Sequel to "With Sugar on Top."

I try to write PWP, I really do. But it always ends up growing a plot. An angsty, Wincestuous plot.

(This whole thing is written and typed. I'll post a new chapter once a week.)

Dean had been pretty stressed lately.

It wasn't like he had any shortage of things to wear on him - he had almost too many to choose from, which'd become a depressingly common issue for him over the last decade. There was Amara, first of all. Then however it was he felt about her, which he hadn't figured out yet and wasn't sure he wanted to. And then Lucifer running around in Castiel's vessel. God apparently abandoning all of them to the mercy of His sister, which did bother Dean, even if he'd never consider admitting it. Crowley and Rowena; he didn't like it when he didn't know exactly where they were and what they were doing. Billie the reaper and her grudge against him and Sam.

And speaking of Sam, one of the weights on Dean's shoulders right now had to do with him. What Dean had done to him a few months ago, specifically. He'd kept that part of himself walled away for...forever, practically. Not even the Mark of Cain had managed to bring all those sick sexual desires to the surface, because Dean had devoted so much of his energy to keeping them down where they belonged. Then they'd all broken out and wreaked havoc after the zanna case. Just because Sam'd mentioned a stupid thing he'd wanted to do when he was little.

It was disturbing, and Dean lack of control had left him rattled. Him giving into his weird-ass, dangerous fetishes was probably the least-threatening problem that'd sprung up lately, on a grand scale, but on a smaller one, it was the most threatening thing to Dean's relationship with Sam. And that was kind of an important thing to him right now. With Castiel gone and just about all their other friends dead or otherwise out of reach, Sam was the only one Dean could lean on. Just like old times. And for what felt like the first time in years, they were as close as they'd been when they were kids, because they weren't keeping any secrets from each other.

Well. Except for the reason that Dean had done that thing to Sam about six months ago.

And how he felt about what was happening now.

"Hey...are you gonna finish that?"

"It" was chili fries, still hot, that'd come with a bacon cheeseburger - and those two things together'd been an actual option on the menu. It was a rare occurrence for Dean to find a diner that did that, instead of making him put the two of them together himself and run the risk of a disapproving look from the waitress, and he thought that made it taste better than usual. He really would've liked to finish the fries; he still had room. Hell, he was still hungry. And even if he hadn't been, he should've kept them.

Dean knew all of that. There'd been a serious disconnect between his brain and his body lately, though, and a reminder of that was slammed home when his arm moved by itself. He really hadn't meant to shove the plastic basket, lined with checkered parchment paper and with french fry grease pooling in the empty space where the burger had been, across the table, but it happened anyway. And Sam, who'd already demolished a cheeseburger and fries of his own, caught it easily and dug in with a fork.

Everything about it was familiar, since it'd been repeating itself practically every time they ate for a couple months now. As far as Dean was concerned, the only part that was in character for Sam, as he'd known him for thirty-odd years, was the fork. Unlike Dean, he had a thing about getting grease and chili all over the place. Never mind the fact that he'd never eaten chili fries in his life until recently. Dean would need the fingers of both hands - and then some - to tick off all the times he'd flatly told him they were "disgusting."

Dean didn't comment on how he hadn't thought Sam liked his fries like that, like he had the first few times Sam'd gone for things he never would've touched with a ten-foot pole before. He knew Sam would just mildly reply that he'd thought it was about time he at least tried it. The conversation wouldn't go anywhere if he pointed out Sam had been a picky eater since they started him on solid food, so he stayed quiet 'til their waitress walked by.

Leaning out of the booth to catch her attention, Dean asked, "Say, sweetheart, could you grab me a slice of the apple pie? And if you could drop a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, that'd be awesome." He tacked a smile on at the end. Flirting was a conscious effort, but one he knew he had to make.

The waitress smiled back. She was tan, with dark hair and blue eyes, and Dean pegged her as being somewhere in her mid-twenties. Might revise that if he saw her with her makeup off, and Dean sincerely, if grimly, hoped that wound up happening. He'd been going out of his way to hit on every woman (and man, if he thought he could get away with it without Sam noticing) he came across with that specific coloring, figuring he could fix at least one of his current problems if he could just come with his hands buried in brunette hair and his freckled flesh pressing against bare skin a few shades darker than his own.

Especially if the owner of that hair and skin was carrying a few extra pounds. Which the waitress - Beth, according to the nametag clipped right above one of her large breasts - was. She was tall, too, just a big girl all around. She was perfect. He'd have to make sure he was trying as hard as he could to get her into bed.

She smiled back. That was promising. She glanced at Sam when he swallowed a mouthful of fries and said, "Make it two."

"Sure thing." They were in the Oklahoma panhandle, so she had a slight drawl. Dean told himself he liked that. "Lemme get you boys a refill while I'm at it." She leaned over the table to grab their empty plastic glasses. Dean was drinking Coke, Sam unsweetened iced tea, so at least a few things hadn't changed.

Dean focused on her breasts until she straightened up, then her ass as she walked away. They were great breasts, and it was great ass, near as he could tell with her uniform blocking his view. He should've been interested, excited. He wasn't.

And now she was out of sight. Dean didn't wanna look at Sam, knew it wouldn't be a good idea, but then his body moved without his permission again. He would've thought he was possessed, but the tattoo on his chest was still firmly in place and, of course, the Mark wasn't an issue anymore, thanks to Sam's short-sighted selfishness.

He felt guilty the second he thought that. Sure, he'd bitched Sam out for letting the Darkness out of her crate, but he'd been painfully aware the entire time that he would've done exactly the same thing if they'd been switched around.

Sam'd finished with the chili fries, pushing the empty basket to the edge of the table and setting his fork back down on the napkin his silverware had come wrapped in. His hands were folded on the table in front of him and he was staring out the window at the darkened parking lot. He looked tired, both his real face and the one reflected in the window.

That wasn't a surprise - they'd just wrapped up a grueling hunt. The ghost of a Plains Indian, stirred up by an intern accidentally dropping some pottery on the floor at the local museum, had been causing some issues. There'd been lots of trekking all over what'd felt like the entire prairie to find the grave (and then Sam'd bitched about the salt-and-burn they'd had to do, because it was a significant archaeological site or something and they were ruining it). It'd been mostly research work lately, staying put, only leaving the bunker and the nearby town for a hunt once or twice a month. Dean was sore from his toenails to his eyelids, after days of wading through waist-high grass under a boiling sun and digging through sod. Sam had to be feeling it even worse than he was.

And then there was poor Baby. The dirt they'd accidentally brought in onto her floor mats made Dean start thinking about how else she could be violated on this hunt.

"You puke in my car, I'll put you in a cast," Dean spoke up. Sam blinked, apparently startled out of his thoughts, and turned to look at him.

"Why would I puke?" he asked.

"Well..." Dean held up a hand, ticking off fingers as he talked. "A cheeseburger, two orders of fries - one of 'em with chili on it - and now pie and ice cream. Just seems like a lot. 'Specially for you."

A smile tugged at the corners of Sam's mouth. "I'm not gonna make myself sick."

"You sure?" Dean folded his arms on the table and leaned on them. "'Cause if you do, I'm not holding your hair back. Even if you manage to puke outside the car."

"I can eat more than this and be just fine." Sam moved his hands off the table and leaned back against the red vinyl of the booth. That almost-smile was still on his face. "You know I can."

Dean broke eye contact immediately at that. Looked away from Sam entirely, actually. He swallowed, a wave of way-too-familiar guilt rolling over him. He did know and, god, did he regret finding out. No way could he handle telling Sam what was wrong with him, though. Especially because, with the way Sam had been acting lately, he was starting to worry it was contagious.

Dean looked up at their waitress when she came back, carrying compelling evidence for that. She set their glasses down first, and Dean grabbed his immediately in order to gulp at the Coke inside, craving something stronger. Sam reached for his fork again when she put a saucer with a slice of pie on it in front of each of them. Dean had to admit that it looked pretty good; way better than the usual diner fare that he was used to. It was even warm, the ice cream on top slowly melting into the streusel topping. Dean was distracted enough by it that he didn't notice the folded napkin the waitress had tucked under his plate until she'd walked away.

Sam paused, swallowing the bite he'd already taken, when Dean tugged it out. "What's that?"

Dean unfolded it, scanning what'd been scrawled on it in black pen, then flipped it around to show Sam. A phone number, area code added at the beginning and a swirly little heart at the end. Their waitress's name and what Dean assumed was the time she got off tonight was underneath.

Sam was a faster reader than him. He sat back, face settling into a neutral expression, after only a few seconds, and Dean smirked. Half-smirked. Whatever, he tried.

"Barely even had to try for that one," he said, setting the napkin down and picking up his own fork, which he hadn't touched before now.

"Getting a little old for random women to be slipping you their numbers, don't you think?" Sam asked, with a cough to clear his throat and a dry little bounce of his eyebrows.

"Shut up." Dean stabbed his fork into his pie. Tasted like it'd been warmed up in the microwave when he put it in his mouth - the crust was a little soggy.

"You gonna call her?" Sam asked through a partially-full mouth. Dean heard his fork scraping against the porcelain of his plate.

"Maybe." He should. No, he needed to, he forcefully reminded himself. He needed to. So he set his fork aside, pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jeans, and went ahead and entered her name and number. Half the battle right there. He didn't realize Sam had been watching him the whole time, and closely, until he dropped his phone on top of the napkin and happened to glance at him.

Sam looked away as soon as Dean's eyes met his, going back to his pie. It was Dean's turn to watch him, for a second, at least, as he ate steadily and nursed his tea between bites. Dean wondered what was up with him; he was acting weirder than usual tonight.

It was a few minutes before either of them spoke up again. Dean was almost finished with his pie, which he was pretty sure was made with canned apples and not fresh, by then.

"Tonight?" Sam asked. Dean knew immediately what he was talking about.

"I don't know," he said wearily, answering before he thought it through. Which was a pretty common problem for him, if he was being honest. Before Sam could ask him why he sounded so unenthusiastic about hooking up with a pretty girl and maybe get another too-honest answer outta him, he tried to turn it back around on him. "Why the hell d'you care so much, anyway?"

Sam didn't answer. Dean speared the last chunk of soggy crust before looking up at him again - and managed to accidentally bite the tines of the fork when he stuck it in his mouth, distracted. He swore loudly, dropping the fork on the table with a clatter and clapping a hand to his mouth. He squeezed, pressing his lips against his front teeth to try and sooth the sickening ache in them. He blinked rapidly as his eyes watered with pain.

Shit, that'd hurt. Dean's teeth were in pretty good shape, despite the sugar-heavy diet Sam had spent years nagging him about and the number of times he'd been hit in the mouth, so dental pain was always a nasty shock for him. He grudgingly welcomed it this time, though. It'd kicked him right out of the thoughts that'd stormed into his mind when he looked at Sam.

"Oh - what'd you do?" Sam leaned forward, concerned. Doing that must've pressed on his stomach, because he put his own hand to his mouth to stifle a burp that Dean thought sounded downright dainty. "Did you bite your lip?"

Dean shook his head, squinting as the ache slowly started fading. His free hand was resting on the table, clenched into a fist. He saw Sam move to reach for it, and reflexively jerked it away, all the barriers he'd been setting up since puberty back in place. "Don't touch me."

He forced himself to keep his gaze aimed firmly away from Sam, able to picture the wounded look he'd see in his eyes just fine. He was worried that'd have the same effect on him that the look in Sam's eyes right before he'd bit the fork had had. He'd maybe been a little troubled by the question that Dean had just asked him, but he'd mostly looked sleepy. Satisfied and content after the big meal he'd just eaten. His full lips were wet from his tea, his dark hair was glossy and soft-looking where it fell on either side of his face, and maybe, maybe, the barely-there softness on those outstanding cheekbones of his hadn't just been in Dean's imagination.

He'd looked beautiful, like he had millions of other inappropriate times over the course of Dean's life. Perfect. And this time, he'd almost looked like he was catering exactly to all the things Dean secretly wanted. It'd all come together to make something jump and twitch below Dean's belt. He'd realized he was tired, and that he hadn't even touched himself in months out of guilt, and that he wasn't feeling nearly as strong right now as he was pretty sure he needed to be. He was afraid that it was gonna happen again. He just knew he was gonna lose control of himself again in some way. And then he hurt himself, and it was all okay again.

He just had to keep it like that. That was the hard part.

"Let's get outta here," Dean said, to break the awkward silence that'd fallen over them. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and shelled a twenty and a ten, the cost of what they'd eaten plus a generous tip, onto the table. He wasn't going to make Sam pay after he'd snapped at him, even though pretty much all their money was shared.

He stood up and grabbed his phone. At the last minute, he remembered to grab the napkin under it, too, stuffing it in his pocket. It was more important than ever that he make Beth the waitress think he was interested in her, and leaving her number for her to find when she cleared the table probably wasn't the best way to do that.

He watched Sam get up. As usual, it was kind of an ordeal, and Dean did his best not to pay too much attention, afraid of what it might do to him. Sam slid to the end of the booth, turned, and hauled himself up with a groan of effort. It took him half a second to steady himself on his feet, then he put a large hand on his stomach, rubbing absentmindedly through his shirt.

Dean wanted to ignore Sam's belly, but he couldn't not look at him, at it, when he straightened up. He hated that this happened to him so often. Sam was noticeably full. More than full, actually; you could probably say he was bloated, stuffed. Not quite like he'd been after the waffles, but still.

That wasn't all, though. Tonight wasn't the first time Sam'd eaten like this, or even the second, counting the waffle thing. It'd been a couple months. A couple months of breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and snacks that Dean would've been better suited for. He hadn't seen Sam skip a meal since whatever the hell this was had started, and they were always at least twice as large as what he'd used to eat. He'd completely given up salads and egg-white omelettes. He'd stopped jogging, too, and he didn't spend nearly as much time in the bunker's gym as he had in the past. Dean only ever saw him doing the lightest, most basic stuff in there anymore.

He hadn't let himself get close enough to Sam to tell for sure, but he thought his arms and chest were basically the same. Still chiseled and muscle-bound, in other words, because most of the weight he'd gained had settled around his middle in a small, rounded gut and solid love handles. When it was Dean's turn to do the laundry, he'd noticed the sizes (and shapes) of the jeans in Sam's bag ticking up, so some of all the extra calories he hadn't been working off had to've been going to his ass and thighs, too. Not that Dean had let himself look. Or even think about it for more than a couple seconds. Sam deserved better than that, and Dean knew how bad a place that kind of fantasizing could end up landing them both in.

They went out to the car. Sam was breathing a little heavily and the walking forced more of those tiny burps out of him. Dean wasn't listening, but he seethed at himself for thinking they were cute for a second while he unlocked Baby and slid into the driver's seat. Sam maneuvered himself in on the passenger side. The diner was too small to have lights in its parking lot, so Dean wouldn't've been able to see Sam's swollen belly even if he'd happened to look over at him. Thank god for small mercies.

"So...you wanna go home, or spend another night here?" Sam asked tentatively as Dean was looking for the keys.

Dean paused. He knew what answer he should give, just right off the top of his head, but instead, he sat there and thought about it for a minute. What staying another night would mean. They'd have to go back to the motel, check back into the room they'd left this afternoon, and pay another nightly rate. He'd have to sit in that small space, alone with Sam, until Beth's shift ended, then call her and set up a meeting place. If it was a bar, he'd have to buy her a drink. He'd have to flirt. Probably not much, since all it'd taken to get her number was a smile and a cutesy nickname, but he'd still have to make an effort to get her to take him home.

Dean was tired, and not just physically. It felt like the exhaustion ran deeper than his body, which reminded him of how he'd felt right before the Mark had completely taken over, seeing its chance when his heart stopped for the most recent time. He should probably be concerned about that. Like he was concerned about what he'd have to think about to get his engine going with Beth. He could pretend to be into her until they got naked, but he couldn't pretend a boner.

"Home, I guess," Dean decided. It was a weight off his shoulders, one he felt guilty about getting rid of. He put the key in the ignition and twisted. Like always, she faithfully roared to life, the growl of the engine juddering through her whole body and making Dean's seat vibrate. He saw Sam move. Probably touching his stomach again. "I wanna sleep in my own bed."

"Okay." Sam sounded happy. Of course he did - he was tired, too, and he had to be right on the edge of dozing off with that food baby. His own bed probably sounded pretty good to him, too.

They weren't too far from the bunker, thankfully. It was only a few-hour drive, which was good, because Dean had a hard time even keeping his eyes open for that long. Normally, he would've talked to Sam to keep himself awake. Or blasted music. But Sam had fallen asleep within twenty minutes of getting out on the open road (which might not've had anything to do with how full he was, since that kid could sleep anywhere and at any time), and Dean didn't want to wake him up. The less contact they had, the better. Considering they pretty much lived out of each other's back pockets and had for over thirty years, Dean knew opportunities to cut down on contact would be few and far between.

It wasn't even midnight by the time they got home, but Dean was dead on his feet as he eased the Impala into the garage. He could barely keep his eyes open, his head felt full and heavy, and he knew his reflexes had to be shot. If they'd been one town further into Oklahoma, he'd've had to pull over and spend the night on the side of the road so he didn't wind up upside down in a ditch or wrapped around a telephone pole. That would've meant sleeping in the car. Right next to Sam. Good thing that ghost had popped up where it had.

Sam stirred as Dean killed the engine and opened his door. He ignored him and climbed out, not in any shape to have another conversation tonight. He was tired enough to slip up, break down, get weak. Neither of them could afford that.

Everything would be fine if DEan could just get to his room, fall into bed, and forget about today. And the last couple months. But Sam's voice, husky with sleep, caught him before he could make it out of the garage and into the bunker.

"Dean?" Dean glanced over his shoulder to see Sam swinging his legs out of the car and standing up. He must've digested a little while he was sleeping; he didn't look quite as big.

"What's up?" Dean asked, reluctantly. Just booking it to his room without replying to Sam would probably make more problems than it'd solve.

"Well, uh..." Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, smiling almost nervously. "It's not that late, and I know we've still got some beer in the fridge. I was just wondering if you...wanna watch a movie or something? Unwind from the hunt?"

Dean did wanna do that, despite how badly he also wanted to go to bed. It was probably because he wanted to go to bed. If he'd been fully awake, he wouldn't've let himself want to get so close to Sam. Not after what'd happened, or how he'd been feeling lately.

"Look, Sam," he started, letting some of his exasperation with himself leak into his voice, where it'd hopefully scare Sam off before he said anything bad. "Today I spent six hours on a nature hike from hell and three hours busting sod. I'm sunburned and blistered and I'm feeling every move I make in places I forgot I had." He patted the small of his back to punctuate the statement. "I'm guessing I'm probably not gonna be able to move tomorrow morning. Maybe I'm just getting too damn old for this. But all I wanna do right now is go to bed."

"Um. Okay." Sam sounded disappointed. Dean tried not to care. "Well...d'you wanna have a beer anyway? Just one. I kinda wanted to ta - "

Irritation sparked like a headache behind Dean's eyes. Or maybe it was an actual headache. He was tired and probably dehydrated, and he could've been allergic to any one of the billion plants that'd been growing out on that stupid prairie. There were a lot of things that could've triggered it, but which one it was wasn't important. What was was that his patience with Sam had run dry the second it'd started. So he cut him off.

"No. Jeez - did you not hear me? I just wanna go to sleep." Dean was sick and tired of feeling like this, and thinking about it, he was pretty sure it was Sam's fault. This thing inside him had been dormant for years, and Sam's new behavior had just barely woken it up. All Dean had done was feed him up once. That couldn't've led to him glutting himself at every single meal for months. "Just leave me alone." If he'd stayed in Oklahoma and used the number Beth had given him, there was every chance he'd already be asleep right now. With clean pipes, too. And he'd probably be in her bed, so Sam wouldn't be around, tempting and bothering him. He regretted his decision, so he went out and said that. "Should've called that waitress."

He'd turned around by that point, and was heading up the stairs that led into the bunker, so he didn't see Sam's reaction. Probably wasn't important. Especially since all that mattered to Dean right now was getting away from him so that he could get the storm of guilt and longing in his stomach to settle down.

The bunker was a blur until Dean got to his room; good thing he hadn't had to keep driving. As soon as he made it, he opened the door, but didn't turn on the light. He didn't need it to kick off his boots, step out of his jeans, and collapse face-down on his bed. He laid there for a second, then humped his way up the mattress like an inchworm until his head rested on the pillow, too tired to use his limbs or even remember that he had them.

A few minutes later, shockingly enough, he was still awake. He heard Sam pad past the door he'd left open and thought about calling him into his room to apologize for biting his head off. Have that talk he'd wanted. He also thought about getting under his covers instead of just laying on top of them. That one'd be real easy, since he hadn't bothered to make his bed before leaving for the hunt and everything was still all pulled back.

He fell asleep before he could do either. The one thing he'd regret in the morning, but the other he was sure he'd end up feeling extremely relieved about.