Sam wasn't quite sure what woke him up.

It hadn't been a noise. One of the many dubious gifts from his father had been a near-painful sense of situational awareness, and maybe that wasn't quite as sharp these days as it had used to be, but he still would've remembered something jolting him out of sleep. He was very used to all the ambient sounds of the bunker at full power by now, anyway.

It wasn't that his internal clock had gone off. When he groped for his phone and squinted in the glare coming off the screen, he saw it wasn't even one in the morning. Not to mention he tended to sleep a lot heavier these days than he had in the past.

It definitely wasn't that he was hungry. Sam moved a hand under the blankets on his bed, found the soft, rounded shape of his belly. It was still comfortably swollen and gurgling with food from dinner, and dessert. And the second dessert Mrs. Butters had offered up. And the snack he'd had right before bed.

Sam burped a little, winced. He really, really needed to stop eating so much.

He looked automatically to the other side of the room, then snorted softly at himself, shaking his head as he moved to sit up. Years in the bunker, months since their little hiatus from hunting started, and he still checked for Dean in another bed like they didn't sleep in separate rooms now. Maybe it was because they fell asleep next to each other so often lately. On the couch, in their recliners, at the table. It felt like half the time, when Sam blinked himself awake, he could look over and see Dean within reach, snoring through the food coma his bloated gut had put him in.

Sam swung his legs out of bed. The frame creaked, and he eyed it, not sure if he needed to wince again or if it was just old. How difficult it was to heave himself to his feet, on the other hand, definitely warranted a wince. His stomach settled heavy inside his T-shirt and sweats once it was no longer resting on thighs a lot thicker than he liked them.

Dean had told him to enjoy it. That had been...a while ago, he wasn't super sure because it wasn't like he was constantly checking a calendar. Sam figured he'd enjoyed it more than enough and it was probably time to get serious about getting back out there.

Just as soon as he came up with a structured plan on how, exactly, to reach that point.

Sam stepped into slippers, pulled on a robe. He didn't think he really needed either (and it sort of skeeved him to know the person who'd owned them first was almost definitely dead), but according to Mrs. Butters, it was too cold in the bunker at night to go wandering around without them. Sam wasn't keen on pissing her off.

Hands in the pockets of his robe, Sam made his way down the halls, thinking maybe he just needed to go for a walk. Didn't need the bathroom, so he might just be antsy; he felt like he'd gotten more downtime since Mrs. Butters had shown up than he had in the entirety of the rest of his life, and it wouldn't be weird if he weren't used to that.

As he walked, he wasn't sure if he should try to ignore the bounce of his ass and the love handles above his ample hips, the way his gait kept getting wider and more rolling as he got heavier practically without noticing, or if he should force himself to focus on it for the motivation.

He could hit the library. Try and figure out a way to broach the topic of healthy recipes with Mrs. Butters, and sketch out the bare bones of a workout plan for himself. Maybe start piecing one together for Dean, too.

And for Jack.

Speaking of, Sam stopped just outside Jack's room, hesitated, and leaned to the door, listening. He heard soft gurgles, a belch. Sucking.

It wasn't locked, so he pushed it open, peered into the dim room. His night vision had repaired itself after he'd shattered it with his phone, so he could make out the shape of Jack on the bed. They'd upgraded him from a twin to a full, and he was almost too wide for it already. His belly mounded up into the air, wobbling like a water bed with every breath and tiny movement.

Sam couldn't make out his face from here (mostly because Jack's stomach was blocking his view), but he knew he was asleep, even though he could hear him drinking. Mrs. Butters left milkshakes on his nightstand, and he'd gotten in the habit of nursing on the straw, just long enough to reach his mouth, in his sleep. Sam thought she replaced them a few times a night. She had to, with the sloshing, milkshake-fed behemoth of a gut that Jack hauled in to breakfast every morning, each day with slightly more difficulty than the last.

Quietly, Sam closed the door. Might need a little more than some pushups and situps to get Jack back down to a fighting weight. Hopefully the fact he was a nephilim would help at least a little.

He headed for the library with a little more determination than before, and some serious resolve. He had work to do and thought he'd digested enough, by now, to be able to tackle it, or at least get started. He picked up the pace some, thighs rubbing together.

Sam had just enough time to wonder why the library smelled so amazing before he stepped through a doorway and was in the kitchen.

He blinked at the sudden light, and the warm, vanilla-and-fruit smells of pastries baking. Directly ahead, Mrs. Butters had her back to him, bent over and humming as she pulled something out of the oven in a rush of cinnamon. The counters were, as usual, covered in a buffet of baked goods. Bear claws, doughnuts, coffee cake, fresh bread, turnovers, scones, muffins...the kind of stuff he saw at breakfast every morning. She must make them now, and keep them warm with magic until everyone got up.

He was intrigued about what kinds of spells she was using to keep everything fresh and at the perfect temperature, but was a little more concerned about having absolutely been going to the library.

Because he had.

Hadn't he?

"Oh, Samuel!" Mrs. Butters smiled brightly when she turned around. "I was wondering if you might be joining us."

Us? Sam was starting to frown when he heard a fork scrape across aluminum. He glanced towards the corner of the kitchen, found Dean chasing the last crumbs around a pie tin. Dean gave him a nod.

"Heya, Sammy."

He was settled across two chairs. Sam knew he was big, but wasn't sure he was quite wide enough for that...maybe it was more comfortable than his ass spilling out of a single one. He definitely looked like he'd been here a while. There were two separate stacks of empty pie tins and dirty dishes on the counter next to him, neither particularly small. And then there was his stomach. It'd long since swelled free of his shirt and pajama pants, entire freckled, pale bloat on display, sagging slightly under its own weight between his spread legs. Sam would say that had to be hours of gorging right there, but he couldn't be sure, since he thought Dean had gone to bed just as full as he'd been. If not fuller.

He tugged his own shirt down self-consciously, even though it at least covered him. Even if it did hug everything pretty tight.

Dean's navel was inverted, the way Mrs. Butters seemed to always like it to be before she decided they'd had enough to eat. A rounded little nub aimed vaguely at the floor. With the way Dean groped for a nearby platter of eclairs with thick fingers, though, grunting at the effort, it didn't look like he planned on calling it quits anytime soon.

"How long've you been up?" Sam asked Dean. Mrs. Butters answered for him.

"Oh, only about an hour or so...he couldn't sleep." She tipped what she was holding, probably cinnamon-raisin bread, out of its pan and onto a cooling rack, then pulled her oven mitts off and wiped her hands on her apron. "Just like you couldn't."

"Yeah, I, uh, I don't know why I woke up." Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I was actually gonna head to the library - ?"

"Isn't it obvious, dear?"

Mrs. Butters was looking at him expectantly. Sam waited for a couple seconds, then looked at Dean, who just raised his eyebrows, mouth full. Sam tentatively shook his head.

"...no?"

"You're not full!" Stepping forward, Mrs. Butters punctuated the matter-of-fact statement with a firm poke to Sam's stomach. Given it made him burp, he didn't think she was right, but she was already continuing. "Nobody can get a good night's sleep without a nice, full tummy, can they?"

"I-I don't think that's it," Sam said slowly. "I'm plenty full, honest."

"Are you?" Mrs. Butters indicated the fabric of his T-shirt, stretched flat across the very much concave hollow of his navel, with an arched eyebrow.

"I am." It didn't come out as firm as Sam had wanted it to.

"It seems like it wouldn't hurt to give a cookie and a cold glass of milk a try."

Sam looked at Dean again, who swallowed and gave him a shrug. It made his breasts jiggle. Soft and shapeless, they strained against his shirt, made him look almost like he had cleavage.

"Dude, she's not gonna give up," he stated. "And they're really good cookies."

Looking back to Mrs. Butters, Sam heaved a sigh.

"Yeah, okay. Fine. One cookie." Adamant, he held up one finger. "Then I'm going to the library."

"Oh, no - you're going back to bed," Mrs. Butters said very seriously, as she moved to grab Sam a chair. "Do I have to tell you again how much you need a consistent sleep schedule? Especially at your age. You can't be up at all hours poring over volumes of ancient lore anymore, you're not twenty-one."

Sam didn't think someone his age should be up all hours of the night eating cookies, either, but didn't say so. Just went to help Mrs. Butters, and frowned when he saw she was carrying two chairs.

"I only need one."

"Trust me, two will be a much better fit. You're getting quite the ample spread back here, dear." She gave him an indulgent pat on the ass. Sam might have jumped if he hadn't been so heavy. "Catching up to your older brother."

She set him up across from Dean, and Sam lowered himself slowly into the chairs. It really did feel better, he had to admit, than sitting on one. He looked down at how his ass and thighs and hips spread and stretched out the fabric of his sweats when he sat. At how firmly his belly rested on his lap.

Maybe he would go back to bed after this. But he'd be hitting the library first thing in the morning.

Mrs. Butters reappeared then, holding a tall glass of milk and a platter of what looked like at least two batches of cookies. Sam took both without saying a word. It had been months, and he knew by now that reminding her they'd only agreed on one wouldn't do a thing.

The cookies were good, anyway. Chocolate chip, still warm and soft in the middle. The chocolate dripped and they were the perfect size to fit in the glass, which Mrs. Butters refilled frequently between puttering around the kitchen.

Sam's shirt had crept up to expose a slice of skin by the time he finished. He could feel the warm air of the kitchen against it. He had to admit, he was a lot more amenable now to the idea of just going back to bed.

Across from him, Dean ripped out a belch, rubbing his belly with one hand and popping the last bite of eclair into his mouth with the other.

"Careful there, Sam," he warned almost lazily, "gotta watch your figure."

Sam snorted. "That's kinda rich, coming from you. Mr. Just-Enjoy-It. That's working out great, huh?"

"You heard Mrs. Butters. You're catching up."

"Lucky for me, I think you've got a lock on being the bigger brother."

"Boys, I'd better not hear fighting over here," Mrs. Butters admonished as she approached, a pie tin in hand. Sam almost told her to think twice before getting that anywhere near Dean, he was going to pop if they weren't careful, but instead, she presented it to him. He looked down at the crust, a delicate lattice decorated with pastry blossoms. "Samuel, would you mind trying this for me? It's something new I'm trying. Plum pie."

He looked up at her, opening his mouth. He should put his foot down. It was the middle of the night, he did not need any more to eat. The cookies were sitting heavy already. He ought to go for a run in the morning...a jog. At least a walk.

"I know how much you like fruit," she added.

He should ask for just one slice.

"It would mean so much to me, if you could just tell me what you think."

He took the pie, and the fork she offered a second later. She refilled his glass of milk.

"Wonderful. Thank you so much. Now…" Mrs. Butters straightened. "I believe Jack must be nearly due for another milkshake by now."

"Actually, uh - " Sam twisted in his chair. Chairs. As best he could. "I think he's good. I looked in on him earlier. I don't think he needs another one."

"But of course he does!" She looked shocked, although not upset, it was even in question. "He's a growing boy."

Then she was out of the kitchen, moving down the hallway with a sound like wind in the trees.

"That's the problem," Sam mumbled into the pie as he broke the crust with his fork and lifted some to his mouth. Unfortunately, just like everything else Mrs. Butters made, it was incredible. He already knew he wasn't going to be able to resist eating the whole thing.

"Would you lay off the kid?" Dean complained. His belly heaved with every breath he took, shook every time he burped. "You even talked to him lately? He's happy as a clam."

Sam shook his head. He could feel his chins jiggling. "All he does is eat, Dean."

"So? That's all we do." Like he was making a point, Dean groped along the counter. There wasn't anything in reach anymore, though, and that gut practically cemented him in place. He didn't seem too bothered about not turning anything up. "And I'm having an awesome time."

Sam felt like they'd had this conversation before. He knew they had, really. Multiple times. He took another bite of fantastic pie. "Yeah, well. I'm fat."

"Oh, nonsense." And now Mrs. Butters was back, and she was frowning at him, for the first time tonight. Or this morning, he guessed. "You're far too hard on yourself, Samuel, you always have been. You're pleasantly plump. At most."

Sam looked up at her. He wanted to argue. They were fat, both of them. All three of them. Really fat, waddling around the bunker, stuffed to the gills with milkshakes and pie and bacon and burgers and roast turkey and mashed potatoes, looking and feeling like a sounder of prize hogs. But when Sam tried to talk, his mouth was full, and when he looked down at the pie tin, it was empty.

He burped.

"I'm gonna go back to bed now," Sam said weakly.

"I don't think so." Mrs. Butters put a hand on the front of Sam's belly, exposed by now, where his navel was stretched shallow. "You're not properly full yet, and I can't send you back to bed on an empty stomach, now can I?" She looked expectantly at him. "What kind of caretaker would I be?"

Sam had some ideas about how to answer that, but none of them really made it to his mouth.

"Think he needs some of those cherry tart things," Dean suggested from behind Mrs. Butters. "And that homemade ice cream, the vanilla."

"You know, Dean, I think you're right." Mrs. Butters lifted a finger, headed deeper into the kitchen. "Good boy. You know your brother so well...not to mention your pastries."

While her back was turned, Sam took the opportunity to sneak out. He really tried, at least. Hands braced on the backs of his chairs, legs and core straining, struggling to lever himself up...it wasn't long before he had to give up, dropping back down with a gasp, sweat on his brow and his belly. He glanced at it, too bloated with Mrs. Butters' baking to let him up.

"Think you might've - " Dean paused to burp. " - overdone it there, Sammy."

"Shut up." Sam had to burp, too. "Jerk."

"Eat your dessert, bitch."

"Language!" Mrs. Butters reminded them sharply. "Sam: tarts." She handed over a tray, a dozen small, warm pastries with a generous scoop of ice cream melting into each, that Sam saw no option but to take. "And Dean: lemon bars."

Dean, both hands resting on a belly that had to be overstuffed before he ever made it in here, groaned. Mrs. Butters kept holding out the platter of bars, stacked into a neat pyramid. Halfway through his first tart, Sam watched as Dean just kept on...not taking it. Until Mrs. Butters picked up a bar and offered it directly to him, right in front of his mouth. Then Dean took a bite, almost lazily.

Which begged the question of if he actually hadn't wanted any more to eat or if he'd just been waiting to be fucking fed.

Sam would have been disgusted. Never mind the fact that Dean had probably more than earned that level of spoiling, at this point, or any other level he wanted. But after the tarts, and a particularly large serving of butterscotch pudding, Sam found himself being hand-fed devil's food cake by Mrs. Butters, as she smiled indulgently and rubbed his gut, fully exposed now, resting heavy between his legs.

"Almost there, dear," she said, encouraging. "You've popped…" A playful little tweak of his inverted navel. "But I don't think you're quite full yet, are you? After all, you're still eating."

Prize hog, Sam thought fuzzily. Across from him, Dean let out a long string of hiccups.

He didn't know how long it had been, or how much he'd eaten, by the time the steady stream of food finally stopped flowing into his mouth. When he breathed, his belly nudged against Dean's, which felt rock-hard, immovable. Sam's was a little softer. He was sloshing, a lot like Jack, because of the milk that had been poured down his willing throat at regular intervals. He'd thought it was milk, at least. It had gotten progressively sweeter and thicker as time went on.

He was definitely not exercising tomorrow. Or coming up with workout plans for anybody. Or talking to Mrs. Butters about healthier options. But that was probably okay.

There was a sleepy, contented expression on Dean's face Sam could feel on his own, too. Eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open as he panted. He looked happy, sated. Well taken care of, if you discounted the couple hundred extra pounds.

"Oh, dear." Mrs. Butters' voice seemed to come from miles away. "I think you boys may have overindulged again. Can you get yourselves back to bed?"

Sam slowly turned his head to look up at her, blinking a little. She didn't seriously expect an answer, did she?

"I didn't think so. You'll be comfortable enough there." Mrs. Butters glanced towards the wall, then gasped. "Oh, my, look at the time. Nearly time to set the table for breakfast." She moved to the cabinets, paused, glanced back over her shoulder. "You two have a little nap, then, and focus on digesting."

Sam closed his eyes. He felt her ruffle his hair as she passed.

"After all, I expect you to bring your appetites to the table!"