A/N: Trigger warnings: dubious consent, gore, vore, Stockholm Syndrome, captive/captor mentality
There was a dead crow in his path.
At first, Sam only saw it as a streak of scarlet across the fresh snowfall. His initial thought was that some predator had gotten a rabbit from the traps he come to check. Then he saw the black feathers matted with blood and the place it had through the bird's middle. Intestines were strewn over the snow, the fresh scent of blood in the cold air. There weren't many creatures that would eat a crow. Perhaps a bear, or a mountain lion, or sometimes even an eagle.
But why would any animal kill another without eating it? Sam knew too much about how cruel nature could be. There were no other people in the mountains, except for he and his brother Dean. And, of course, the constant influx of victims. Sam crouched down to get a better look at the animal. But he didn't see any prints or claw marks that would give him a clue. He stood again, brushing the snow off his heavy wool pants and paused for a moment. Irresolute.
Perhaps he ought to go back and tell Dean about the crow straight away. But what would it matter? Dean only permitted Sam to go into the woods because the older Winchester thought it was beneficial for Sam's health. Sam would have to disagree. What would be better for his health was if his brother let him go. Find a cure. Find a way to reverse the curse. But Sam knew that would never happen.
Yes, this would be an exploration for another day. He should check the traps before Dean came down and found out what was taking him so long. Sam continued on, kicking up some of the powdery snow with his boots as he went. It wasn't proper winter yet, summer was barely over, in fact, but they already had several days of snowfall and unusually cold days.
Sam had three snares set apart in the brush by the creek. All three were full, which meant rabbit stew with carrots and potatoes. Dean always provided food for him. Whatever Sam requested, Dean would get. Hell, he'd practically forced the surrounding villages to give them a quarter of their provisions, but Sam took pride in growing his own food. Trapping his own food. It felt inconspicuously wrong to involuntarily steal from others. The trip back home was as quiet as usual, the rabbits slung limply over his wide shoulder.
Nestled in a valley on the side of the mountain, the giant cottage grew larger as Sam treaded through the tree-less ground. Sam stepped down, only to realize that the packed snow was due to a massive shoe print. He glanced down at the imprint, eyeing more ahead of him. Dean. Of course. Who else would it be?
When he reached the massive structure-a giant replica of a cabin that was painstakingly built over a series of several months by enslaved villagers-Sam opened his little door beside the giant door. It had taken a long time for Dean to trust Sam to be out on his own. The moments out in the woods-these calm, fleeting glimpses of freedom living in a world fit for his size-reminded Sam just what he'd been passively avoiding. He put down the rabbits, eyeing his surroundings, and sat down, yanking off his wet boots. Dean was asleep in the rocking chair in the corner. His brother's freckled face, passive and soft in sleep, reminded him of the old Dean. The human Dean. A pang of sadness thrummed behind Sam's eyelids, made him loose and weary with want.
The villagers had created a thick, plush rug that settled in front of a hearth. Above the fireplace, there was a round, black kettle that Dean could warm water in. The seamstresses had sewn blankets and pillows for sleeping. The lumberjacks had built a gigantic bed for Dean to sleep in. Perched on the bedside table was a normal size bed for Sam. There was a long latter for Sam to climb up, although Dean insisted on picking him up whenever he caught the younger Winchester ascending it. The cabin was one long room. There was a kitchen. In the kitchen was a round table with one chair. To the left of that was the living room which contained a rocking chair, Dean's massive bed, the bedside table, Sam's little bed, and the hearth. There were two windows in the home, one facing the east and another in the west, right above the arrangements of unused bowls and plates. Why the villagers were compelled to make those, Sam did not know. Perhaps they thought it would deter Dean from eating them. Poor things.
Sam glanced at the table. Although it was difficult to see from his angle on the ground, he could see one side of the cage. A couple of dirty humans looked down at him with suppressed disgust, their filthy hands wrapped around the wire bars. It was the worst thing when the captive humans stared at Sam. He hated it. The disgust in their eyes, the scorn, the betrayal. As if, being a human like them, Sam could somehow stop his brother. What was worst, still, was that Dean had no trouble being affectionate with him right in front of them.
Even in the firelight their eyes were dark little pinpoints of light, full of life, full of existence, an existence his slumbering brother would be more than happy to snuff out in his stomach. Dean loved eating humans. He was cruel about it, too. It frightened Sam how gentle and sweet he was with him and how absolutely horrible he could be with them.
They are portlier than normal, the supple curves of fat edging around their waists, their rounded thighs and even their bloated faces. There was at least twenty in that cage, Sam knew. The fat enveloping them made their bodies look more fit for royalty than for common peasants. Some of them were wealthy. Dean loved to eat the rich. The poor that Dean ate he made sure to fatten up first. Mostly. If he had the patience. When Dean went down to the villages, he would demand food. Sweets. Buttery sweet potatoes. Fluffy cakes and plumping meat. Dean had said it was an experiment to see how stupidly fat he could make them. It turned out that humans ate when stressed. With all Dean's malicious teasing, these humans didn't hesitate to stuff themselves, seeking refuge in gluttony.
Most of the time, Dean swallowed them whole. He said he liked to feel them squirm in his belly before they were overtaken by stomach acids. He liked how they rounded out his chiseled stomach. How they pleaded. How they didn't want to die. When Dean had said it to Sam so casually in the early days, Sam suppressed a look of terror and repugnance. That was when he was still terrified of making Dean angry. Dean was an enormous 65 feet tall. Sam, in comparison, was the length of Dean's palm. He could stretch out from fingertip to the start of his brother's wrist.
Speaking of his brother…
"Sammy?" Dean's voice rumbled across the way. Sam turned quickly away from eyeing the cage and watched his brother. Dean's large green eyes peered down at him from across the enormous room, his full lips curling into a warm smile. To anyone else, the smile would be terrifying. But Sam felt a warmth erupt in his chest and damn him, he shouldn't have felt that way after all Dean had done, but he couldn't help himself. He smiled back. Sam watched Dean rise from the gigantic rocking chair. The cottage floor vibrated with Dean's steps. That's one good thing the villagers had done: made Dean clothes. Sure, they were getting particularly thread barren, especially in the footwear department, but at least Dean wasn't running around naked.
Dean had been brave, a ladies' man, and a sinful, gluttonous mess of a man, so pure in some ways, so tainted in others, before the witch cursed him. Now, Dean was a giant: cold and predatory. Sometimes, though, a little bit of the old Dean would peek through, and Sam would be grasping for the old Dean-the real Dean-grappling blindly, hopelessly, for something. Anything.
Dean grabbed him up like a doll. He pressed a kiss to Sam's face. Dean's lips took up all of it, leaving Sam no choice but to squeeze his eyes shut. Sam reached out and felt the tip of his lightly freckled nose as the giant beseeched affection on him.
Sam couldn't help but feel like a Judas, the betrayer of mankind. Here he was basking in this monster's likings. What was even more difficult was Sam was positive there were people who would be more than happy to take his place. Between being on the menu and being looked after and protected by a giant, most would pick the latter.
Dean caught the expression on Sam's face.
"Why don't you let me warm you up?" Dean smirked.
"I'm not in the mood." Sam admitted, nodding towards the rabbits slung over his shoulder. Dean plucked the strap between his fingers, peeling the animals away from his brother's body. Dean walked to the bed, putting the rabbits beside Sam's little bed, amongst the food products. Dean turned his hand onto the side, putting Sam on his back. Sam's overgrown hair fell back from his forehead. He curled his toes against the warm flesh of his brother's palm.
"Sammy," Dean gently ran his finger down his brother's chest. "You know I would never hurt you, right?"
"Yeah, I know. But. Dean, I don't…" Sam grabbed the tip of Dean's finger and squeezed.
"What?" Dean frowned. "You don't want me to make you feel good?"
"That's not it. I'm just…" Disgusted. Depressed. Scared. But Sam knew he could never say any of that. Dean wouldn't listen. Dean didn't care. Or maybe he did, in his own perverse, debauched way. Maybe that's what the curse had done: made him into a monster like in that fairy tale Papa used to tell them by candlelight. Sam wondered idly if Dean would've killed their father if the man had still been alive to see what had happened to his eldest.
"I'm tired." Sam finally admitted.
Dean curled his fingers delicately around Sam's middle. Dean cherished the sensation of Sam's rising and falling chest, the tiny heartbeat thumbing against his curled fingers. He uncurled his fingers and repositioned Sam until he was lying vertical on his palm.
In the beginning, when Dean first grabbed him and held him this way, Sam put up a fight. He'd bit, clawed, punched. Of course, he'd thought Dean was going to eat him like he'd seen Dean eat half a village a mere hour before (and how horrible that would be, eaten by your own brother) all the way up until Dean pinched his trousers between his fingers and peeled them off his legs. It had shocked him, what Dean did. What Dean seemed to want to keep him around for. It had left him shivering and quiet, shrinking away when Dean went to grab him up again. Although Dean never punished him for his resistance, he would simply pin Sam down with his fingers and have his way with him anyway.
In the first few months after Dean's transformation, when Sam caught the arousal on Dean's face-a look that was so much like hunger it left him frightened-Sam let passive thoughts fog his mind. He'd go limp spread out on Dean's hand. He secretly tried to enjoy the moment. He'd let his mind drift away from the jarring sound of Dean jerking his meat, the prodding, wet tongue, the rumbles of pleasure that vibrated from Dean's sensual mouth to Sam's conquered, submissive physique. He'd picture Jessica, his old girlfriend or any number of attractive maidens he'd seen in the village. Dean was never aggressive with him and always made sure Sam reached climax, even if he was licked raw and he was sore days afterward.
For a while, Sam was scared Dean was going to eat him anyway. But after five years, Sam had learned that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, if Dean had a say in it. Dean was better with consent now, although sometimes he'd mistake Sam's resistance as a game. Playing hard to get. Making him work for it. Most of the time, though, Dean knew no meant no, and relented.
Dean held him closely. "Okay, then. Do you want to fall asleep on my chest?"
"No, I'm hungry," Sam admitted. "I caught some rabbit. I want to make stew."
"Yeah, I'm hungry too," Dean teased, smirking. Sam tried to suppress his look of disgust with no luck. He hated when Dean teased about eating people. It was beyond wrong. Having seen the look on Sam's small face, Dean relented. "Okay, I'll cook you something. Then, do you want to sleep?"
"Yes," Sam nodded. Sam watched Dean make the stew over the gigantic fireplace from his place on his little bed. It was comical, almost, watching his brother pinch the little potatoes between his fingertips. Sam made sure to skin and de-bone the rabbits himself and before he knew it, he had a steaming bowl of rabbit stew in front of him.
After Sam was full, Dean grabbed him and swung onto his own bed. Gently, he placed Sam on his chest, letting his fingers settle over Sam's back. Lethargic from the cold and from a full stomach, Sam pressed his ear to the thump, thump, thump drumbeat of Dean's large heart. His chest vibrated with each calm inhale and exhale of Dean's breath.
"You sleepy, Sammy?" Dean rumbled, gently running a finger across Sam's shoulders.
"Yeah," Sam yawned, curling his fingers around the material of his shirt. "I'm sleepy."
"Go to sleep, then. It's starting to snow outside."
"Really," Sam mumbled, eyes half-lidden. He heard Dean let out an affectionate exhale of air. Soon, he let the darkness envelop him.
The snap was followed by an abrupt screech of agony. Sam was jolted awake. He found himself in his own bed. He always found himself in his own bed the mornings after he'd snuggle on Dean's chest. Dean always made sure to place him there before he himself fell asleep. But it was not morning. He could see the outline of Dean in the kitchen. Everything was dark. The dying embers of the fireplace casted an eerie glow. Sam closed his eyes tight and turned over onto his side. He did not want to see. Jesus. He tried to calm his racing heartbeat. Why couldn't he just fall back asleep? Was it so hard?
The minutes seemed to pass agonizingly slow. He heard Dean's footsteps and then the creek of him falling back into bed again. He knew in the morning there'd be significantly less people in the cage.
Sam woke with a boner. It was nothing new. The morning sunlight poured in through the twin windows, the world outside cold and white. He turned over in bed and caught Dean staring at him across the way, his elbow propped up on his pillow, a wryly smile on his full lips.
"Morning," Sam said, running a hand across his eyes.
"Morning. How are you doing, Sam?"
Sam eyed him. That was a loaded question, or was it? Then, Sam looked down. His morning wood was sticking out, tenting his trouser and therefore the blanket. Of course.
Dean laughed. Although deep and cavernous, it sounded so much like the old Dean it hurt.
"You want me to take care of that?" Dean asked, barely suppressing his look of blatant want.
Sam chewed on his bottom lip. He really should say no, shouldn't he? Wasn't being a willing accomplice just as bad being the one who caused so much suffering? That is, was it evil to give them what they both so desperately wanted?
"Yeah," Sam said after a moment, his face flushed with both arousal and shame. Dean reached over and pulled the covers back from Sam. Dean fished him from his bed and grasped him gently in his hand. Sam curled his hands around Dean's, feeling the warmth of his brother's calloused skin. Dean turned onto his stomach on the bed, sitting Sam down in front of him. Dean wasted no time in stripping Sam of his clothing, leaving him bare. Goosebumps formed on Sam's naked flesh, arousal sending shivering pouts of eagerness down his back. His boner swung free, and Dean eyed him.
"I'm gonna make you feel so good, Sammy."
Sam licked his lips, staring into that familiar face. "I know you are."
Dean's pupils were blown wide with lust. It was like looking into twin black mirrors, showing his reflection and reminding Sam just how small he was in comparison to his big brother. Dean made him lie on his hand again, since the position made it easiest. Dean licked him. A long, full tongue swipe up his left leg and over his torso, hot breath and slick tongue on his petite cock and balls. Sam suppressed a moan, gnawing the inside of his cheek.
Sam's little pupils were wide with hardly contained lust. His overgrown hair was damp from the affection, sticking to his forehead.
"That feel good, Sammy?" Dean rumbled, kissing Sam's bare chest.
"Yes," Sam breathed. Hot molten trails of arousal erupted from his manhood, sending his shivering. There was nothing quite like Dean's tongue. Soft but muscular. Wet but solid.
Dean bathed Sam from head to toe with his tongue again, curling the tip around Sam's tender neck, his armpits, and flicking his cock a couple times, making Sam squirm. Dean's suppressed chuckle rumbled through them both. Without forewarning, Dean reached down with his other hand and turned Sam over onto his back. Sam shivered, arching his buttocks in the air, his tiny nails digging into Dean's palm.
He tongued delicately between Sam's plush ass cheeks. The tip roved against Sam's tiny, puckered hole. Sam moaned like he was getting paid for it. He chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Dean pulled away for a second. "You like it?" His voice was whisky smooth.
"Yeah," Sam panted, glancing behind him. "Don't stop."
Dean smirked in satisfaction, turning Sam back over. He swiped eagerly at his cock and balls, curling his tongue in insistent circular patterns. Sam couldn't help but moan loudly.
Despite himself, Sam tried not to lunge against Dean's tongue. He was so close. Dean pushed down a bit harder, dared to get rougher.
Moments later, Dean heard a sharp gasp. Bitter saltiness bloomed across his tongue in a sensual little patch. Dean practically purred in delight. Dean licked him a couple of more times for good measure. Sam lay flat on Dean's hands, wet, panting, his eyes half lidded. Sam didn't even twitch when Dean moved him up to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to Sam's middle. Sam let his hands land on his smooth, freckled nose.
Sam glanced down at Dean. With his size, the scent of Dean's climax permeated the air. That was what that rocking motion had been: Dean thrusting against the bed.
"I love you so much, Sam. My little Sammy." Dean breathed, putting him back down on the bed, letting Sam curl up in his hand, grasping onto his thumb.
Despite himself, Sam uttered, "I love you too, Dean."
Despite what his brother had become, he really did.
A/N: Thoughts? Do you want more? Constructive criticism and comments are always welcome. They fuel the fire of creativity, you guys.