It shouldn't have surprised him that she was hot, or at least ensorcelled that way: long dark hair, lips like candy and just the right amount of dress that had him hungry for the skin underneath.
Sammy, the little fucker, had abandoned the family to pursue higher education, a piece of paper with fancy words on it, blah blah blah. Dad was off with Caleb, had been for weeks by the time Dean simply turned off his phone and stopped leaving unanswered voicemails. He had every right to be touch-starved. Pliable.
He has every right to be in this predicament. Right?
Right or wrong, here he is. And he has to admit, he likes it.
Naps are the best thing since bacon, Dean grins to himself. He shifts his weight, yawns lazily, rubs the meat of his palms over his eyes and keeps his hands going until they scrub through his hair. It's getting long, longer than it's been in a fair while. Eh, no big. It's not like there are monsters trying to grab it anymore.
He scratches at the scruff on his chin. Both chins, he thinks with casual amusement. The sheets are impossibly soft and smell like her. He doesn't want to get up but he's got to piss like a racehorse.
It takes him a couple of shots to roll out of bed – memory foam mattress, at his request – and he snags his robe from the bedpost. It's chilly in the room; she must've left a window open and it isn't quite spring yet. He knots the belt under the swell of his gut, a slice of cold cutting across his belly where the edges of the thick terrycloth don't quite meet. So much for the notion that he's a size 'medium' these days. The hardwood floor creaks as he steps into the slippers waiting for him, just under the edge of the dresser.
It's barely dusk, bright enough that he doesn't bother with the bathroom light. He circumvents his belly to steer his dick, forearm pressed against the fat. He'd never have guessed that his middle would be where all the weight settled. For that matter, he'd never have thought he'd relax and get soft. Life is funny.
He shakes off, adjusts his robe, washes his hands.
He's not hungry, but he wants to eat anyway. Food had always been Dean's go-to place for comfort; now, it's his due. His well-deserved entitlement, offering itself to him in all its flawless, Gourmet magazine glory. Hell, now it's practically his lifestyle.
He's peering into her commercial-grade stainless steel refrigerator, pondering the deviled eggs and a pricy microbrew as an early evening snack, when small warm hands wind around him to tuck against his skin. Everywhere she touches him sizzles. Logically, he knows it's magic, a spell, and witches are the things they kill. Well, used to kill. But right now, he doesn't give a single fuck.
She's quiet as a cat, her scant weight draping over his back. He loves that she's tiny, everywhere but her tits. God, she's got the most amazing tits and they're pressing against his back. Okay, maybe he's getting a little hungry...
"Hang on, don't eat yet," she hushes like she can read his mind. Probably can. "I have someplace special for us tonight."
She loosens her arms so he can pivot to face her, and he, in turn, catches her in a kiss – a full-mouth press, nothing indecisive about it, tongue flicking out to taste her. Her hands fall where they always do, to his middle, roaming over his swollen sides to clutch at the folds of meat where he used to have hipbones.
She tastes of intangible things, of summer and flux and promise. He wants nothing more than to have her cup his cheeks in her hands and tell him she's proud.
"Where?" he asks, when his lips have stopped tingling.
"There's an event at the club tonight." She smiles, but he catches the shadow of something else in her coppery eyes.
"We don't have to go if you don't wanna, babe. You know me; I could stay here all night with you."
"I know, I know. But it's kind of a big deal. Official and all."
He curls his hand to the nape of her neck, massaging there. "Hey. We can put in an appearance, press the flesh for an hour, and then cut out. How bad could it be, right?"
"Right, sweetie. How bad could it be?"
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She watches him with glittering eyes, as he hops and inhales into trousers that might be a half size snug. Dean feels vaguely objectified in a way that makes him take it even slower. She wants him in a sweater tonight, dark green with 'Tom Ford' on the label. He doesn't know who Tom Ford is, but the guy makes a damned good sweater. Soft, finely knit, tight across the shoulders and hugging over his stomach.
He spreads his palms and lifts his brows, as if to say, Whadya think? and her smile flickers out.
Dean is instantly alarmed. "What, baby?"
When she can't meet his eyes, he forces the issue and asks again. He moves to the bed where she's sitting, her legs tucked under her, wrinkling the dress she probably intends to wear to the club tonight. He takes her tiny hands in his.
"I can't do this," she sniffs. "Not…not to you. Not anymore."
Dean can't be more confused if he tried. "What have you done to me? This?" He pats the bulging sweater and dodges his head to catch her lowered gaze. He smiles broadly because honest to God, he's enjoyed every bite, every morsel, that went into building his belly. If he has to admit it, he might even say he loves her. Maybe.
"No. Well, not really. It's the event tonight. It's…it's a contest."
"Okay…"
"Kind of like at the state fair? When you have those pie-eating things?"
"Well, you know I do like my pie -"
Her eyes are big and sad, and she presses a finger to his lips. He feels a soft jolt. "If you win, you get your freedom."
Dean's confusion doesn't ebb until she shifts her hand to cradle his chin and whispers something almost unintelligible in Latin. A wash of vertigo nearly sends him on his ass, as though all the happy is leeching out of him in a flash. It makes his ears ring and when his vision clears, he's panting.
Tears have begun to track her cheeks, leaving trails in her make-up. She looks no different, but something has shifted. The dazzle is gone. "I…I don't want you to leave. But I don't want to keep you here either if…if you don't…" She gulps back a sob.
Oh. He gets it now. She had him charmed for this stupid contest. He is her fattened goose. God damn it, he hates witches.
But…but not her. No. He can't bring himself to hate her, even though he is seeing things through clear eyes, unglamoured. She has set him free, and it will certainly mean trouble for her with the coven.
"Come 'ere," he says. He straightens, pulling her hand. She hesitates, uncurls from the bed, and follows him into the kitchen.
She tries to speak but he shushes her. Twice. He pulls a dining chair, dark wood and sleekly modern, to the middle of the room and sits down, setting his hands lightly on the armrests.
"Dean, I don't – "
"I'm hungry," he cuts her off. She blinks and he grins, letting his eyes hood and his cock stir. "I said, I'm hungry. Feed me." Then, as an afterthought, "Please."
She watches him tremulously for a moment, uncertain even as she's pulling a pint of fresh strawberries from the refrigerator. How she finds good fruit that isn't seasonal continues to baffle and impress Dean. Ha, magic, he thinks, as she pinches a berry by its little green stem and brushes his mouth with the tip of a it. Slowly, he bites.
Her expression relaxes a fraction as she sits on his lap, her warm thigh pressed to his stomach. She feeds him one berry after another, tossing the caps carelessly on the floor. He imagines his lips are stained; she kisses away the red.
When they finish with the strawberries, Dean stays seated. Simply mouths the word, 'more.' She smiles so brightly it feels like she's bedazzled him again.
She stands up, leaving him instantly missing her, and removes a pot from the stovetop. It was empty earlier, but she whispers words over it and the room fills with an aroma he can't quite place. Vaguely onion-y, savory…herby?
Steam lifts from the pot, disappearing with her breath. She has a spoon in her fingers, and she begins to feed him the soup, which is thick and the oddest green color. Fresh peas, Dean realizes. With shallots and a hint of mint. He's developed a pretty damned discriminating palate these days, a smug little perk from this whole, strange affair.
She patiently feeds him spoonful after spoonful until the pot is empty and his middle presses painfully at the waist of his slacks, which were tight to begin with. He makes a contented hum in his throat and shifts in the chair, lifting his soft overhang of belly to unfasten the button. When it releases, when the pinch is gone, he's ready for more.
"Bring it." He smirks.
She summons, if that is even the right word for it, a meal to beat anything they've indulged in before. Fish – halibut, he's informed – with mustard and capers and lemon. Dean doesn't know what capers are except that he likes them. A lot. Tart pops of flavor. Good stuff.
He has his hands on her hips as she straddles him, feeding him from a big china platter, her ass barely settled on his knees because God, his belly. It presses against the sweater, his skin. Warm and bulging and slowing inching its way across his thighs. He's not certain how many portions were on the plate but it would certainly have fed a small family.
Reaching over his shoulder, she sets the empty platter on a marble-topped island behind them, pressing those delicious breasts into his face. He runs his tongue over her skin and fuck, his stomach growls and his dick twitches beneath the pressure of his gut and her pussy.
She's hardly made a peep throughout the entrée, but when she leans back again, she's got a bottle of wine in her hand. "Thirsty?"
"God, yes," Dean says.
With a word from her, it uncorks itself, which makes Dean laugh and his belly bounce, his sides brushing the arms of the chair. She pours two chalices, because of course witches would have chalices sitting around within arm's reach. She gives one to him, keeps the second and lifts it up in a toast. He's not sure why they're toasting, and doesn't really care. Carpe noctem, as Sam might say.
He throws back the wine in long swallows, feels the cool rolling down his throat to wash through his swollen belly. He holds the cup out for more, and naturally, she obliges. After the second glass, he's finally feeling tight, pleasantly uncomfortable, and just a bit buzzy. There's a swallow of wine left; he takes it right from the bottle.
"Can you manage dessert?" She flutters her lashes, all deliberate guile.
He should probably be done, a slow ache beginning to crawl across his stomach as he skims it with his palms, rubbing lightly. But she presses into him, snugs herself against him and kisses so hard that he says "Yes, yes, yes" before his brain catches up with his body.
She slides off and he can tell from the draft that his sweater is rising up his gut, incapable of proper coverage anymore. She disappears behind him, and he hears the tinkling of silverware, dishes shuffling. When she winds back around, she has a cake on a crystal stand. Angelfood, Dean guesses from the shape, encrusted with green flecks of something and iced in shiny white stripes.
She tears off a chunk and slips it in into his waiting mouth. It practically melts. Lime, pistachio, so much sugar. He groans and she presses another bit to his lips. And another. She gives him a moment to swallow before swapping kisses with chunks of angelfood. His stomach complains, presses up into his lungs, and Dean finds himself gasping between mouthfuls.
Just when he wants to cry 'uncle', she rolls up his sweater with one hand. The skin is tight and shiny, a great bloat of flesh pressing into the arms of the chair. His own tits have gotten pudgy, and they sit atop his gut like palmfuls of putty. The amulet is snuggled protectively in his cleavage.
There might be a quarter of the cake left, and she tells him to feed himself. He doesn't think he can, but she sucks on his left nipple, pulling it to a sharp nub, and he can't deny her.
As he forces down the last of the cake, feeling so packed he has to squirm, she parts his thighs and gets on her knees in the junction. "You're so beautiful," she murmurs, her breath warm across his navel, if he even has a navel anymore; it's probably stretched flat. "I can't believe you stayed. God, thank you." She presses her nimble fingertips all across his distended abdomen, gently massaging and supporting the weight as he lets the grogginess of digestion set in. He's so full he can barely breathe, but her whispers across his belly are like a July breeze, the windows down, Led Zepp on the radio.
"Thank you for staying," she says, peeking around his mountain of a middle.
He runs his fingers through her hair and smiles.
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(Thanks for reading! If you have a moment, leave some words, 'kay?)