The boardroom practically dripped with rich taste.
Plush leather chairs around a massive, glossy table, stained a deep cherry. Abstract watercolor prints on the walls. Wood-grain paneling and plush burgundy carpet. A window that encompassed an entire wall. Fluorescent lights recessed into the ceiling, and muted by frosted glass.
Happen to look long enough, and you might notice the prints bore an uncanny resemblance to open wounds. Or that the window looked out directly onto the meatpacking plant below. Or that the large room smelled, just barely, like blood.
Exactly the right amount to enhance focus, of course. Not nearly so much it ran the risk of kicking off a feeding frenzy.
People were steadily filing in, well-groomed men and a couple of women in expensive suits. Dick Roman, who was vastly more now than he had been this time last year, stood at the door to greet them with smiles and handshakes, inviting them to take their seats.
It felt good to be together again. Being scattered, like they were now most of the time, was...unfamiliar, to say the least. Even in the Beginning, when they'd more or less had the run of the place, they had been many that ultimately made one. The one had only become more concentrated when they were sealed away, to the point where the freedom of that initial bursting of their vessel had been woven through with trauma.
"All right, that's everyone; I think we can go ahead and get started," Roman announced. "First of all, how was everyone's trip?"
"Fuck that." Someone near the back of the room spoke up. "When do we eat?"
Roman smiled as laughter rippled along the table. "Lunch will be served after we wrap up, but I think you'll all be able to agree that the real treat...is the information I'm about to give you."
He looked expectantly around as he made his way to the front of the room, but the laughter was gone. The sounds of people getting settled (and one distant throat-clearing) had replaced it.
"Well." Roman cleared his own throat. "Thank you for coming, everybody. I don't think we've all been together since we were inside that angel."
That one got a chuckle. Roman smiled. Pulling a small remote out of his pocket, he pressed a button, and shades smoothly descended over the huge window. An enormous projection screen lowered from the ceiling, and he stepped aside. The lights dimmed until the room was entirely black, except for the white square of the glowing screen. And one cell phone.
"Gary." Roman spread his hands. "Seriously?"
"Sorry." Gary coughed, shoved the phone out of sight. "This Candy Crush thing, it's addictive."
"Right. Moving on." Roman paused for a moment. "I think we're all familiar...with the Winchesters."
A picture appeared on the screen as he spoke. There were the brothers themselves, pulling their grungy bags out of the trunk of their car, both clad characteristically in denim and flannel and both looking over their shoulders. Irritated voices filled the room.
"Yeah, Dick, you could say that."
"Oh, for Eve's sake. These guys."
"I mean, seriously, are you kidding me with the whole Borax thing?"
"You know, I was just talking about this with a couple other mouths...we think they'd even taste like shit."
"It's like they're broken or something. Just literally do not know when to give up."
Roman nodded patiently until the grumbling died down, which it did. Eventually.
"These two have been a pair of thorns in our collective side since the very start," he began. "They've been dragging us down since we very first started leaking out of the seraph.
"But!" Facing his audience, Roman raised a finger. "I've got fantastic news. I have officially solved our problem."
There was a smattering of incredulous laughter. Somebody demanded, "How? Every single mouth we've sent after them has wound up chopped to pieces, buried in concrete, or burnt down to a puddle of slime."
"You're entirely right, Patricia," Roman agreed. "Excellent question. We found out the hard way we can't go after these guys directly. We just can't win if we meet them toe to toe. I mean, after all. They think they're backed by God."
There was snorting and derision from everybody gathered, but just the faintest touch of reverence at the mention of God. Divine flesh: the ultimate feast.
"We decided to try going in a new direction, rather than tackling the issue head on." Roman moved to another slide. "I trust everybody here is familiar with our use of SucroCorp to roll out the latest edition of our additive? I'm happy to say we worked out all the kinks this time."
He moved through the SucroCorp logo, images of the additive in the lab and in the warehouse, ready to be shipped out, and landed on pictures of subjects who had consumed it. All glazed eyes and round bellies. Addressing the table, Roman explained, "For those of you who need a refresher, I'll skip all the jargon, but the long and short of it is that it makes the humans who consume it complacent, docile, and prone to both increased appetites and rapid weight gain. Traits of the perfect livestock. Not to mention that our profits are through the roof this quarter, because the more people eat, the more they want."
"We know all this, Dick," somebody pointed out. "Very impressive. But what's it got to do with the Winchesters?"
"I am glad you asked." Pointing out at the general direction the voice had come from, Roman turned back to the screen. "We actually know a lot about the Winchesters. Probably more than most of us would like to know, let's be honest. All the research we've completed, the mouths we had living as them, the information we sucked out of the angel's brain when we were swimming in it. Which means we know that Dean…"
Roman moved through a series of slides. Dean Winchester holding a half-eaten bag of Skittles, cheeks swelled out with candy. Dean sitting on the hood of their glaring neon sign of a car, messily halfway through a plate of ribs. Dean upending an empty bag of jerky into his mouth to get the last few pieces.
There were murmurs of interest and dawning realization among those gathered even before Roman finished, "...likes to eat.
"And I feel like that's a good segue." Voice clear and forceful, Roman crossed in front of the screen as he continued. "We tried targeting chains we knew the Winchesters, especially Dean, frequented." He brought up a picture of a Biggerson's restaurant (a fairly recent and admittedly wise acquisition). "Lacing foods we knew he ordered with the first version of our additive. Which I think we can all agree didn't have quite the effect we wanted, but we definitely learned a lot."
"I heard you, uh, ate the head of research for that division," Gary commented. Roman smiled.
"What can I say?" He shrugged. "I've got a very hands-on management style. Or I guess you could say teeth-on."
The chuckling sounded a little forced, but he'd take it. He moved on.
"Dean was actually exposed during that initial rollout, and he was one of our success cases, experiencing only the desired effects." A picture of Dean with his jeans very obviously unbuttoned beneath the table of the booth he was sitting in, stomach swollen out of them, eyes closed in rapture as he bit into what looked like his fourth or fifth burger. Going off the empty plates. Sam sat across from him, arms folded on the table and an unreadable expression on his face. "Unfortunately, because of the adverse effects we saw in an unacceptable percentage of subjects, we did have to...cannibalize that particular project, so to speak."
"What about the brother?" somebody asked skeptically. It was Patricia again. Ginger hair and a well-chosen blue pantsuit. "He wasn't exposed, was he?"
"Let's put a pin in that for now," Roman said pleasantly, miming that, "and circle back to it later. I want to move on to Mark II of our product now. A huge success, we finally started getting the returns we wanted. We're infusing it into high-fructose corn syrup, so there is no noticeable taste, smell, or visible difference in the products that contain it. No negative side effects, either. And its effectiveness is in the ninety-ninth percentile. To put that in layman's terms, it works on almost everybody. Including Dean Winchester."
A picture of Dean sitting behind the wheel of his car in the parking lot, teeth sunk in a chocolate bar, a dull, contented expression on his face. He looked maybe just a touch softer around the edges than he had in the last slide. There was a pile of wrappers on the seat next to him.
"Unfortunately, by the time we were able to launch the Mark II, the effects of the previous iteration had worn off. But because of Dean's diet, exposure to the new additive was pretty much immediate, just like we'd hoped. And it was like he was primed for this stuff, seriously. It went to work - " Roman snapped his fingers. "Instantly."
Dean leaning on the counter at a bakery, soft-faced and with a budding muffin top. That slight belly visibly strained against his T-shirt and jeans as he gorged himself on an entire pie, a large milkshake at his elbow. There was already an empty tin beside him on the counter.
Everyone murmured appreciatively. Somebody licked their lips.
"As you can see, the effects were all but instantaneous. Note the…" Pressing a button to activate the remote's laser pointer feature, Roman highlighted various areas. "Increased appetite. The weight gain, especially in the abdominal area. And look, on his face. His eyes. You can literally see the decrease in not only resistance, but also in intelligence." He smirked. "Of course, we couldn't exactly perform the same cognitive and reaction time tests on him that we did our subjects in the laboratory trials, but there are other ways to measure complacency. Docility. For example: that give 'em hell attitude? Dried up overnight. Stopped, ah, 'hunting.' Only went after food and trash TV. In other words, he lost one of his only three interests."
Roman paused for the laughter, grinning, before going on.
"The effects compounded, of course. The timeline went exactly as expected, no interruptions. His addiction to the additive developed, so he ate…"
Dean at a fast food restaurant, pushing himself up with effort, too-small jeans unbuttoned and belt open to let his overfed belly spill out. He had the beginnings of a double chin, thickened thighs, widened hips. Wrappers from what looked to be several orders had piled up on the crumb-covered table.
"...and ate…"
Dean at what was obviously an all-you-can-eat buffet, plates piled high on the table in front of him, stomach clearly stuffed and bloated. A plump, harried waiter could be seen in the background, bringing more food, and every single other person in the shot was eating ravenously, most of them already practically bursting out of their clothes.
Dean was even bigger here, with a larger gut, a full-on double chin. Tits.
"...and ate."
Dean waddling through a grocery store, leaning heavily on his cart. It was piled high with cookies. Snack cakes. Stuff from the bakery, processed meat and cheese. Candy. Ice cream. Frozen pizzas. Potato chips. He was eating from an open bag of that last one, swigging from a liter bottle of soda, as he went.
By the time the slideshow got a video of Dean in a dressing room, struggling to get the buttons on a shirt closed, the room was buzzing with open admiration. Excitement. Even desire. There was more than one puddle of drool on the glossy table, highlighted by the glow from the projection screen.
"Look how fat he's getting," Roman encouraged. His own mouth was just a little bigger on his face than it probably should be, teeth a little larger, a little sharper, a little more numerous. That was fine, though. He was among friends. "Isn't that just delicious? Look at those freckles."
"Eve," somebody murmured, "look at those thighs."
"I'm more of a belly mouth, myself."
"Watch the way he eats. Succulent little piggy."
One voice suddenly rose above all the others, this one a lot more irritated than hungry. Patricia. Yet again. Roman felt his tongue twitch behind his teeth.
"But what about the brother?" she demanded impatiently. "He wasn't in any of these pictures, you haven't mentioned him. I can understand why the older one wouldn't have figured out what was happening to him, he's pumped full of the additive, but wouldn't the other have nipped it in the bud? Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't we think that's what happened with Mark I?" She arched an eyebrow. "Was he exposed, too? Or did Dean just eat him?"
There was some laughter at that. Roman's mouth thinned slightly.
"Ugh, imagine if he did," somebody commented. "Sure, he's tall, but how much meat's really on those bones?"
"The leaner stuff's supposed to be better for you. For your heart."
"We don't have hearts."
"I do. I collect them. I keep them in a big jar in my office."
"I'm glad - " The room fell instantly silent when Roman let just a little bit of his true voice leak out. The scream of a devoured star, endless entropic consumption, the shapes of a universe painted originally and briefly in blood and hunger. "I'm glad you asked about the brother, Patricia. Sam. Because, now...that is really, really interesting."
Roman casually approached the table. "With his diet, we couldn't count on exposure to the additive the same way we could Dean." He brought up a picture of Sam eating a salad, another of him taking a bite of some kind of wrap. "Sure, there's corn syrup in some dressings, spreads. But not enough to have a major effect on a guy his size. We could pump the saturation up to here - " Roman held a hand above his head. " - but then we'd be casting way too wide a net to deal with one man. Even one as obnoxious as Sam Winchester.
"Lucky for us...turned out exposure wasn't even necessary. Sam did actually realize not only what was going on with his brother, but what was happening in general, worldwide. But instead of...interfering, gumming up the gears, doing any of those standard Winchester-y things we know and hate, he did something nobody expected."
Roman began clicking through slides again. Sam walking out of a grocery store with bags bulging with junk food, wearing a hat and sunglasses in a stab at a disguise. Sam behind the wheel of the car, talking into the speaker at a drive-through with one hand resting casually on Dean's belly where he sat in the passenger seat. Sam at a county fair, handing over a funnel cake and clearing away debris as Dean, at a picnic table, eagerly reached for it. He had to be pushing three hundred in this shot, belly already straining with deep-fried crap.
The mood in the room now was one of surprise, shocked murmurs rippling up and down the table. Someone asked, "Why's he feeding him? It's not like he's going to eat him."
"Interestingly enough, we've seen this exact phenomenon all over," Roman explained. "We just didn't expect it from the Winchesters. But the frequency of this breed of relationship has massively expanded, pun fully intended, since Mark II hit the market. We can't be sure, but...we think it's a sex thing."
He nodded sympathetically along with the groans and mutters of disgust. "I know, I know, internal fertilization is foul, but in this case, it's fantastic. We didn't even know it was a possibility, but this outcome is so ideal. We're very excited about this."
He was smiling all the way up until Patricia opened her mouth again.
"Are you sure the younger brother didn't ingest enough - "
Roman opened his own mouth. And kept opening it, face instantly replaced by a sucking, fang-lined pit of beveled throat and oozing tongue. Well within striking distance, his teeth met in the middle of Patricia's spine, esophagus, and windpipe with a wet little cartilaginous crrnch.
He didn't bother chewing. Just pulled Dick Roman's likeness snugly back back into place as Patricia's now-headless body slumped forward onto the table, spilling gristle and ichor. Her skin twitched and roiled as everything beneath, tucked neatly away in quantum folds, went through its individual death spasms.
The room was so quiet you could hear the liquid sound of Patricia's fluids creeping across the table.
"Sam didn't have enough of the additive to affect him, no," Roman said pleasantly. Tugging a handkerchief out of his pocket, he dabbed at the corner of his mouth. "I know what you're wondering, though. You've seen the reports on these guys. Sam's a tight little ball of neurotic self-righteousness, he's got his own moral code he sticks to and he is obnoxious, predictably open about that. Why is he feeding his brother this stuff?" Roman spread his hands, then gestured. "I think Ward can answer that."
Ward, gray-haired and in glasses, cleared his throat, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table. After a couple seconds, he had to straighten back up so he didn't get Patricia all over his sleeves.
"I was in charge of the mouths sent to impersonate the brothers," he stated. "As you all know, that's where most of our information on their personalities comes from. The younger in particular has an extraordinary ability to find ways to justify his own actions when they're not exactly in line with the moral code Dick mentioned. Take, for example, the whole demon blood debacle." He paused. "I still wonder what effect that had on the meat. Demons taste terrible, but if you take something that's still mostly human and just season it, then let it age a few years - "
Roman rather pointedly cut him off with a small belch. Swallowing, Ward returned to the subject at hand.
"Sam would be more than at peace with pursuing this venture if he were able to convince himself that, say, his brother is happier this way," he explained in a rush. "Or that the two of them deserve a break or a reward. That seems likely to me, at least, but I only read the files. The mouths that actually took them on would have greater insight, but we can't exactly...ask them."
"No great loss there," Roman pointed out. "We chose volatile personalities on purpose." He waited for Ward to nod before continuing. "Now, let's shift gears: I know what you're all thinking. What happens next? Are the Winchesters officially off the board? Do we even still have them under surveillance?"
"Can we eat Dean?" somebody piped up, rather bravely. There was scattered laughter and agreement.
"I've got the answer to all your questions," Roman assured. "See, it became apparent when Dean started getting a little too big for their usual digs."
A picture of Dean on a sagging couch in a less-than-high-end hotel room came up on the projector screen. His clothes hardly fit him; it looked like he was close to four hundred pounds, digging into a carton of ice cream with his eyes glued to the TV. Sam, cooking in the kitchenette, was glancing over his shoulder at him.
Next up was a collage of pictures, Sam measuring his now-bigger brother around and over the belly, then measuring the shower stalls and bathtubs in motel rooms with a troubled look on his face.
Finally, there was a video: Sam struggling to get the largest Dean yet into the back seat of their car, the front apparently too small now. Dean was not exactly helping him out.
"Dude," he complained, "c'mon, stop pushing."
"Gotta get you loaded up," Sam grunted.
"Why?"
Sam paused. "Wh - why d'you think, Dean?"
"You need to chill out," Dean told him seriously. "Hey. Let's go grab a burger, huh?"
"Yeah, that's not gonna happen unless I can get - you - in - the - damn - car!"
He punctuated each word with a shove, only stopping when Dean let out a grunt of pain. Then it was all apologies and kisses and belly rubs. Dean assured him it was okay and he'd take a milkshake as compensation. Sam's shoulders slumped in defeat.
The salivation was back, Patricia's body completely forgotten by everybody but those whose laps she was dripping into. Roman cleared his throat to get their attention.
"I guess that's not totally accurate," he said with a note of apology in his voice. "See, the answer actually came to us."
He brought up a security tape, the camera providing an excellent view of his office and the audio crisp and clear. There was Roman himself, behind his large desk. And there was Sam Winchester, no disguises, characteristically flannel-clad and stubbly, sitting across from him.
"So let me just see if I'm getting this right," the Roman in the recording said. "This...deal you're offering me. You and your brother live here, we provide you with all the assistance you need to take care of him, and you keep feeding him like your very own prize hog?"
Roman paused the playback to shocked gasps, grinning out at everyone.
"Holy shit," Gary said admiringly, laughing. "What happened after that?"
Roman shrugged. "Oh, you know. Shop talk. We just worked out the details."
Sam looked offended, but didn't argue with Roman's assessment of exactly what he was doing to his brother. Tilting his head, Roman asked him, "And in return…?"
"In return, you don't have to worry about us anymore," Sam replied quietly. "I think we've caused your whole operation a lot more trouble than you're probably willing to admit."
Roman smirked at that. Fingers steepled in front of him, he leaned back in his chair. He pointed out, "I've got you right here. What's to keep me from just taking a big bite out of that gooey middle of yours?"
"If you do that," Sam answered, "you'll never find Dean."
Roman raised an eyebrow, then his chin.
"You're smarter than this," he stated. "I know you haven't been eating the same crap as your walking - well, waddling belly of a brother. I can't figure out your angle. You come here, we just eat you both."
"Yeah, I...don't think you will, actually." Sam shook his head, then looked around the office. Dark wooden paneling and a luxurious desk and high-end carpeting, all on the top floor. "I think the only thing you like better than food is a display. A symbol of your power. I don't know if you got a taste for that back in Purgatory or here, and that doesn't matter. What I'm offering you is the two of us. Your greatest obstacles. Right here, at your mercy. A victory. A trophy to hold over all the other Leviathan. You eat us, that's gone."
Roman studied Sam for a long time, watching the way he reflexively swallowed, breathing in the scent of him. Demon blood and love and fear: they made for such an interesting bouquet.
"And meanwhile," Roman said finally, smiling, "you get to keep pumping your increasingly-big brother full of greasy, sugary garbage and just watching that gut get rounder and rounder."
Sam looked away, taking in a deep breath and then slowly letting it out.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't offend you, did I?"
"I have spent my entire life," Sam said softly, "watching Dean...self-flagellate for things that weren't his fault. For things he had to do. The wins don't even do anything for him, he's got so many anchors dragging him down, and this is the first time since we were kids that I think I've seen him really, actually, legitimately happy." He smirked bleakly. "Considering the shitshow that's our lives, I'm gonna take that where I can get it."
"Also," Roman supplied, "it turns you on."
"That's my business."
After a second, Roman started to laugh. "You are a sick, twisted bastard. And that's coming from a guy who's still spitting out toddler teeth from breakfast." He straightened. "How's the seraph fit into all this?"
"Again," Sam told him firmly, "that's my business. But you're not gonna have to worry about him, either. Not unless something happens to me or Dean."
Roman smiled softly in acknowledgement. He glanced down, but mostly, it was just for show. He didn't really have to think about it all that long.
"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Winchester," he began, "but you've got yourself a deal. I think we're all walking away from the negotiating table, ah, very satisfied here."
Reaching across his desk, he offered Sam his hand. Sam took it, gave it a firm shake.
"So you're not gonna eat us." It was more a statement than a question.
"I'm a monster of my word, Sam," Roman told him. "Let's just hope you are, too."
"Wait." One of the others at the table raised both hands, incredulous. "Do you mean that they're...here? In the building?"
Grinning, Roman just hit a button on the remote in answer. The projector screen rose back into the ceiling, and the wall behind it did, too. Everybody immediately stood, excited and clambering, as thick glass with what looked like a very comfortable apartment behind it was revealed.
It was decorated in the way one could imagine the Winchesters might enjoy. Blue collar chic, with rock posters and road signs dotting the walls, but there were bookcases, too, and tasteful little knickknacks. Soft furniture, thick carpet, lots of dark, muted colors. Screens set behind fake windows showed snow falling on a hilly section of cultivated prairie, somewhere in the Midwest. Maybe Kansas.
Dean was settled on a couch his wide ass took up basically all of, overloaded belly peeking out from between his stained T-shirt and fuzzy pajama pants. The TV was playing as he ate from a bowl of what looked like several bags of chips, beer close at hand. Settled comfortably, he looked happy. Or at least content. He belched hard enough to make his chins jiggle.
On the other side of the glass, there wasn't a dry mouth or a blunt tooth in the room.
"One-way mirror," Roman explained, tapping it with one knuckle. "He can't see us. Not that he'd care much if he could, I imagine."
The door opened, and Sam entered, still looking slim as ever in a Stanford hoodie and with his hair up in a knot. Dean lit up. Loaded down with fast food bags and two drink holders full of soda and milkshakes, Sam nudged a spot on the baseboards with the toe of his sneaker, and a tabletop slid neatly out of the wall.
"You let him leave?" somebody asked doubtfully.
"Of course." Roman arched an eyebrow. "Do you think he's running off or trying anything while his brother's still here?"
Sam piled everything on the table, then swung it well within Dean's reach after getting the empty bowl of chips out of the way. Dean said something, the sound too muffled to make out words. Sam paused, then put the chips back, rolling his eyes. Dean laughed. Sam went to leave, but Dean apparently called him back, and pulled him down into a fond kiss.
"Ugh," someone muttered. "Can you imagine putting your mouth on something you're not eating?"
Dean patted Sam's bun, making a comment, and Sam replied with a mock-offended expression on his face. Dean said something else, and Sam hesitated, then reached up and tugged the hair tie free with a soft smile. He straightened up, headed for the door, but stopped for a second, giving the glass a brief, uneasy look before he left.
"Ooh, looks like we're going to get to watch Dean eat." Roman rubbed his hands together. "Not that that's exactly a rare occurrence, but still."
Reverent murmurs filled the room as Dean unwrapped a double bacon cheeseburger, dripping with grease and condiments, and took a massive bite of it.
"Eve, he's big."
"Seven hundred and three-point-eight pounds," Roman informed everyone. "There's a scale built into the couch, and another into the bed. At his request, Sam also has access to the readout."
"So he just sits on his ass and gorges himself all day?"
"Mindlessly." Roman nodded.
"He definitely looks like it. That gut."
"The other one's sure done a splendid job feeding him up, hasn't he?"
"Bet you have to cut him off eventually. Make sure he doesn't pop."
"Oh, I've got to get me one of these. It must taste better when you make it yourself."
"He's already so bloated, and he's just going to town on those burgers."
"He can't help himself. Mark II is really incredible."
"Rubbing out all the stomachaches I imagine he gives himself must be a full-time job. Not to mention the gas."
"Just imagine sinking your teeth into one of those thighs."
It went on like that for a while. Between the drool and Patricia, Roman was probably going to have to have the carpets in here replaced. But eventually, someone pointed out, "Dick, you never actually told us what's next. Just showed us where they are now. Are you...maybe planning on serving him at the Christmas party?"
There was general interest in that, but Roman just smiled.
"As of right now," he stated, "there are no plans to eat either Winchester."
Everyone laughed. At first. Until they realized he wasn't joking.
"Are you serious?"
"You've gotta be kidding me, Dick. Keeping something like that away from us?"
"Just - shove a tube down the skinny one's throat, keep him full enough to burst 'til he plumps up as much as his brother. Then we can have a double."
Roman patiently waited until the outrage spent itself, then pointed out, "We really don't have any data on the long-term effects of the additive. We're not going to be eating all these people right away, after all. I think the data we can get from keeping Dean alive is more useful than the meal he'd make, in the long run. We can reassess in a few years, depending on how things are going."
There were grudging mutters of agreement and understanding. They were businessmonsters, they got it. Much as they may not like it. He hadn't even had to show his teeth; thank Eve he'd taken care of Patricia earlier.
"And beyond that. On a personal level." Roman turned to look through the mirror again. Sam had returned, was kneeling on the floor in front of Dean as he stuffed his face, massaging that heavy, swollen belly. "I'm just...so curious about how big he can get."
Looking around at his audience, Roman raised both eyebrows.
"Aren't you?"