The concept for this story, as it says in the description, came from fuckntoast - thank you so much for that, and for the input during the writing process!
Dean was surprised, when Sam dumped bags of peanut butter cups and Kit Kats and Hershey's assortments into the cart along with the toilet paper and instant coffee.
"It my birthday or something?" he asked, leaning on the handle and rubbing his hands excitedly together. Sam rolled his eyes.
"No, it's not for you. And you're not eating all of it again. It's not gonna be like last time." He flashed a hybrid bitch face that also doubled as a stern look. "If we're in town for Halloween, I wanna be prepared." Sam nudged Dean out of the way, pushed the cart out of the seasonal aisle.
"Still a week and a half out, Sammy. You think it's gonna take us that long to wrap this up? It's a milk run."
"Ghosts are tough," Sam replied, clearing his throat and shrugging. "Never know when things are gonna go sideways with them. Might be here a lot longer."
"Yeah, and if we're not, we're humping thirty dollars' worth of all the sugary crap you hate back to the bunker. What're we gonna do with it?"
"I don't know. Teach Jack to trick or treat."
"You're gonna feed him four bags of chocolate?"
"Should we get PowerBars?" Sam stopped next to an aisle display, squinted. "Yeah, let's get PowerBars. Only time I can stand 'em anymore is right after I dig up a grave, and...well. Ghost hunt."
They bought PowerBars. And a shitload of candy.
A shitload of candy that just sat there, tempting, on the table in their room all damn night. In bed with Sam, leg to leg, Dean could swear he heard it calling to him. He'd say chocolate had a voice like an angel, except it didn't sound like microphone feedback or a pack-a-day smoker. He was just about to get up and break a bag open when Sam shifted in his sleep. Long fingers dragged down Dean's side, caught on a budding love handle.
Dean groaned in his own head. Being over the hill really sucked.
It felt a whole lot like blasphemy to even be thinking it. Sam would break out in that half-shocked hyena laugh if he picked up on it. But. Maybe it was time for Dean to start watching what he ate.
The next morning, Sam grabbed first shower. They would've shared, but disappointingly enough for both of them, the stall had not been designed to accommodate something like twelve and a half square feet of dude. Dean missed the bunker already.
"Okay," Sam announced, shrugging his suit jacket on. "I'm gonna go take a look at the bodies."
"Why d'you get to go?" Dean complained.
"If you really wanna tag along, I'm also gonna spend a couple hours going through the town records. Probably with cotton gloves on, just going off how protective the archivist sounded on the phone."
"Y'know what, that really sounds like a one-man job." Dean slung himself into a chair at the table, laptop in hand. "I'll just stay here. Brush up on the lore and the local history online."
Sam put a hand on his shoulder, and Dean automatically tipped his head back to catch the kiss he knew was coming, smiling into it. When he pulled back, Sam told him, "Don't eat all the candy."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, Mom."
"I mean it, Dean. You can have a few pieces, but do not eat all the candy."
"Why don't you just take it with you if you're so damn worried?" Dean complained.
"'Cause I wanna believe you've got more self-control than a twelve-year-old." A second passed, Dean looking up, Sam looking down. "Do you?"
"Just - Christ, Sam." Dean threw his hands up. "I'm not gonna eat any of it. How's that for self-control? Happy?"
Sam must've felt kind of bad, because he kissed Dean again before he left. "I'll call you if I find anything."
"Yep. Same. Have fun with the corpses, and the...gloves."
Sam went. Leaving Dean alone, in the room, with the candy.
He wasn't gonna eat any at first. He really wasn't. And thinking about the look on Sam's face when he walked back in and saw all the bags completely untouched was more than enough to tide him over.
Then breakfast started wearing off, though. Dean couldn't get anything done with his blood sugar low. Hadn't been able to since he was a kid, that was why he snacked constantly. That was what he told Sam, at least, and there was some truth in it.
So he was only gonna eat a couple. Maybe a few. Honest.
But maybe he did have the self-control of a twelve-year-old.
Around noon, Dean had officially accomplished less research than Sam probably would have liked him to, every bag of candy they'd bought yesterday was empty, and Dean was spreadeagled on the bed. Surrounded by a sea of empty wrappers like a warrior surrounded by his fallen enemies, chocolate around his mouth, jeans undone, dick just a little chubbed, belly mounded and gurgling underneath his T-shirt. He put a hand on it, groaning.
"Fuck," he gasped out, and belched. "Gonna regret this."
Then he heard tires crunching outside, and maybe part of it was the monster sugar rush, but he could've sworn his heart stopped for a second.
Dean moved faster than he'd known he could. He rolled off the bed, sucked in his gut, buttoned his jeans and buckled his belt, then started snatching up candy wrappers. He stuffed them in the wastebaskets in the bedroom and the bathroom, pounding them down with a boot as he wiped at his mouth with the back of one hand. Licking chocolate off his knuckles like a cat, he glanced back and forth between the two wicker cans, and realized that the bright colors and flashy metallics were really fucking obvious.
Sam's key was scraping in the lock as Dean finished unspooling and smashing toilet paper into the wastebaskets. He practically dove into the chair he'd been sitting in when Sam left, had another heart attack when it creaked under his ass, relaxed when it didn't break, and then sat there trying to stifle a belch as Sam walked in.
"Hey," Dean greeted, and told himself that not only was he breathing totally normal, his voice sounded normal, too. "What'd you dig up?"
"Not a ton. Standard asphyxiation on the bodies, lots of possible culprits in the records." Sam was holding a heavy bag, spotted with grease, in one hand, a paper cup in the other. He nudged the door closed with a foot. Something smelled really, really good, even with the heavy, sugary weight in Dean's gut. "How 'bout you?"
"Nada."
"Well…" Sam approached the table. "I'm not really surprised, if you've been sitting here staring at a black screen the entire time."
Dean looked. The computer had long since timed out. "Battery died."
Sam set the bag and cup down, then tapped the spacebar. The laptop whirred to life, and he looked at Dean.
Dean threw his hands up in the air. The movement pulled very uncomfortably on his tight shirt and his chocolate-stuffed belly, and he had to wrestle down another, bigger belch before he could declare, "It's a goddamn miracle."
"Uh-huh." Sam sat down across from him, letting out a sigh. "I grabbed lunch. Veggie wrap. Picked you up something, too."
Dean folded the laptop, pushed it aside, and pulled the bag and cup closer to himself. Please be something gross and green, please be something gross and green, he begged silently, because that way, he could turn it down without Sam getting suspicious. But, of course, just his luck that Sam hadn't picked today to have one of his fits about Dean eating healthy. There was a burger in there. Looked like double bacon cheese. A box of what he was pretty sure were chili fries. And when he inspected the cup...thick, malted chocolate shake.
Dean rubbed at his mouth. Obviously, Sam still felt bad about getting on his case over the candy this morning. And now his guilty conscience was unwittingly trying to kill Dean.
It all smelled so good…
He almost reached to unwrap the burger. Almost. But he'd barely moved when something cramped low in his belly, sugar coming back for revenge with a queasy-edged stomachache. Bad idea.
Dean folded his hands on the table in front of him, forced a smile at Sam. "Ah, you know what? I appreciate it, Sammy, really do, but...I'm just not hungry."
Sam's eyebrows quirked slightly.
"Not hungry?"
"Nope." Dean shook his head. "Damnedest thing. All smells so good, too." His eyes strayed longingly to the burger again, then his stomach shifted. No, no, bad idea.
Sam's eyebrows got even closer together, mouth pinched up, eyes all puppy-dog troubled. He looked at Dean, face, chest, lower, until he was just staring at the table. With a sharp intake of breath, he pushed himself up, and Dean saw a second later he was going for a kiss. Where he was absolutely guaranteed to taste chocolate in Dean's mouth.
Dean took a huge, dripping bite of the burger, and Sam sat back down.
"So...good?" he asked cautiously, as Dean chewed. And Dean had meant to flash him a full-mouthed smile and a eyebrow bounce, but instead, a wholly genuine moan rolled out of the depths of him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a burger so good that he hadn't made himself. The bacon was crispy, the cheese gooey, the patty thick and juicy. He took another bite before he could even think about it. "I knew you were hungry."
Dean told himself he really only needed to eat enough so that Sam wouldn't think anything was up. Maybe just the burger, since he wasn't sure he could bear dumping any of it in the trash can. Soon as he tried the fries and the shake, though, he knew that that wasn't gonna work. He didn't know where Sam had gotten this stuff, but they were gonna need to hit the place at least once more before they left town. Probably multiple times. For research purposes, Sam loved research.
It was okay, Dean rationalized, as his belt dug hard into his swollen belly and his middle gurgled with pressure he was trying desperately to hold in. He'd be with Sam all afternoon, so he couldn't let anything hang loose. And he'd have to keep himself from belching or hiccuping any more than he normally would've after a burger and fries, but they'd just be here in the room. Doing research. So it was totally fine.
With empty containers spread out in front of him, shiny with grease and milkshake dregs, Dean sucked the last of the flavor off his fingers, then let out a burp that probably rattled windows two rooms over. That one had been building for a while. He felt better afterwards, even if he was still stuffed to the gills and bloated enough to serve as a life raft, cock sort of a lazy half-hard against his thigh.
"Really?" Sam asked, pulling something like half a bitch face.
"Remind me how long we've lived together," Dean rumbled back. Maybe he could talk Sam into taking a nap with him. Or just letting him take one on his own.
Sam shook his head. "Just...go ahead and suit up. I already took Agent Page this morning, so you're Plant."
"What?" Dean asked blankly, too surprised to be upset Sam had taken Page without even consulting him.
"We're talking to witnesses," Sam replied, getting up. "We're dealing with an old house haunting here. A really old house. I found two dozen suspects in the records alone, and that's just people who died in it. Somebody might've brought in an artifact. We gotta try and narrow it down some." He paused when Dean stayed put. "Something wrong, or…?"
"Nope. Nope. Nothing wrong." Dean barely wanted to talk, let alone move, but he dutifully planted both hands on the table. "All good here."
The old FBI suit had been getting just a bit tight around the middle in recent years, but Dean had kept on stubbornly insisting to himself that it still fit just fine and Hell (well, the parts that were hot, at least) was gonna have to freeze over before he admitted he'd gained enough weight to actually start going up clothing sizes. Today, he really wished he'd just sprung for an upgrade on at least the pants, notched his belt tighter if they were too loose, because the extra room would've been nice.
His belly was hot and tight against his hands as he fumbled with his clothes, back to Sam. He could literally feel his muscles trembling, trying to keep everything sucked in. The slacks cut into him, like punishment for being a pig, and the buttons of his shirt pressed tight along the curve of his stomach. He swallowed burp after burp as he squeezed into everything, then buttoned up his jacket even though he usually didn't. Extra layer of protection from Sam's prying eyes.
"Ready?" Sam asked.
"Yep," Dean replied, and waddled out to the car.
They drove to the first witness's place. Worked as a cook at the murder house, according to Sam. He had a whole bunch of research material pulled up on his tablet, "so-get-this"-ing at Dean the entire way over, but Dean mostly tuned him out. He was really starting to not feel so hot; turned out bacon cheeseburgers apparently didn't sit super well on top of a couple pounds of candy. He felt way too full, huge. A cramp sliced up one side of him and he just had to clench his teeth and take it.
If he'd been able to stretch out on the bed. Do what his body wanted him to in terms of letting out air and groaning and taking a nap. Maybe give himself a little belly rub. Then it might've all felt good, he was pretty sure. But he wasn't doing any of that and it was biting him in the ass.
"You feeling okay there, dude?" Sam asked, concerned, as they climbed out of the car in front of the most disgustingly cute little cottage Dean had seen in years. "You've been pretty quiet."
"Yeah. Just, y'know, my bad…" Dean pinged around the internal map of his body, realized he didn't have a joint on him that couldn't be classified as "bad" by now. "...everything. Storm must be rolling in."
Sam did a tiny upward nod thing, like that made any sense at all, and then they headed up the marigold-lined walkway. One badge-flash later, they were in a composite of every grandma living room ever, porcelain cats and doilies staring them down as a little old lady told them that she wasn't an occultist, the only spirit she believed in was the Holy one, but there was something going on in that house. It smelled like cinnamon and fresh cookies in here. Dean went back and forth between inhaling deeply and swallowing hard to make his stomach stop turning inside him.
"So, Mrs. Shelby, you were actually there the night Ulrich died," Sam began. He'd been asking most of the questions. Fine by Dean.
"Mr. Adenauer? Oh my, yes. It was horrible."
"Did you happen to notice any cold - "
Sam stopped talking, looked sharply at Dean. Dean looked back at him. All he'd done was let out the world's tiniest, most silent burp into his fist. No way Sam had heard that.
"Feeling okay there, Agent Page?" Dean asked, clearing his throat. Sam looked back at the cook.
"So...as I was saying. The night Ulrich Adenauer died. Did you happen to notice any - "
This time, something audibly cut Sam off. Dean's stomach gurgled, his body obviously trying to process all the crap he'd swollen his belly with. He couldn't decide if it made him feel better or worse. Swallowing, he shifted his position, arms across his stomach as casually as he could get them there. An even louder gurgle rolled out.
Sam was staring. The old lady put a hand to her chest.
"Oh, you poor thing. Was that your stomach?"
Dean smiled tightly, not sure what to say. She continued before he could figure it out.
"I know how hard you FBI agents work, I've seen the crime dramas. For your tummy to be growling like that, you must have skipped lunch." She got creakily to her feet. "Don't you worry, I've got just the thing."
"Oh, no, seriously, I'm fine, I didn't - " Dean started, raising a hand to call her off. She talked right over him.
"Fresh-baked Dutch apple pie, as many slices as you want, and a tall glass of milk. Always does the trick."
Dean was silent. His stomach ached, gurgling busily away, sucked in and tightened and still a round, bulging mound underneath his clothes. He was so damn full, candy and a burger and fries, and he was dead sure that if he ate another bite, he was gonna puke. But his fate was already sealed, because, like so many times before, he'd been screwed over by a simple fact at the core of his being.
He couldn't say no to pie.
And despite it all, he was glad he hadn't. Because this was some grade-A pie right here, Mrs. Shelby knew what she was doing. Apples that crunched. A flaky golden crust. Perfect amounts of cinnamon, and Dean thought he might even be able to detect nutmeg. The cold milk complimented it all perfectly.
A demon, years and several lifetimes ago, had called Dean a "walking billboard of gluttony and lust." The lust might've waned some, under the weight of trauma and age.
The gluttony hadn't. He ate two slices of pie, drained a decent-sized glass of milk, and barely paused for breath, groin throbbing.
He knew he was in trouble. He'd been in trouble before he had any pie. He should've just said no to all of it, and he definitely should've stopped after one piece. He felt sewn into his suit. The cloth was straining, stitches creaking. His belt, which wasn't budging, forced his belly to balloon out over it, bloating more and more with every bite he should've turned down. Putting more and more pressure on the buttons of his shirt, especially as he kept on refusing to burp, no matter how bad he needed to.
Something had to give. And, as Dean swallowed the very last morsel, something did.
Pck!
There was a popping noise. Something ricocheted off Mrs. Shelby's coffee table, very narrowly missing a silk rose in a glass ball. And the tight, squeezing band around Dean's middle eased off just that much.
Mrs. Shelby tapped her hearing aid, frowning. "Did either of you hear that?"
Sam was staring at Dean. Mrs. Shelby was squinting at him. There was a breezy patch on his belly, and he didn't trust himself to say a single word without making a noise he'd regret.
He smiled at Mrs. Shelby, leaned forward to put his empty plate on the table, the rich taste of the pie still marbled heavy over his tongue, and speaking of heavy - pck! Fuck, there went another one, gravity yanking down on a stomach that'd been too full two slices of pie, one glass of milk, one bacon cheeseburger, one order of curly fries, one malted milkshake, and three bags of Halloween candy ago. Dean was out of trouble and now officially in mortal danger.
He did not want to move. He didn't even want to be awake. It might've been easier to get up off the couch if he'd been holding an armful of thirty-pound bowling balls. But somehow, Dean heaved himself straight to his feet and, hand on his straining stomach, keeping his gut sucked in through sheer force of will, bolted for the front door. He heard Sam calling his name, bewildered, and Mrs. Shelby worriedly commenting, "Oh, no, I thought that milk smelled off…"
Dean made it down the cobblestone walk to the car, fumbled his keys out of his pocket as he yanked his suit jacket open, and dropped into the driver's seat with a grunt and a slosh he could both feel and hear. But he couldn't let go even then, because Sam, somehow hot on his tail, was swinging himself in on the passenger's side.
"Mrs. Shelby wanted me to tell you not to throw up in her peonies, but. Dean, what's the matter?" Sam demanded. "Did you just burst two - ?"
Dean cut himself off with a burp, loud. Sam looked shocked. Dean drew in a breath, holding up an index finger, but then belched again, unable to help himself. He groaned, and yet another burp rolled out of him, and the third time was the charm: the floodgates opened up. Every muscle in his middle just let go, and his overfed stomach expanded like a time-lapse video of bread dough. He'd popped a couple buttons right at the crown of his stomach, and as everything ballooned, filling up the space that it'd been wanting to all afternoon, the rest of them didn't stand a chance. They ripped free one after the other, up and down, pinging off the steering wheel, the dashboard, one even hit the windshield.
His gut, pale and freckled, was naked from his ribs to right below his belly button, where one was still valiantly hanging on just above the buckle of his belt. Dean let out one last soft belch, and it let go, too.
He glanced over at Sam, who was just staring, jaw hanging open. Dean had red marks running up his stomach from the buttons pressing into him, and his face felt so hot that it was probably about the same color. He wanted to bail, but wasn't about to get out of his own car.
"I ate the Halloween candy," he said roughly.
"Oh," Sam said.
"Yeah. Sorry."
"I-it...it's not a big deal."
"Thought for sure you were gonna tear me a new one when you found out." Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Instead of answering right away, Sam reached over. Dean tensed, expecting a poke or a pinch, but he should've known better. Sam just undid his belt, then the button of his slacks, and the zipper went on its own as the rest of his gut spilled out onto his thighs. Dean groaned softly, the last of the uncomfortable pressure (from his clothes, at least) gone, and tipped his head back against the seat as he closed his eyes.
"Yeah, I think you've paid for it enough." Sam laid a huge hand, callused and warm, against the painful patterns Dean's belt and slacks had pressed into him. "God, Dean, why'd you keep eating?"
"Didn't want you getting suspicious." A second passed then, with a flicker of shame, Dean admitted, "Didn't want it to go to waste."
"Doubt the pie would've gone to waste if you hadn't eaten it."
"Can't pass up pie."
"Obviously not." Sam rubbed, gently, against Dean's belly. Dean could feel how little give there was. "I can't believe how full you are."
Dean grunted. "Yeah, me neither."
After a second, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, watching Sam's hand move on him. It was kind of like a massage, he was pressing just perfect, and it felt almost as good as every blowjob Dean had ever gotten from him. He let his head roll to the side a little, sleepiness creeping back in to overtake pain and embarrassment, about to drop his head again, but Sam caught his mouth in a shockingly fierce kiss before he could.
Sam's rubbing got deeper as he kissed Dean. His hand roamed all over him, from belly button to hips, and his other one joined in. Dean wrapped an arm around him and cupped the back of his head, starting to pant as they mouthed hungrily at each other. He groaned when Sam's teeth nearly bruised his bottom lip.
"Fuck, if I'd known this got your engine running, would've started pigging out ages ago," he gasped, too interested in Sam completely losing control to care they were in the middle of a hunt and parked in front of a victim's house. Both their mouths tasted like Mrs. Shelby's apple pie now.
"Didn't you?" Sam's hand dipped into Dean's slacks, long piano fingers wrapping right around his cock. "Oh my god. You're hard."
"Well, yeah." Dean shifted at the touch, grunting. Weird feeling, wanting to grind into Sam's palm as hard as he could but being too heavy and bloated to move all that much. "Some kinda...y'know, biological thing. You get full enough, you start getting kinda horny. Don't know how it works. Happens to everybody."
"No, Dean, it really doesn't."
But if Dean was some kind of a freak, then so was Sam, because he'd wound up with Dean's knee between his legs and was rocking his hips even as he kissed him and rubbed his belly, making rough little whines in the back of his throat. Seeing him so worked up, feeling him all over the sensitive, taut skin of his abused stomach, it was enough to have Dean's thighs trembling before Sam even had him all the way out. When the head of his cock brushed against his belly, the wispy trail of wiry hair on the underside, a splurt of precome completely covered his shaft and Sam's hand both. You would've thought he was sixteen again.
Maybe it was because he'd been turned on in the back of his mind all day, maybe it was how full he was, maybe it was a combination of a few different things, but it only took a couple vanilla tugs from Sam for Dean to be right up at the edge. Then Sam kissed him, squeezed his belly gently with his other hand, and thumbed his slit, and that was all she wrote. An orgasm so huge he felt it in his throat knocked him down, Sam's name swallowed so Mrs. Shelby wouldn't call the cops on him for screaming, gasping as he shuddered.
Sam wasn't done. Dean knew what it looked like when he came, even quiet, and that hadn't happened, so he couldn't let himself enjoy his afterglow. Instead of touching Sam, he reached down and took hold of his wrist, acting on a hunch. Dean brought Sam's hand, covered in his come, up to his mouth, and took his pinky in, sucking gently like he would've on his cock. He could feel Sam's eyes on him, his mouth, laser-focused. Dean cleaned all his fingers like that, taste of himself and Sam together musky and heady in his mouth, and made eye contact before he moved to his palm.
"Still hungry," he rumbled, and saw Sam's face go slack and his pupils blow, a little shudder zipping through his body. He didn't even thrust against Dean's knee.
Dean had gorged himself on enough Halloween candy, diner food, and pie to burst his buttons in a little old lady's house today, and Sam had come untouched in his pants out front. So Dean figured they were even.
Sam collapsed against him and the seat with a groan, eyes falling shut. Dean let go of his hand, clean now except for his spit, and pulled him close, holding him. Sam's head rested on his shoulder, hair falling against his neck and into his face.
"I love you," Sam mumbled. Dean gave him something that totally wasn't a nuzzle, and kissed his hairline.
"Yeah, yeah. I love you, too."
They sat there in silence for a while. Dean caught his breath, and let Sam get his, too. He figured out pretty quick that, full as he was, he wasn't gonna be able to breathe quite normal, but that was okay. With a handjob and something like twenty thousand calories under his belt, his eyelids were getting really, really heavy, so he'd better speak up before he slipped into a food coma.
"I'd love you even more," he started, and Sam looked at him, "if, once you've got your sea legs back, you go in there and finish up the interview. And," he added as Sam huffed through his nose, "have her wrap up the rest of that pie for me. If she'd be so kind." He burped. "I'll have it tonight."