraged him to nap during the day while Dad was gone, and smirked at him when he woke up slowly, feeling sluggish and blurry. Like he knew something Sam didn't. There was always food waiting for him when he woke up, way too much of it - either a meal or a snack, depending on the time of day. It was always greasy, sugary, or both, rich and heavy enough to make him uncomfortable after a few mouthfuls. And he was always hungry. Starving, actually, especially after Dean touched him in an approving or encouraging way, and he only felt satisfied once his belly was so full it bulged out of his clothes and made an irregular globe out of his middle. But that hurt, no matter which position he settled into and no matter how much he burped. Fidgeting in his chair, jeans or sweatpants cutting a stinging furrow across the middle of his stomach, he would look up at Dean and tell him that with tears of pain prickling at his eyes.

Every single time, Den decided that a belly rub was in order. The first time he pulled Sam onto his lap in order to do it, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. Especially when his brother made him keep his ass off of his crotch area, for whatever reason. But he got used to it pretty quick. Leaning back comfortably against Dean's muscled chest after every "feeding session" (Dean's words, not his), eyes hooded with pleasure and contentment, as his palms and fingers worked gently over the aching, sensitive globe of his belly. It was intimate, it was comfortable, and Sam loved it. Even though he'd never admit it out loud. Ever since they started getting older, and Dean started ditching him for every short skirt within a ten-mile radius, and Dad started snapping at him for snuggling...well, he'd really missed how close they used to be. He didn't think a hug every once in awhile was too much to ask for, and this went above and beyond what he'd wanted.

"Man, Sammy, you're stuffed pretty full, aren't you?" Dean murmured into his ear one night, with Sam's head on his shoulder and his bloated stomach in his hands. "You ate so much today. Good little piglet."

"I was hungry," Sam murmured back, closing his eyes.

"Yeah, I know you were." Dean ran his fingertips in a circle around his belly button. "Are you still hungry? Want a little more?"

Sam knew he was craving food way more than he should be, way more than was normal. But he was craving his brother's touch in the same way. Dean's hand on his bare skin lit up every nerve in his body like a live wire, Dean's arms around him made him feel safer and happier than he thought he ever had, Dean's lips against his belly - yeah, he'd started kissing it, when it was swollen as full as it could be at the end of every day. He knelt in front of him and pulled his T-shirt, sweatpants, and boxers out of the way to give himself access - were practically the highlight of his day. He slept tangled around him like an octopus, with his face buried in his hair and both hands cupped possessively over his stomach, but, considering that Sam usually needed a belly rub to get to sleep, it wasn't that weird of a position for them to spend the night in.

Dad was preoccupied with a tough, dangerous, long-term hunt, rarely coming home, so Sam was alone with Dean almost all the time. Which meant that there was a lot of touching and holding, and he spent most of his time either eating or in an overfed state. Living like this, he really shouldn't have been surprised that all the food and rest was starting to take a toll on him, but it was almost a week before he noticed changes in his own body.

He woke up earlier than usual, because he needed to pee. He disentangled himself, reluctantly, from Dean's wonderful embrace. His big brother was still out cold, after scrounging up a veritable feast last night of burgers, fries, and ice cream and then getting it all into Sam. He couldn't blame him for being tired. Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress and moving like a zombie, he yawned widely. The cheap laminate floor was warm and sticky under his feet. It was only the beginning of summer, so they were out of school, and a heat wave had hit the Georgia town they were holed up in. He and Dean had completely forgone the covers last night, and Sam had ditched his usual pajama ensemble in favor of just his boxers. He was about to stand up and stagger into the bathroom when he noticed that something felt kinda...off. He glanced down at his belly.

It was softer than he was used to. Way softer. It spilled over the waistband of his underwear, a pale, evenly-colored bulge that felt warm and velvety-soft when he touched it. It was just a tiny little gut, not noticeable at all if he'd been wearing clothes. He'd had a small roll of pudge around his waist for most of his life, and he'd just barely gotten rid of it, so it wasn't like this was anything new, but he grimaced anyway. He was gaining weight. He didn't like that.

"Mnf. Sammy? Hey, Sammy, where..." Dean stirred behind him, his voice thick with sleep. Sam cupped both hands over his small belly in an effort to hide it, then glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, there you are. What're you doing up so early?"

"Uh..." Sam shifted his weight uncomfortably as Dean sat up. His eyes - still green, they hadn't flashed black since the night Dad had practically dragged him home - immediately settled on his hands. He smiled, the expression sharpening into something downright predatory, and reached for them.

"What're you hiding from me?" he asked softly, pulling his hands away. Sam let him, biting his lip. He didn't like the way Dean's eyes lit up when he saw. "Oh. Okay. A pretty, pudgy little belly...what's wrong, you embarrassed?"

"No, I'm not. I just..." Dean put one hand on his stomach, and another on his shoulder, and his touch sent a lightning bolt through him that disrupted all his thoughts. "I don't think that this is good for me. Like, eating all this stuff you give me, and being so lazy - "

"You're kidding, right?" Dean asked skeptically, pulling him close as he fondled the fat of his belly. An affectionate, contented coo slipped out of Sam before he could get a handle on himself. "This is perfect for you, Sammy-boy. Look how nice you're filling out. Maybe I should even start feeding you a little more, so you'll grow faster."

"I don't like this - " Sam began uneasily, but Dean cut him off by planting a kiss on top of his head.

"Liar," he whispered fondly into his hair. "You love it, don't you? I can tell. I can sense how good it feels to you, Sammy. How much you like it when you get a belly rub from me or I touch you or you wake up next to me. So don't try to lie to me."

"...what?" That didn't make much sense. Sam blinked, confused, in the dim light of early morning.

"Just stand up, and let me look at you. So I can tell if you're softening up anywhere else." Dean shoved him to his feet. "Then I'll get you breakfast."

Things got a little weird after that morning. Well, weirder than they'd already been. Dean all but refused to leave him alone, even after Dad finished up with his hunt and they left town. He didn't want to work cases, or do research, or tend to the arsenal. He just wanted to be around Sam. He kept him as full as he could, making sure he overate at every meal, sometimes even shoving his own numerous leftovers at him. When they couldn't spend the whole day in the motel room, he would stuff something into Sam's mouth every so often - a candy bar, a snack cake, a cookie - with a commanding, "Eat." Dean's hand was always on Sam's stomach, or his ass, or his shoulder. When they were in the car or in bed, he held him. His touch, anymore, was extremely possessive, which scared Sam a little. The way he made him eat so much, and how he ran less-than-gentle hands over his body to see how he'd changed, his predatory manner - all of that scared him, too. But he couldn't muster the willpower or the strength to put an end to it.

Sam's clothes got a little tight, then uncomfortable, then just too small for him. His belly spread into a soft, undefined mound that spilled over the waistband of his jeans and peeked out from underneath his shirt, about as big (when he first woke up in the morning and was empty) as it'd been at the end of that first day. His ass grew into something round and plump and perfectly squeezable, a feature that Dean took constant advantage of. His thighs all but touched when he walked, his chest was an obvious shape under his shirt - even his cheeks had gotten rounder. Dad commented on how close he and Dean seemed to be lately, his tone not entirely approving, but the weight that Sam was putting on seemed below his notice. Even though he was usually nearby when Dean grabbed him and poked him in the stomach, whispering, "You haven't had such a round belly since you were little. Good job, Sammy."

The first time Dean fed him - actually hand-fed him - an entire meal was a month after they first started. It was a first time for some other stuff, too. Dad was gong, on yet another hunt, and had accidentally destroyed the salt line in front of the door while leaving. It hadn't been relaid, just like always. Dean had gas station hot dogs for him, bags of chips, a small tub of ice cream, a package of cookies. Sam automatically reached for one of the grease-spotted paper bags that Dean'd brought back as soon as he sat down at the table, but Dean stopped him. He pushed him until he was leaning back in his chair, then stroked his hair tenderly as he fished a hot dog out of the bag.

"Let me, Sammy," he murmured. "Open up."

"You're gonna - "

"Feed you. Yep." Dean kept stroking his hair. "All of it. Gonna make sure you get enough to eat."

Sam put a hand on his stomach, self-conscious. "I'm not really sure I need all that much."

"Yeah. You're getting kinda chubby, aren't you?" he agreed. He hissed the top of his head, the gesture loving. Sam was grateful for the affection, grateful he wasn't being handled roughly or insulted. "It's so cute. But you need to be fatter."

Before Sam could respond to that, Dean's hand had moved from his head down to his face. To gently pull open his jaw. And then he was feeding him, making him eat, rubbing his back or patting his belly encouragingly as he did. He had no choice but to chew and swallow obediently. His jeans had been uncomfortable before they even started, but they got painfully tight as time went on. By the time the last cookie had been shoved into his mouth, there were tears in his eyes, but he couldn't tell if it was just because of his pants or if it was also because he'd eaten so much. This was pushing his limits, even by their standards.

"Full?" Dean asked gently, trailing grease-covered fingertips down over the curve of Sam's stomach. Sam nodded, raising a hand to his mouth to stifle a burp. "Yeah, I bet."

Without another word, Dean lifted him out of the chair. Bridal-style, and without so much as making a grunt of effort. Some corner of Sam's sleepy, food-hazed mind was intensely troubled by that. Dean was strong, but he wasn't that strong. Even before Sam gained so much weight, he probably wouldn't have been able to carry him as easily as he was now. But he was laying him gently down on their bed now, undoing the button and zipper of his jeans and tugging them down to completely free his stomach. It was such a relief that he couldn't focus on anything else at all. When he felt Dean nuzzling against his belly, planting slow, reverent kisses on it, he turned his head with a deep sigh and nestled into the pillow it was resting on. He was falling asleep, until a warm hand cupped the back of his head and lifted it up, and a soft mouth pressed against his own.

Sam's eyes shot open, and he shoved reflexively, his palms meeting Dean's chest and pushing him away. It was practically surreal to see his older brother above him, full pink lips slightly parted and eyes glittering with lust. This was the way he looked at girls, when he was with them, or when he wanted them. But it was so much hungrier, somehow, so much deeper and more powerful. He'd just kissed him. Not on the head or the cheek or the stomach, either - on the lips. A boyfriend/girlfriend type of kiss. Sam was old enough to know, though, that boyfriend/boyfriend relationships existed, and that what'd just happened wasn't right.

"I'm your brother," he managed to get out, past his shock and horror. 'Cause, y'know, maybe Dean had suddenly forgotten that.

"Yeah, I know." Dean nudged Sam's small, chubby hands off of his chest, and lowered his head to brush his lips over his brow. "My perfect, pretty little brother." He gripped his shoulder with one hand and dug the fingertips of the other into his soft chest. "My chubby Sammy." He tried to kiss him again, but Sam squirmed away as best he could. So Dean held his head in place, locked their lips together, and bore down on him so he couldn't move. When he finally broke the kiss to speak, Sam shuddered. He couldn't shake a slight taste of rotten eggs - sulfur. "My little piglet." He pulled back a little, one large hand cupping Sam's round face, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He was absolutely terrified, because Dean had such a tight grip on him, and he was so much stronger than he was, and he was all but helpless when he was this full.

He didn't know about rape, or incest, or abuse. He was just afraid because he didn't know what was coming next.

But, suddenly, Dean's hand loosened, then vanished. Both of them did. The mattress creaked as he moved away, and Sam opened his eyes to see him looking shocked and stricken.

"You're scared." His voice was barely a whisper. "I...Sammy...Sammy, did I hurt you?"

Sam didn't quite know how to respond to that, so he just stayed silent. Dean looked away, staring at nothing.

"I didn't want..." he began softly, then trailed off. He raised a hand to his head, fingertips just barely touching his hairline. "Oh, God. I didn't want this. I didn't want you to be afraid of me, I didn't wanna hurt you, never - I - I'm s - " He froze suddenly, eyes going wide, and jerked his hand up into his hair, clutching his head.

"...De?" Sam asked cautiously, raising his head a little.

"There's something wrong with me," Dean muttered, still staring down at nothing.

"What - " Sam had barely gotten the word out before Dean all but launched himself off the bed, the movement jostling his stomach. He gasped in pain as his brother reached the door the motel room, savagely twisted the knob, and bolted out into the night. He moved with a speed Sam wouldn't have thought physically possible, and the door slammed hard behind him.

Frustrated, scared, and confused, Sam cried soundlessly into his pillow for a long time before dropping off. He woke up with Dean's arms tight around him and the smell of sulfur thick in the air, but he didn't know what either of them meant.

Dean

Dean probably would've run headlong into traffic that night, if he'd still been calling the shots at that point.

He'd hurt his Sammy. Scared him. Made him uncomfortable. He'd let his own sick urges get the best of him, and his little brother - fragile, innocent, perfect - had paid the price for it. He could still see Sammy stretched out in front of him, eyes so afraid but, at the same time, dull with gentle pleasure and sleepiness and the feeling of being completely sated. Still feel Sammy's poor, overstuffed belly, fattening up so nicely, against his mouth, then his plump lips. Still hear his shocked little voice saying, "I'm your brother."

His rule had been that he would never, ever doing anything like this. Even if Sam wanted it, too, because it was just so wrong, and Sammy could get hurt so easily. Ruined so easily. And Sammy obviously hadn't wanted it.

He couldn't go back and face him, knowing what he'd done. He planned on running, maybe dying, maybe just getting far away from here. But he only made it to the edge of the parking lot before he froze. Every joint in his body locked up. He tried to move, to keep sprinting out into the neon-studded darkness of the tiny Arizona town they were in, but his legs wouldn't obey him. All of his spit dried up in his mouth and his throat clamped up with fear, because he was remembering that moment back in the room when he'd gotten a hold of himself. Just for a second, as he talked to Sammy and hated himself, he'd felt something moving inside his head, something that was cruel and alien and, undoubtedly, not him. He didn't know what it was. He didn't want to.

Abruptly, Dean whirled around and jogged back towards the motel room. He wasn't moving under his own power. Hell, he wasn't even moving like himself - he'd had a jerky, bow-legged lope ever since he hit his growth spurt and got used to his adult shape. But this was totally different. Way, way faster than he should've been able to move, with predatory grace that he knew didn't suit him. He didn't have long to think about that, though, because he was back at the door that he'd just burst out of almost immediately.

No, no, no - Dean thought frantically, because no way could he go back in there. But, suddenly, his arousal flamed up, making him grit his teeth and slam a fist against the wall as his dick swelled in his pants. No. No... He couldn't shake thoughts of Sammy, his stomach soft and warm and full of the absolute richest food Dean could get his hands on, letting his big brother feed him fuller so obediently. That silky-smooth skin, a couple shades darker than his own and showing no stretch marks or dimples at all where it covered pillowy swells of fat. The small, high sound of comfort and love that he made when he held him on his lap and he snuggled back against him - oh, God. And now another thought, so much darker and more excited, was bubbling up from God-knew-where.

He already lets me take care of him so much, feed him and love him and fatten him up until that belly of his spills right out of his clothes...why wouldn't he let me do this? Oh, man, he'd love it if I went in there and finished what I started. Planted kisses on every chubby inch of him, undressed him so I could see just how beautiful he's gotten, fed him, I don't know, pieces of chocolate or something while I worshiped his belly.

Apparently, Dean had control of at least the upper part of his body, because he cried out a little and dug his fingernails into his palms almost hard enough to draw blood. He didn't want to feel like this. He didn't want to think like this. Were these thoughts really coming from him?

I'm his big brother, he loves me more than anything. He's mine and, boy, does he like it. He'd like it if I took this whole thing a step further. And if he didn't at first, I could make him.

"No," Dean whispered. No way. He couldn't do that. Not in a million years. The feeding had been one thing, but...this...

He slammed the heels of his hands into his forehead, gritting his teeth so hard they started to ache and glaring furiously at nothing. "What the hell's wrong with me?"

There was no answer, but, then again, he hadn't actually expected one. He had no idea what to do. He couldn't call Dad for help with this (partly because he didn't know where he was, mostly because it was...this), he obviously couldn't ask Sam what to do. He couldn't even leave. He paced back and forth in front of the door, but whenever he got more than ten feet away from it, something forced him to stop and march back. Nearly two hours passed before he finally gave up and went back in. By that time, he was freezing, because it really cooled off in the desert at night, for whatever screwed-up reason. With goosebumps dotting his body, he opened the door as quietly as he could and shut it behind him with the same care. He half-expected to find Sammy gone, or sobbing, or sitting up with a salt-loaded gun or silver knife in his hands. But the kid was curled up on his side, his belly still bare and painfully full, one of his ample sides rising with every slow breath. Some paternal instinct reared up in Dean, and, numbly, he pulled Sammy's jeans off without waking him, replacing them with the sweatpants he always slept in. Then he maneuvered him until he was under the heavy covers, because it was chilly even in the motel room.

He wanted to sleep on the floor, or in the bathroom, or, hey, out on the sidewalk - that was a good idea. Anywhere at all but pressed right up against Sammy. But, suddenly, he wasn't controlling his movements anymore, and, the next thing he knew, Sam was in his arms. He made a soft sound in his sleep and moved closer to him, instinctively seeking out a tighter embrace, and that just made Dean feel so much worse. So much more afraid for himself and his brother.

God help me, he thought miserably, burying his face in Sammy's hair and taking slight comfort from the familiar scent of him. He didn't usually pray. Ever. But, Jesus, he was fresh out of options here.

He thought he heard brief, derisive laughter, off in some corner of his head, in a voice that wasn't his. But it was gone too quickly for him to be sure.

In the morning, Sammy didn't say a word when he woke up. Not about the kissing, or Dean running off, or anything. He just slowly disentangled himself from his arms and sat up, looking over his shoulder at him with an unreadable expression on his face. His hair was messy from sleep, his cheeks were round and chubby, and his eyes were troubled. Dean bit his lip.

He wanted to apologize for last night, to try and explain, but his mouth wouldn't move to form the words. As he sat up, Sammy looked away, adjusting his sweatpants. A soft fold of his belly overlapped the waistband, and Dean couldn't keep himself from loving that. They sat in near-complete silence for a few seconds, until Sammy sighed and, in a small voice, said, "I'm hungry."

Dean's hand moved without him wanting it to, and tightly gripped his brother's shoulder. He heard himself purr, "Good boy, Sammy. Let's get you fed." The words sounded like him, sure, but they weren't his. Whatever was pulling his strings let him get up and gently help Sammy to his feet, then touch his hair and murmur, "I love you." It was the first time he'd said it in years, and he'd never meant it more. Sam looked up at him, then leaned against him, just for a second. It made his heart leap, to know he didn't hate him - but it would be so easy to hurt him again this way. Or, more accurately, it would be so easy for whatever had crawled into his head and was playing with him like a puppet to hurt him again. Because he was almost certain now that he wasn't the only one inside his body. Or even the strongest.

Dad came back to the room in the late afternoon, by which time Sammy had been snacking and eating all day, more often than not right out of Dean's hand. He was full and sleepy when their father herded them into the car and then a nearby diner, and extremely clingy with Dean. Almost an entire day of feeding and belly rubs and cuddling must've dulled whatever fear or reluctance he felt, which Dean resented on some level. But that didn't stop him from poking Sammy in one of his growing love handles as he ordered, to get him to ask for a massive portion, or shoving most of his own meal at him. When their waitress cleared their plates away and left with a promise to come back and take their dessert orders, Dean noticed that Dad was looking at them with a troubled expression. Actually, he was looking at Sammy.

"You might want to skip dessert, Sam," he suggested. "I don't mean any offense to you, but you've been...filling out recently. Not in a good way. Your clothes aren't fitting too well, and I'm reluctant about taking you hunting, when you're so out of shape."

Sammy blinked, looking shocked and mortified, and opened his mouth to respond. But, slowly, he closed it again, lowering his eyes to the table as a blush flamed across his cheeks. Dean, sitting right next to him, patted his stomach sympathetically. Warm, soft, adorably full. He was suddenly furious with Dad, and he wasn't sure if it was because he'd embarrassed Sammy or if it was because he was close to interfering with his pleasure.

"Lay off him," he snapped. "Yeah, he's put on a couple pounds lately - so what? It's not that bad, and he's twelve. Perfectly normal for him to gain a little weight."

His father scowled at him. "Watch your tone, Dean."

"Sorry," he said, and didn't mean it. Dad didn't take his eyes off him, but he didn't press him, either. He sensed uneasiness directed at him, and suspicion, but also a weird reluctance. As if he thought he'd just figured something out but didn't want to believe it.

Ask me what's wrong with me, he begged inside his head. C'mon. Dammit. Either he was going completely crazy, or there was a monster under his skin, a ghost or something. Either way, he had an unfailing, childish belief that his dad could help him. Help me.

But even if he asked what was up, Dean didn't know that he'd be able to answer him.

Sammy ended up eating two fairly-large pieces of French silk pie - a house special - and over half of the berry that Dean ordered. Watching them, Dad sipped a cup of strong coffee, even though it was getting late. He drank the stuff by the gallon, and Dean was almost convinced that it ran in his veins instead of blood. He never said a thing, never objected, but maybe that was because he couldn't see Sammy's belly under the table. He hadn't been able to get his jeans buttoned earlier, even with Dean's help, and they were totally unzipped now, letting his stomach rest on his thighs. He was taking shallow little pants of breaths, his cheeks flushed and his eyelids drooping. Dean gently kneaded at his belly with slow, rolling motions of his hand as they waited for Dad to pay the bill.

He helped him out of the booth. The movements felt stiff and jerky, like something was reluctant to let him make them, but he powered through. As they made their way out to the car, he dropped his hands onto Sammy's hips. He wasn't sure if he was being influenced or if he was in control as he whispered, "You know you're waddling, right?" Steering him into the back seat, he answered the broken, humiliated look that Sammy shot up at him with an indulgent smile. "You can barely walk, huh? Had to change the way you move because of how much heavier you are now, how much you ate tonight...I love it, baby. It's just too cute." He slipped in beside him as Dad caught up to them. "Good boy, Sammy." He felt himself put an arm around him as he pressed in, pulling him closer and holding him tight. Why was he still doing this? Why was he still so eager for contact with Dean - even after what he'd done?

"Dean," Sammy whispered into his chest. He glanced down at him and ruffled his hair with his other hand.

"Yeah, Sammy-boy?"

"I'm scared." He shut his eyes tight and burrowed into him. Dean wanted to scream. If you're scared, little brother, run! Get away from me! Don't let me do this to you... "I don't...I don't know what's going on..."

Then tell Dad. Get help from him. Even if he doesn't figure out that something's chewing on my brain, he'll at least separate us, and that would be good enough. You'd be safe.

"Don't be scared." No. No, be scared, 'cause I'm not in control and I don't even know what this thing wants from you. "I'm taking care of you. You're mine." I wish I could tell you how freaking sorry I am.

His heart broke when Sammy burped, quietly, then murmured, "I know."

They slept in a possessive tangle, as always, when they got back to the motel. And then Dad left the next morning, giving Dean strict instructions to look out for Sammy. He also gave him a slightly-bloodstained wad of cash (according to him, he'd dug it out of a werewolf's wallet after he shot it through the heart) and told him to order pizza, but to kick the delivery guy in the face and slam the door if things didn't seem kosher. A couple of crisp "Yes, sir"s were enough to get rid of him, and then whatever was sharing headspace with Dean took the opportunity to pack his little brother full of as much junk food as he could hold. Pretty much no move he made now was voluntary. He was a prisoner in his own head, staring helplessly out through his own eyes, as Sammy spent the day napping and eating. It was still an intense joy to feel his swollen belly, softened so wonderfully by a thick layer of fat, under his hands, but the pleasure was almost completely lost in the bleak wasteland of how he felt right now. And Sam was so damn clueless. Right up until that evening.

Dean - or, at least, thing thing that had taken over for Dean - ordered pizza, just like Dad had told him to. Extra-large meat lover's, every single slice of which ended up in Sammy. He'd had him eat on the bed, to save himself the trouble of moving him later, and lovingly removed both his T-shirt and his jeans to make him more comfortable as he fed him. Encouraged him to keep eating, made his stomach grow until even the elastic of his boxers was stretched taut. Now, his hands were moving gently over the bloated, puffy almost-globe of it, as he knelt in front of Sammy. His brother, beyond sated, was sprawled back against a pile of pillows Dean'd constructed for that exact purpose, wanting him to be comfortable. His eyes were half-closed and his breathing was shallow, every other exhalation a pitiful whimper of pain.

"Shh...shh," he soothed, rubbing tenderly. "I know it hurts, Sammy. But oh, man, you did so good...I'm real proud of you."

Sammy tipped his head back slightly, making a whining noise in the back of his throat. Dean leaned forward to plant a line of hot kisses up and over the swell of his full belly, teasing at the deep clefts of his belly button with his lips. Sammy's pudgy little body shivered underneath him, and it was only with an absolutely monumental effort that Dean kept his eyes from roving - under the control of that other thing in him - down onto his crotch to search for a bulge in his boxers.

"Yeah, I wish I didn't have to feed you so much, 'cause it does this to you, makes you hurt so bad," Dean said sympathetically. "But you're my piglet, Sammy, and you've gotta keep piglets overfed. So they get nice and fat." He poked him in the stomach, so hard he cried out. "Everything's working out."

"Dean...don't...please, Dean, that hurts," Sammy panted, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe so that tears wouldn't fall. "Don't poke. Just..." He put a small, soft hand on top of Dean's and guided him to rub, as he trailed off.

"Sure, sure. Anything you want." Dean brushed some hair out of his face with his free hand, so he could see his eyes. "You need more first, though. Dessert. There are plenty of candy bars in my duffel, all your favorites."

"Dean, no." Helpless, Dean cringed at the plaintive note in his voice. "I'm - " He took his hand off of the back of Dean's, in order to stifle a burp. " - way too full already. I'm done."

"Nah, I don't think so." Dean reached up to pat the side of his face, then moved his hand to cup his chin. Underneath it, the beginnings of a second one were soft as a marshmallow against his palm. "I'm your big brother. You have to do what I say. Take a look at yourself - you're so completely mine. My spoiled little Sammy. So, don't bitch." He squeezed his stomach with his other hand, and Sammy almost screamed in pain. "Or else."

He wanted to comfort him, hold him close and make it better, but his body moved off the bed and stood. He was back in seconds, spilling handfuls of Hershey bars and Snickers and Twix onto the bedspread, between Sammy's spread legs. Sam stared at him, eyes scared and maybe a little angry, and started, "De - "

"No." Something shook Dean's head, and smiled savagely with his mouth. His voice had deepened into an unfamiliar growl. "Not exactly, Sammy." He blinked, feeling something shift in his eyes and hearing a flicking noise, and, suddenly, his eyesight was a million times clearer. He could pick out every pore and hair on Sammy's face, the room was dazzlingly bright, and he knew what he was feeling just as clearly as if he'd told him. Fear and shock and pain. "Your De's still in here, just not...heading things anymore. If you get what I mean." The smile widened, and the corners of Dean's mouth started to hurt.

"What the hell are you?" Sammy's voice was stoic, and his hazel glare was hateful. Dean felt a surge of pride at his strength - and a flicker of disapproval at his use of profanity.

He could see his reflection in Sammy's eyes. Dirty-blonde brush cut, pale freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks - black eyes. Solid black, completely black, with no hint of white or green at all. Oh, God. He shuddered inside, horrified by how downright inhuman he looked. Black eyes. What did black eyes mean? He'd overheard his dad talking to other hunters over beers and shots, complaining about "those black-eyed sons'a bitches." Was he turning into some sort of monster? Was this whole thing his true nature asserting itself?

"You're John Winchester's brat, and you don't even know what I am?" Dean felt the smile fade from his face, and his eyes rolled themselves. "Your brother doesn't, either. Thinks he's a monster...but I've been in his melon for months now, seen all his private little thoughts, and he's not too far off. Even without me. But we can talk about poor, twisted De later." His hand laid itself on Sammy's bare knee, and he squirmed, trying to throw it off. But he was too full to move very much. "I'm a demon, Sammy. Denizen of Hell, born and bred in the Pit. Bane of silly human hunters everywhere." His hand moved off of his knee, and two fingers appreciatively lifted the considerable weight of his belly with a slight movement from his wrist. It jiggled a little. "My name's Gluttony."

Sammy looked down at himself, eyes widening as he came to a sudden realization. Gluttony smirked with Dean's face, squeezing a handful of his brother's stomach.

"Yeah, I have some interesting powers, don't I?" he said softly, making kneading motions with his hand were almost affectionate. "But you were so easy to influence. Big brother means so much to you, doesn't he? You'd do anything to please him?" He put his other hand on Sam's gut. "Maybe you're not my finest work, but you're definitely my favorite. You're so eager to gorge yourself, so eager to do ever single thing I tell you to. I've loved watching you fatten up." He leaned forward, and Sammy stiffened as Dean's lips brushed his ear. The next words were almost a whisper. "So has Dean."

"You're lying." That was Sammy's immediate, vehement response. He planted the heel of his hand on Dean's forehead and shoved Gluttony back, away from him. "Get out of him. Let him go."

"Oh, you didn't know?" Dean's hand locked around Sammy's wrist, forcing his hand down. And then he was over him, straddling his thighs, pinning him down. "And your daddy thinks you're so smart."

"Know what?" Sammy spit, struggling as best he could. "Don't - don't touch me, you bastard - " Language, Sammy. " - let my brother go - Dean! Dean, can you - " He stopped suddenly, face red with exertion and hair damp with sweat, and looked up at him with a shocked, terrified expression. Dean smiled. At least, his mouth did. Inside, he was screaming and swearing and fighting tooth and nail to stop this.

"You're hungry again, aren't you?" his voice whispered. "My touch can do that. Let me feed you, Sammy." There was a crinkle of plastic, and then his hand was pushing a chunk of chocolate and caramel between Sammy's pink lips. "I'll make you feel better. And I'll tell you everything you never wanted to know about your big brother."

Don't you dare, Dean warned. Dammit, he doesn't need to know that! Haven't you screwed with him enough?!

I gave you everything you wanted. Gluttony's response, smug and weirdly high-pitched, was completely unexpected. Let me have some fun with your toy, Winchester.

Sammy chewed, eyes troubled and intense. Gluttony moved both of Dean's hands down to reassuringly cup his stomach. He popped more chocolate into his mouth every time he swallowed.

"Oh, he loves you so much," he said. "I'm pressed right up against his soul, and it lights up like a Christmas tree every single time he looks at you. But it's not exactly familial love, y'know?" He gently rubbed his belly, and Sammy moaned. "Dean has some pretty naughty thoughts about his baby brother. He wants to slam you against a wall - and violate you. Leave his mark on you. He knows you're a virgin, and he loves that, and thinks about you opening right up for him if he just had the balls to stick it in you. He can hardly control himself, sleeping in the same bed as you."

No! Asshole! I love him, I'd never -

"Liar," Sammy got out, before obediently opening his mouth for more candy. Dean couldn't blame him, knowing that Gluttony was messing with his body, but it still hurt to see him so willing.

"Nope," Gluttony all but cooed, brushing a thumb across those full pink lips. "You're his fantasy. Big brother wants to bed you."

"That's sick," Sammy managed through a mouthful of chocolate. "That's not Dean. He would never do anything like that.

Oh, Sammy, you have no idea how much I wish he was lying.

"Okay, you can believe that. But I was barely pushing him at all when he kissed you a couple days ago." He fondled one of Sammy's love handles. "Hell, I barely pushed him at all every time he fed you or made you eat more. Every time he held you so nicely and rubbed your belly. He liked stuffing you, and he liked taking care of you once you were full. You know why?"

Sammy just swallowed, and opened his mouth for more. In Dean's mind, Gluttony laughed derisively.

"Because he liked the idea of you gaining weight before I ever slithered into him," he said. "He wanted his little Sammy softer. He wanted you fat and helpless. I couldn't believe it, when I was digging around in his head. I thought he was just some hunter's spawn, and I smoked into him to try and save myself. I never would've guessed just how...interesting he is." He felt his sides, his stomach, and nodded approvingly. "You're getting pretty full, Sammy. Keep eating...attaboy."

An hour later, Gluttony decided Sammy was done and dropped a pile of wrappers into the trash can. And he gave Dean control over his body again so he could help him with the pain. But he didn't let him speak. His tongue might as well have been fastened to the roof of his mouth as he helped his near-comatose brother into a more comfortable position, brushed his tears away, and started to rub and massage his belly. He kept his movements loving, and gentle, and kissed the top of his head and his chest and his stomach as he worked. He just wanted to undo at least a little bit of what Gluttony had done to him.

We know what it is now, Dean thought wearily and grimly, eyes on Sam's sleeping face. We know what's going on. So...even though it told you the truth about me...even though you probably hate me now and think I'm disgusting...help me beat this thing, Sammy. Help me. Please.

Sam

Sam thought he had it figured out.

Food being crammed into his mouth, force-feeding when he was already full, malicious teasing, pinches on his ass, belly, and sides, big hands painfully squeezing his full stomach - that was the demon. Gluttony. Who treated Sam like its own personal toy and talked frequently about its plans for him, once it'd gotten him big enough...who had black eyes and a pretty twisted sense of humor.

But gentle belly rubs, kisses on his forehead and the extra flesh of his stomach, comforting embraces, his favorite foods set in front of him when he was actually hungry and not just magically made to think that he was...that was Dean. Sam knew his brother couldn't talk to him, couldn't break past the monster that had hijacked his body. It made him furious, to see the absolute strongest person in his life bound so tightly. He didn't even take what Gluttony had said about Dean into consideration when he made the decision to help him. So - okay. Maybe Dean really did feel that way about him. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. But so what if, when he got his brother back, he wanted to kiss and hug and hold hands? They'd done that stuff all the time when they were little, so Sam didn't mind. In fact, he even thought he might like it. A lot. And part of that came from the knowledge that Dean wouldn't hurt him. Not like Gluttony seemed to love to. He was reluctant to call it a "better the devil you know" situation, but the expression fit.

It would be so easy to give up. Learn to like the combined affections of Dean and the demon wearing his skin. Get used to gaining weight and being fed and coddled and kept.

But it was also easy to hide a flask of holy water under one of his pillows when Gluttony went out for a supply run a couple of days after it revealed itself.

He just hoped holy water actually worked against demons.

When Gluttony-as-Dean got back, carrying grocery bags bulging with enough food to feed an army for a week (or Sam for a couple of days), it cupped his chin and smiled indulgently at him. "Ready, Sammy?"

Sam nodded, heart thudding painfully. He expected to be guided over to the bed, but the demon had him sit at the table for the first part of the meal. Already full from pretty much the entire day, he let himself be fed, squirming with fear and impatience. He almost cried out with relief when Gluttony hauled him to his feet and patted him on the pillowy shape of his ass, turning him towards the bed.

"Go on," it encouraged. He refused to think of it as a "he," because that would make it a little too close to Dean. "You're going to want to be lying down for dessert. When I'm done with you, you probably won't even be able to stay awake."

Sam did as he was told, nestling into the pillows so he could get his hands under them, tightly gripping the thin, hammered metal of the flask with one hand and unscrewing the lid with the other. His belly hurt and weighed him down, but that was nothing new. Gluttony climbed onto the bed in Dean's body, and Sam did his absolute best to control his feelings, knowing that the demon could sense them. He looked at Dean's green eyes, and struggled to curb a flash of hate when a shadow flickered through them.

"We're gonna have to hurry." Gluttony smiled at him, leaning forward to poke him in his stomach, which was spilling out of the gap between his jeans and his T-shirt. "Your dad's gonna be home soon - I can feel him. He doesn't seem to care all that much that his precious little boy is stuffed to bursting all the time, but I'm thinking that he just might object to seeing you get fed in front of him." It laughed softly, and got up to retrieve a bag from the table. "I don't think it matters if we run out of time, though. You could stand to skip a few meals." It patted his hip as it knelt in front of him.

Sam shook his hair out of his eyes and glared. Some part of him wanted to let Dean - Gluttony, whatever - feed him. He wanted more to eat. But the part that wanted to end this because it was wrong and it was hurting his brother was so much stronger.

"This is the one and only time I'm gonna ask you to give me my brother back, you freak," he growled through gritted teeth.

Gluttony grinned. "Growing a backbone under all the pudge, Sammy? It's a little late for that, don't you think?" It reached out to stroke his hair. He felt his mouth twitch in disgust, but he didn't move. "Say I refuse to give back that pervert you call a brother. What then?"

Sam didn't answer. Just brought the flask forward and splashed its contents into Dean's face.

Gluttony screamed. It was a shriek of pure agony, and it jerked backwards, both hands flying up to clutch at the face it was living behind. Dean's skin looked undamaged, but steam rose from it, and the demon kept howling. Sam took the opportunity to scramble off the bed and back away, holding his belly. He hadn't thought of anything past this.

Your dad's gonna be home soon.

"Brat," Gluttony suddenly snarled, swiveling Dean's head to look at him. His eyes had gone black. "Thought it'd be fun to splash me with holy water, huh?" It was off the bed in an instant, stalking towards him with Dean's hands curled into claws, and Sam backed away from it until his calves hit the bed. "I'll cram everything I can get my hands on into you until you burst."

I can feel him.

Sam curled his upper lip in a sneer. "You don't scare me."

"I should." It was gripping his shoulders now, having moved the last couple of feet in the blink of an eye. "Oh, Sammy, I should." It grinned viciously down at him, eyes still black. Water dripped from Dean's chin, and the occasional tendril of steam still rose off the skin of his face. "You're twelve years old, almost forty pounds overweight, so out of shape I bet you couldn't even catch a baseball - " It dropped a hand and cruelly squeezed a handful of the hyper-sensitive flesh of his stomach, digging in Dean's fingernails. He bit back a cry. " - and I'm one of the most powerful demons you're ever gonna meet, in a sixteen-year-old vessel who's spent every day of his life to kill stuff like me." Its grip tightened. "Let's be honest. Who d'you think is gonna win, Sammy?"

"You don't get to call me that." Sam forced back tears of pain and terror and set his jaw, looking up. "Only one guy gets to call me 'Sammy,' and you're not him. Not even close. And nothing you say could ever make me afraid of him or make me hate him. So." He lifted his chin, defiant. "You. Don't. Scare me."

Gluttony's grin flickered wider. "I will. The things I can do to you, little boy..." It let go of him, and raised Dean's hand towards his face. "You won't belie - " Suddenly, it stopped. Actually, it completely froze. Its eyes flicked to the hand, which wasn't moving, and widened. It snarled. "How the hell can you even - ?"

It interrupted itself with a grim, determined tone that somehow made its voice...different.

"You're not gonna hurt him anymore," Gluttony growled, but Sam got the feeling that it wasn't actually Gluttony right now.

"De," he breathed. His hands shook, and it was only then that he realized he was still holding on to the flask. And that there was still a little bit of water in it. He threw it, unable to think of anything else to do right then.

There was more screaming, more thrashing, and it ended with Gluttony sprawled up against the bed Sam and Dean shared, eyes screwed shut. When they flickered open, they were green.

"Dean - " Sam's heart gave a painful little twist, and he abandoned all common sense. He dropped to his knees with a grunt, feeling everything he'd eaten slosh inside him, then all but threw himself into his brother's arms. There was nothing predatory as Dean hugged him tightly, nothing sexual or possessive, and Sam felt shocked, relieved tears sting the backs of his eyes. He burrowed into his shirt with a heartbroken mewl, aware he hadn't done this since he was six and not caring.

"Sammy." Dean's voice was urgent, and he looked up. "Sammy, c'mon, it's not safe, he's still in me, I'm in control right now - but I don't know how long it's gonna last. You gotta run or...or something..." He trailed off, looking over Sam's body with a miserable, guilty expression on his face. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry."

"Not leaving you 'til I know that thing's out and you're okay," Sam said stubbornly, tightening his grip on Dean's T-shirt. "You don't have to apologize. It wasn't you. None of the bad parts were you, and I get that."

"But how could you - " Dean looked as if he were on the verge of tears. "He told you...how I feel..."

"Yeah." Sam laid his head against his chest, nestling in. He thought about kissing him, to show him that he was okay with all of that, but he wasn't quite sure how to do it and he was afraid he'd mess it up. There'd be time for that later...and he knew that this one wouldn't taste like sulfur. "I get that, too."

They were silent for a couple of seconds. Sam breathed a massive sigh of relief when he heard the Impala pulling up outside; this was out of their hands now. Everything was going to be okay. Dean stroked his hair, and it was soothing, tender. Nothing like when Gluttony had done it.

"Sammy," he murmured lovingly. Sam squirmed against him for a second, uncomfortable with memories that were way too fresh and way too painful, before finally speaking in a quiet voice.

"Dean - just 'Sam.'"