Dean watched Sam eat, and for the first time, noticed how he did it. How he'd been doing it for the past two months. Dean'd been so busy not looking at him or thinking about him that hit hadn't ever come to his attention, the way Sam enjoyed every bite. If you were really watching him, he somehow made you focus on his mouth, the pink, baby-soft lips. And his stomach, too, even though it was almost always going to be blocked from Dean's view by the table when they were sitting across from each other. He touched it a lot, and shifted in the chair like he had to find new, more comfortable positions as he got fuller.

He was putting on a show. Maybe it was a conscious effort, maybe he was only doing it now because months of performing at every meal he shared with Dean had made it a habit. Either way, as the person it was aimed at, Dean felt guilty. In more ways than one.

If this happened, it was going to be complicated, but when had their life ever been anything but?

"You can just leave the rest if you're full," Dean told Sam the first time he cupped a hand over his mouth to hide a burp. A small burp. God, Sam's burps were just adorable, especially for a guy his size; Dean wasn't afraid to think that now.

Sam shook his head, grabbed another piece of toast. "I don't want to," he said before taking a bite. He washed it down with orange juice, then continued. "It'd good. I'd rather finish it."

Dean picked up his mug when he said that, draining what was left in it to distract himself from Sam digging back in. Just so he wouldn't get too excited. He grimaced; the coffee'd gone cold. He wondered when that had happened.

He stood to go start a new pot, but wound up just leaving the cup in the sink and going over to Sam. It would've been more normal to grab a chair and drag it over so they were sitting together, but that would've taken too long, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful need to be as close to his brother as possible. To touch him. Standing next to Sam's chair, Dean tentatively laid a hand on Sam's head, acting more on instinct than anything else. It'd been so long since he'd touched him like this. He'd forgotten how soft his hair was, even still damp with sweat.

Something tightened in Dean's chest, then released in a rush of what felt like adrenaline when Sam leaned heavily into his hand. He'd just taken a bite of one of the fried eggs he'd ruined with ketchup, so he swallowed that before looking up at Dean through his lashes. Dean was pretty sure he'd never understand how a guy Sam's size, and in his thirties, could look so vulnerable and fragile.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes, maybe it was something in his face, but Dean could tell that he was really afraid that he'd take his hand away and leave, that it'd all be over before it even started. Dean had to do something to reassure him. So he smoothed his hand over Sam's hair until he was cupping the back of his skull, tipped his head back for him, and leaned down to press their mouths together before he could chicken out.

They had kissed before, but he doubted Sam remembered it. He'd still been young enough to be considered a baby or a toddler. Their dad had seemed to think it was cute, but he'd put a stop to it once Dean had started going to school. Dean's memories of that time were, admittedly, pretty fuzzy, and he knew there hadn't been anything sexual about those kisses, but he was almost positive that Sam was a better kisser now. He stretched up to meet Dean halfway, putting one hand on his shoulder to keep him where he was. He kept his mouth closed, so it was pretty chaste by Dean's standards (maybe he was worried about what kind of flavor he'd have, since he had spent a lot of time throwing up this morning), but he could still taste his own cooking on Sam's lips.

When they broke, Sam was panting softly, looking up at Dean with his free hand on his stomach. Dean maintained eye contact for a second, surprised at how he didn't feel embarrassed or regretful at all, but then his gaze dropped to that hand. And especially what it was resting on. Sam's T-shirt had been more than loose enough to cover his belly while it was empty, as long as he didn't stretch, but what he'd eaten already had filled it enough to press noticeably against the fabric. The hem had ridden up slightly, letting Dean get a good look at a narrow strip of tan skin.

He took his hand off Sam's head and laid it over his hand as he knelt next to his chair. Sam's other hand stayed on his shoulder, and he looked down at him with a question in his eyes. They were bright, though, and his face was flushed high up on his jutting cheekbones. He wasn't totally sure what Dean was doing, but he liked it. That was how Dean interpreted it, anyway.

"What're you doing?" Sam asked.

"Just keep eating, if you really wanna," Dean replied, giving Sam's hand a squeeze. "I'll take care of you."

Sam went back to his breakfast. He used both hands, pulling the one out from under his older brother's so that there was nothing between Dean and his stomach but his thin T-shirt. He was so warm, again - and, oh, god, he was so soft. Dean remembered how hard and taut Sam had been all the times he'd wrestled with him and carried him in recent years; you could've cut diamonds on his abs. He liked this much better.

Dean was already sporting a well-established semi, from the kiss and from watching Sam eat earlier, but seeing his middle swell up right in front of him as he finished off what he'd made for him had Dean springing out to his full length in record time. The sheer fabric of the shorts Sam was wearing made it pretty easy to tell that he was hard, too. Dean wondered if he'd been that way after the waffles, then wondered why he hadn't noticed if he was. Maybe his stomach had blocked it from view.

Sam's belly grew steadily under both of Dean's hands when he put the other one on it, too. The layer of softness got thinner as it was stretched out, and Dean automatically pulled Sam's shirt up to the base of his ribcage at one point, trying to make him more comfortable. He started rubbing when Sam spread his legs slightly, using his fingertips to feel out air bubbles and cramping muscles, then working them out with his palms and the heels of his hands. Sam was so round, and getting rounder, gut flowing seamlessly into the love handles that the elastic waistband of his shorts couldn't quite contain. Dean was absorbed by him. He didn't even noticed he'd stopped eating until he spoke up.

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean looked up, startled.

"I'm done." Sam scooted back slightly, stomach wobbling a little as he did. Dean tore his eyes away from that and stood up, looking down at the table. Crumbs, smears of ketchup and egg yolk, grease spots - that was all that was left. Otherwise, Sam had cleaned his plates. Dean's cock gave a little jump at that realization.

"Well, so you are." Dean bent over, gathering up the dishes, and couldn't help feeling disappointed that it was all gone. He paused on his way to the sink, looking down at Sam. He didn't think he was even as full as he'd been last night, right after dinner, so he could technically eat more. A lot more. Dean had seen how impressive his full capacity had been two months ago, and it had to've grown since then. He swallowed, and asked, "Can I get you anything else?"

"Pancakes," Sam replied, so quickly that Dean suspected he'd been waiting for the question. "I'd ask for waffles, but I've got no idea where you stashed the iron, and even if it's still around, I'm not gonna make you dig it out." He grinned sheepishly. "I've figured out that I've got a little bit of a sweet tooth."

Dean had actually tossed the waffle iron the same day he'd stuffed Sam. He'd known that the waffles weren't really to blame, but he'd figured that it was better to be safe than sorry. If Sam liked waffles, though, he'd have to buy a new iron. As for now, he could definitely make him pancakes.

He dropped the dirty dishes off in the sink; a real pile was starting to develop there. He moved around the kitchen, gathering up what he needed. A mixing bowl, flour, a new frying pan, baking powder, a plate, milk. Sam watched him, straddling a corner of his chair and with his full stomach on display as he leaned back in it, and didn't say anything until Dean went to grab that last ingredient.

"Can you use cream instead?" he asked. Dean paused with the refrigerator open, fighting off a full-body shudder of pure horniness. He was sure he'd fired a few drops of precome into his boxers at that.

"I guess I could." They actually had cream, since Dean had used it to make the sauce for a pasta thing he'd tried out last week. They'd been away for a few days, but when he opened the carton and gave it a sniff, he could tell it was still good. There was enough left to make pancakes, too. "Do you want me to?"

"I really do."

Dean whipped up the batter, heart going so fast it was practically humming in his chest and legs shaky with excitement. He used cream instead of milk, of course, and then added in chocolate chips, just for the hell of it. The pan had been heating up while he'd been mixing, so he was able to pour some of the batter in as soon as he was done with it. He used up the entire bowl making a stack of three thick pancakes. He almost topped it with syrup and butter, but if Sam had a sweet tooth, he should give him something sweeter. So he opted for whipped cream and chocolate syrup instead.

"You read my mind," Sam declared as Dean carried the plate and a new fork over to the table. He repositioned himself so it'd be easier for him to eat.

"Well, you seemed to like it when I got creative with the waffles," Dean replied with a shrug. He set the pancakes down, then felt a flicker of doubt when Sam hid another burp behind his hand before reaching for the fork. Maybe this was too much. "Not sure I should be giving you something so rich after you threw up this morning, though."

"I'm fine," Sam replied with a smirk. "More than fine, actually. Maybe the best I've ever been."

That was probably an exaggeration, but it was one that Dean could live with. He put his hand on Sam's head again, stroking his hair down to where it naturally curled against his neck in tight waves. Sam smiled up at him, and Dean smiled back.

They just smiled at each other for about a minute, widely and naturally, and Dean was sure that they would've looked like a couple of idiots to any outsider looking in. They were the only ones here, though, and this was what it felt right for them to do. Eventually, Sam looked away and started eating, and Dean knelt on the floor again, still smiling, basically unable to stop himself because he was just so happy. Kneeling on the hard floor was hell on his knees, but he didn't go for a chair. He was a lot closer to Sam this way.

Dean had to get up once, to get Sam a glass of milk. Other than that, he was free to worship his belly as he gorged himself on pancakes. It was kind of awkward to rub and watch from the side, so he moved under the table, between Sam's legs. Sam spread them further to make room for him. Dean's cock throbbed in time with the brutal pace his heart was keeping up as Sam's stomach bloated and rounded out, steadily, under his hands. He kept massaging, of course, determined to keep Sam from feeling any pain at all. When the waistband of his shorts really started getting tight, Dean pushed it down to give him relief. Sam's belly immediately spilled into Dean's hands and onto his own thighs once it was free of his shorts, heavy with breakfast food and soft with fat and with a red line running around it that marked where his waistband had been. Dean heard Sam sigh with relief above him.

He knew he was almost done when he heard his fork scraping the plate. One hand on either side of the massive globe that Sam's stomach had developed into, Dean just drank it in. That was more like it - he'd gotten bigger by nearly half the size he'd been when he'd finished the first round of breakfast, so he had to be getting close to his limits. Dean closed his eyes and leaned in, nuzzling the curve of his stuffed gut. He felt the coarse hair that ran down the underside of Sam's stomach in a trail from his belly button catching on his own stubble. Sam didn't exactly smell awesome, probably having sweated buckets on his self-imposed death march this morning, but Dean knew he wasn't much better off. He was used to it, and he could put up with it. A manly musk was kinda sexy, after all.

Dean kissed the cushion of fat surrounding Sam's deep navel, which hadn't been stretched totally thin by the huge load of fattening food he was carrying under it. It wasn't long before he was more mouthing at it than kissing it, using his lips and not his teeth, panting onto the satiny skin Sam had down there between the moles and scars. His hips rocked in tiny movements that he couldn't've stopped even if he'd wanted to try, cock straining against and leaking into the denim of his jeans. He barely reacted when Sam touched his head.

"Dean?" Sam burped. "I'm done again."

"Jesus, Sammy, you're gonna be the death of me," Dean growled against Sam's hot flesh, then pulled back. He reluctantly moved both hands off Sam, grabbing hold of the chair and shoving it away from himself so that he could out from under the table. Straightening up (and almost staggering, because his knees were stiff), he looked down at Sam. He was panting softly, mouth hanging open and the pink tip of his tongue visible. His eyes were still bright, though, without any sign of that slow, glassy, contented look that Dean knew meant absolute fullness. He'd had that after the waffles. "How're you feeling?"

"Full," Sam huffed out. Dean had to kiss him again then. Sam held onto him when he leaned down, and when they pulled apart, he mumbled against Dean's lips, "I want you."

There was a special emphasis on the word in the middle, and a whole other kind of emphasis on that last one. Heat bloomed in Dean's stomach and he kissed Sam again.

"Can you stand up on your own?" he asked when he was finished with that.

"No." Dean wondered if he actually could and was just asking for help as part of the show. If that was the case, though, he didn't care or want to know.

He took both of Sam's hands in his own and pulled him up, keeping a hold on him while he figured out his balance so there was no chance of him falling. Sam let go of Dean as soon as he was steady on his feet, putting one hand on the small of his back and resting the other on the curve of his belly. He blew out a long breath that ended in a soft burp, then half-grinned at Dean.

"I kinda feel like I'm pregnant," he said.

"Well, it kinda looks like you're pregnant," Dean replied with a chuckle.

"Well, technically..." Sam raised his eyebrows. "I have been eating for two."

At that, Dean couldn't stand not to be touching him anymore. He moved in, putting his hands on Sam's hips and pulling him close. His fingers sank into the soft flesh underneath Sam's shorts and boxer briefs. They didn't sink far before hitting the sharp bones of Sam's hips, but the fact that they sank at all was enough to make Dean's cock sit up and beg. They kissed, Sam draping his arms over Dean's shoulders and pressing his over-full stomach against Dean's relatively flat one.

He pushed Sam towards the table. Reaching around behind him, he shoved the pancake plate to the other side, the fork on top of it clattering. He dropped his hands to Sam's thighs and pulled him closer. Sam gasped when Dean lifted him up onto the table, and Dean grunted with effort. It was only a few inches, but damn, he was heavy. How much'd he gained, not including the food in his belly right now? Twenty pounds? Thirty?

Dean's groin was right up against Sam stomach, and that thought made him start rocking his hips against it. Sam gasped again, then moaned, his entire body quivering against Dean's. He wrapped his legs around Dean's waist, his rocky calves resting against his ass. His hands slipped under Dean's shirt, and the next thing Dean knew, Sam was raking his blunt fingernails down his back as they furiously made out and dryhumped against each other. Dean groaned loudly into Sam's mouth. He'd never actually seen Sam have sex before (even though he'd thought about it plenty, which'd made him hate himself), so he wasn't sure if this passion was normal for him or if it was just because he'd wanted this so badly for so long.

Dean's back burned where Sam had dragged his nails, but it didn't hurt. Whatever the reason, he was an animal right now, and that was exactly what Dean wanted.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasped in one of the rare intervals where they were both catching their breath. He felt his way up Sam's thighs, back to his hips and then up onto his love handles. They were rocking the table, which knocked over the glass Sam'd been using. Good thing it was empty. "You're fuckin' huge."

With his hands where they were now, he was in the perfect position to rip off Sam's shorts. He was sure there was something nearby they could use as lube, so they could just fuck right there in the kitchen. He didn't know how far Sam was comfortable with going, though. Sure, he was hard right now, and they were kissing, but that didn't mean he wanted to have real sex with Dean. Maybe he just wanted to be fed and touched. Dean hadn't ever noticed him showing an interest in other men, either, so it was possible he'd never had that kind of sex before. Which could be a problem. Maybe he wanted to top. If that was the case, they were gonna have to wait on the lovemaking, since there was no way he could pitch with that bloated gut in the way.

"I've got an idea," Sam panted into Dean's ear, where his mouth had somehow wound up. Dean's own lips had wandered down to the side of Sam's neck. "Make me one more pancake. But this time..." He pulled back, yanking his iPod and the band that it was on off his arm with fast, jerky movements. He wound his earbuds around it and put it over on the other side of the table, next to his plate. "Feed it to me."

It felt like a lightning bolt had just run down Dean's spine, straight to his cock. "You sure you can handle that?" He moved a hand to the bulging side of Sam's stomach. It was already so full.

"Yeah, but I'll have to take it kind of easy when we're done," Sam replied. "And you're definitely gonna have to help me to wherever it is you wanna put me."

That subtle implication that Dean got to decide what to do with Sam, at least when he was this full - that he owned him - made something that felt like a tiny orgasm explode in his balls. He swallowed, taking a second to pull himself together and to feel around the front of his jeans with the hand he'd had on Sam's belly. Still dry, even up near the waistband, where the head of his cock was resting. So he definitely hadn't come. It'd felt like it, though. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before.

"Wanna take a shower?" Dean suggested hopefully. If Sam said yes, that'd give him a good chance to feel him out more thoroughly, both figuratively and literally. "Together? I mean, we both need one, and the hot water'd feel good on you. Both this..." He returned both hands to Sam's stomach, running his palms over it lovingly. "And wherever you're sore from your stupid run this morning." Dean was sore, too, yesterday's exertion still clinging to him. He'd all but forgotten about the pain in his muscles recently, though.

"Okay." There was no hesitation at all on Sam's part, which triggered a spurt of relief in Dean. "I mean...we'll see. Not sure how I'm gonna feel about standing by the time I'm done with this."

"I think you'll be fine." Dean gave Sam's belly one last pat before reluctantly tearing himself away. "You're tough."

He almost spilled the cream, making just enough batter for one more pancake. And the flour, and he actually did spill the baking powder, because his hands were shaking. That made him think that he maybe shouldn't be cooking while he was this excited. He managed not to burn himself or the pancake, though, and he didn't set anything else on fire. Sam did ask him if he was okay when he almost broke one of the big, heavy plates they'd inherited with the bunker, but he caught it between his knee and the counter before it hit the floor, so everything was fine. He'd always known the freakish reflexes he'd honed over roughly three decades of hunting would come in handy one day.

Dean put the pancake on the plate he'd managed not to break once it was done, then drizzled syrup over it and laid a couple pats on top of that. He carried the plate and a fork over to Sam, who was still on the table, legs spread to accommodate his overfed gut and hands supporting his considerable weight as he leaned backwards.

"You want me to feed you, right?" Dean asked once he got there, voice coming out deeper and huskier than he expected it to. He just felt like he had to make sure, because all this seemed way too good to be true, and he'd been bitten in the ass by things like that before.

"Yeah," Sam said with a vigorous nod. "Like you did with the last waffle that one time."

Dean stood between Sam's knees, holding the plate in one hand and the fork in the other, a little less than an inch between their stomachs. He cut a piece off the syrup-drenched pancake with the side of the fork, speared it, and brought it up to Sam's mouth. Sam leaned forward to meet him, opening his mouth and taking the ite like an eager baby bird.

Dean spent fifteen or twenty minutes feeding his little brother like that, praise coming easily to him and pouring out of his mouth in a steady, murmured stream. Sam's eyes were half-closed for a while, then fully closed, an expression of pure bliss settling bit by bit onto his face as he opened his mouth again and again for pieces of pancake. Dean stopped when he had to burp or, as they went on, hiccup, but other than that, they fell into an easy rhythm that neither of them broke out of until Dean realized two things: the plate was empty, and Sam's belly had expected to the point where it was once again touching Dean's, even though neither of them had moved.

Dean's cock throbbed, and his breath got caught at the base of his throat for a second. God, that was hot.

Sam was ready for more, lips slightly parted and eyes still closed. Instead of feeding him more pancake (which he kinda couldn't, since it was all gone), Dean leaned in for a long, wet, syrup-flavored kiss, then set the plate and fork aside.

"You're done," he told Sam when he pulled back. Sam opened his eyes, then looked down at himself, putting a hand on top of his stomach and stroking it almost fondly.

"Ooh, yeah," he agreed, then hiccuped with a smile. "Definitely. 'Specially if you want me, say...awake and functioning during our shower." He looked up at Dean with soft eyes. "Thanks for making that for me."

Those words brought back a flood of memories for Dean - recent memories, created within the last two months. Sam telling him to make extra for lunch or dinner or breakfast because of how hungry he was that day, Sam going for seconds and thirds and on up, Sam making requests when it was Dean's turn to go on a supply run, Sam asking Dean to make him things while they were doing research or watching TV or just enjoying some separate downtime in the bunker. And Dean doing or allowing all of it. Sam had gone out of his way to involve him, and he could've nipped it in the bud at any time, because it wasn't like he'd been oblivious, but he hadn't. Maybe he'd known what they both wanted and needed from the beginning, even though he'd been so dead-set against acknowledging it.

"So where're we gonna do this?" Sam huffed, pulling Dean away from his revelation.

"You know the showers down on the dorm level?" Dean asked, and Sam groaned.

"Oh, c'mon," he said. "You're really gonna make me go down two flights of stairs?"

"You could take the elevator."

"Right," Sam agreed sarcastically, smirking as if to acknowledge the joke. They barely ever mentioned the elevator. It was all but useless, and way beyond Dean's capacity to fix, so it might as well not have existed. "Like that thing's not a death trap."

"I'll help you down there," Dean promised. "Then you can get comfortable, and I'll go grab the stuff we need."

He left the dishes on the table and in the sink as he helped Sam to his feet and got an arm around him. There were much better things to do right now than wash the dishes. Maybe he'd be excited to throw himself into that later, when the hormones dried up and regret set in. Maybe regret would never set in and it'd just be a chore sometime this afternoon or tomorrow. Right now, though, everything was perfect and rosy and being as close to Sam as possible was a million times more important than the plates and silverware they used.

It was slow going, especially once they got to the stairs. Sam was used to his new weight, and he carried it really well, but the heft of his full stomach was totally different. He was panting, leaning heavily on Dean and swallowing the hiccups and burps that kept popping out of him. Dean didn't think it was a show anymore; this was really difficult for him. He kept waiting for the usual guilt and self-loathing to run him over like an eighteen-wheeler, because he was the one who'd done this, but it never came. Sam didn't ask to rest, so he couldn't be doing that bad, and the hand of the arm that Dean had around him kept brushing against his shorts where they were stretched tight by his undiminished erection.

Dean's own hard-on wasn't going anywhere, either. Maybe guiding Sam down the stairs at a snail's pace wasn't all that sexy, but they were on their way to share a shower, and the plush parts of him were pressed hard against Dean. Plus there was his belly, which he had no hope of taking his eyes off of.

Dean hit the lights when they reached the dorm showers. Like most of the lights in the bunker, they were old but reliable: they buzzed and flickered, but they came on and stayed on, illuminating a huge, tiled room. There were lockers, most of which Dean had jimmied open out of boredom at one point or another (there wasn't anything good in any of them), and benches in the center, and the outer part was divided into big sections by walls lined with shower heads that went three-quarters of the way up to the ceiling. There were no curtains or doors. As Dean understood it, the bunker had been populated almost exclusively by men during its heyday, and apparently homosexuality hadn't been a thing back then, either, so there'd been no need for privacy.

They tended to use the showers on the floor their rooms were on - the tiny bathrooms off their bedrooms had sinks and toilets, but no showers. Those were more enclosed and, honestly, a lot nicer, but Dean wanted the space in these. Plus, if you turned on all the heads in one section, it got warm and steamy really fast, and the streams intersected in the middle, which was where you'd wanna stand. Bliss.

"I don't remember the last time I came down," Sam panted, peeling himself off Dean and sinking onto one of the benches.

"I used it when I sprained my back chasing that damn rawhead in Michigan," Dean replied. "Just laid down on my stomach and let it pour down on me. Actually fell asleep. It was awesome."

"You laid face-down on the floor?" Sam made a face. "In a communal shower?"

"Whatever was growing here..." Dean indicated the floor. "It's been dead for fifty years. Not gonna catch anything." He patted Sam's shoulder. "You go ahead and strip down. I'll be right back."

"Uh huh." Sam was sitting on the end of a bench, straddling it and leaning back onto the large hands he'd planted behind himself. His eyes were closed, his head tipped back. His chest was heaving, making his love handles jiggle; his stomach, firm with fullness, barely moved at all. Dean left him to catch his breath once he'd burned that image into his memory, practically running back up the stairs to his room.