a/n: Content warnings: non con, extremely graphic gore scenes
Sam could not remember a stranger autumn. The trees had remained clothed in green until mid-October and then suddenly, a riot of color. It was as if the season jumped instead of faded. Leapt instead of fell. With his cow-hide bag slung securely over his shoulder, he mounted Impala, waving to his fellow apprentice, Brady, where he stood on the law firm steps. The air was cooler with a tincture of earthiness-just a hint that recalled quiet evenings and bellies filled with warm soup, the smell of loamy earth air rendered damp by the fall rains to come. It took no time for Sam to pass through the village square; when he entered the well-traveled path through the forest, he gently kicked Impala's side, getting the horse to gallop instead of trot.
The brilliant shafts of sunlight caressed the reds and golds of dying trees as Sam headed back from Stanford, the neighboring village, to Lawrence, where he called home. The leaves tumbled on their final dance with the wind that gusted and perished only to be resurrected once more, a constant, snaking movement underneath Impala's steady hooves. Sam glanced up at the gathering clouds and then at the trees: scarlet and orange, soft yellows and stark, vibrant golds. The wind kissed Sam's face and blew his overgrown hair back from his forehead. Sam squeezed the reigns, his body jerking up and down with each step.
Impala was a mare. Her coat glowed an oily black. When either Winchester brother approached her, she'd drop her ears, flip them high, and make a high, full skyward circle with her nose, indicating her eagerness. Impala liked Dean, especially. When particularly ecstatic, she would curl her upper lip, fully exposing her long, upper teeth, followed by raising her tail and giving a little prance. A gesture of love, if you will. If she were anxious for Dean's return, she'd stamp her front foot, hind foot, and shake her head, dancing sideways.
They were lucky to have her, really. Impala had been in their lives for sixteen months, but it felt like much longer. After their father, John, died in a hunting accident (his job was to hunt the wolves that threatened the farmers' livestock) the foreman paid his consolations, and their father's last paycheck, in the form of the horse. Although when Impala first came to them, she'd been starving to the point of death. Although her upkeep was not cheap, Impala was the most expensive thing they owned. Having Impala certainly beat waking up early to walk to Stanford on foot, though.
Sam's thoughts drifted with the leaves, and they landed where they usually did: on his girlfriend, Jessica. They had met in the town square. The blond had instantly caught Sam's eye, but he had assumed himself too poor for her intrigue. It was Jessica who made the first move. Awkwardly, Sam had spouted some ridiculously inappropriate joke he'd heard Dean say in a cavern once about some man's wife. Jessica's laugh was loud and unfettered. It took over her whole body. Sam had never seen a woman laugh that way, with her whole body and soul. Was he that funny? Had he done that? How could he get her to do that again?
Before he departed this evening, the blond-haired beauty had left a firm but tender kiss on the corner of Sam's mouth. He licked his lips, tasting the residual linger of her sweet honey mouth. He wanted to make Jess laugh forever, and Sam knew the only way he could have her was to better himself. Sam was lucky. Despite his low socio-economic standing, he was intelligent. It was through his intelligence alone that had given him the opportunity to practice royal law while so many others in his village had been shuttered.
Oh, well. He was taking the opportunity while he still had it.
By the time Sam made it to he and his brother's shared home on the outskirts of Lawrence, the evening sun cast long shadows on the ground. The pale crescent moon shone like a silvery claw in the night sky. The occasional barking of faraway dogs broke the quiet murmur of Lawrence. Sam slipped off Impala, leading the horse to the makeshift stable beside their small cottage. Sam grabbed a lantern from the fence and lit it. After he was finished watering and feeding the mare, he took a few minutes to brush her long, thick mane and think about the lesson he'd learn today. This was one of Sam's most cherished part of the day: time to recuperate. His studies were tedious, his mentor, strict, and there was always the ceaseless pressure to be perfect lest he be tossed aside for a candidate of more adequate birth.
After he brushed Impala and said goodnight, Sam closed the gate and raised his arm, showing the light towards the cottage. Home. As small as it was, it was home. It was the sort of house that was warm and organized on the inside but was, understandably, decrepit on the outside. Just like most of the village, especially those on the outer rungs. The structure was somewhat blocky, with two, ivy choked windows on both sides of the door like the eyes of a dumbfounded deer. Sam turned the doorknob and slipped inside, toeing off his muddy boots. Quietly, he lit the candle holders spread throughout the lifeless two-room. Once he was finished, he went to the small room left of the fireplace, the room that had once been a pantry but had been turned into a study.
One benefit of the room was that he had a place to hide on nights when Dean would bring women home for sex. Of course, the walls were thin, and there was nothing like listening to your brother rail a barmaid to disrupt your appetite. Sam sat the lantern on his pine desk and sat down in the rickety old chair, spreading his papers out in front of him. Fishing out his ink and quill, he began to take notes.
Minutes past, perhaps even an hour. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear the door open.
A cold, calloused hand on his shoulder made him start.
"Hey, college boy." A teasing voice sliced through Sam's train of thought. Dean ruffled his hair affectionately.
"Hey," Sam greeted, dipping his quill into the ink again and continuing. He didn't bother glancing up. Mixed with the earthy, pine-laded aroma of Dean was something else. Something familiar. It was a clean, slightly sweet, yeasty aroma that somehow smelled warm, like inhaling a blanket on a cold winter day. Bread. Sam's mouth watered. Dean placed the small loaf beside him on the table. Sam tore off a big chuck and nibbled on it. The inside was hot and soft. What would go best with this was a tangy, piquant slice of cheese, but that was much too expensive.
"Shouldn't you be at work?" Sam said, not bothering to glance over his shoulder. Dean took odd jobs, one of them being fixing carriages overnight, so that they'd be ready for their owners in the morning. Since Sam had taken the apprenticeship at the firm, it had been up to Dean to be the sole provider and to put food on the table. Dean had taken the burden without complaint. When alive, their father hadn't helped much anyway, especially seeing as he was disappointed with both his boys. John thought his youngest was squandering his life away on a pipe dream, that the real way to crawl out from his hardship was to work hard, save money, find a woman, and start a family. Before his untimely, mysterious demise John had expressed his displeasure, his belief that his sons should be married with children by now. He had been especially unhappy with Dean who was four years Sam's senior and in the latter part of his twenties. What John didn't know, Sam mused, was that Dean was a womanizer, always chasing after his next lay, and never committing to anyone.
"Yeah, about that…"
Sam finally looked up. Dean was leaning against the wall behind him. His cloak, a thick, dark wool, clung over his broad shoulders. Dean's left eye socket was black and blue, the eye itself bloodshot and irritated.
"What happened?"
"A woman happened." Dean grumbled.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I went to the tavern for a pint. There was this chick. I've never seen her before. Real beautiful thing. Thick black hair…and body?" Dean whistled. "Damn, I've never seen a body like that. Like an hourglass."
Sam rolled his eyes, accustomed to Dean's womanizing behavior.
"She punched me in the face."
"She must've had a reason."
Dean pulled a face. "Well, maybe."
Sam shook his head and scoffed.
"What?" Dean pursed his plump lips. "What can I say? Some women just can't handle an assertive man."
"Dean, you're an idiot." Sam turned back to his paperwork, shuffling the stray pieces into a manageable stack.
Dean moved towards Sam, leaning against the desk and plucking up the bread, tearing off a chunk and slipping it into his mouth. "Whatever, man."
"Was that all?"
Dean's eyebrows furrowed and he swallowed. "Well, she said something weird. Before she stormed off."
"What?"
"I don't know. Something about 'giant egos can be disastrous.'"
"Oh?"
"Yeah. She was a real poet." Dean said dryly.
Sam got up. He shuffled the papers into a pile in the corner, wiping the excess dye off the tip of the quill, and capping the ink.
"What are you going to do tomorrow?" Dean asked. Sam was given one day off from the firm. Saturdays.
He glanced at his big brother, watching Dean shovel the bread into his mouth. Sam suppressed wrinkling his nose in disgust. Sure, Dean loved to eat. He was a glutton. But it was like Dean wasn't even aware he was being a total slob, like a starved rat upon a provisions vessel. He should really tell Dean to stop, that he had only a few mouthfuls from the loaf and was still hungry himself. But how could he, when it was technically Dean who had earned the wages to buy it? It was Dean who was providing for them.
"Study." Sam said. "You?"
"Father Castiel needs help painting the church. He's paying me to paint."
Sam nodded, thinking of the blue-eyed, introverted pastor. Sam watched Dean shove the last piece of bread into his mouth, practically licking his fingers.
"Dean, uh…"
"What?" Dean said, swallowing.
"Um…you ate all the bread, man." Sam said awkwardly.
Dean glanced down. There was nothing in his hands except crumbs and the oily residue of butter. Had he really done that? "I…I guess so." He gave a faux laugh. "Must've been hungry from getting the shit beat out of me tonight. Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Sam shrugged. "I'm not hungry, anyway."
"Yeah," Dean said, wiping his hands on his trousers, although he didn't believe it for a second. "Got a bunch of free food from the firm, huh?"
Sam didn't reply. Dean cursed himself. Why had he said that? They both knew that wasn't true.
Sam and Dean got ready for bed. Their routines were simple, if not efficient. Dean stripped off his shirt and trousers, settling into his own bed and pulling the thick wool blanket over himself. Since it was chilly, he slipped his cloak over the blanket, too, a second layer. Exhausted from the day, Sam followed suit. He sat the lantern on the bedside table between them and stripped off his shirt. Flames played against Sam's muscles, edging and shrinking them with persistent movement. Before stripping off his trousers and socks, Sam blew out the candle, flooding the room in dusk.
Sam passed out only a few seconds after his head hit the lumpy pillow. Dean glanced at his baby brother's slumbering form on the adjacent bed. Moonlight poured through the twin windows, trapping Sam's long form in a frozen stature, like some distant monument. It was only the gentle rise and fall of his brother's chest that gave away his mortality.
Dean's stomach growled. He shifted uncomfortably in bed. Hunger beat at his insides like the wings of a black bird. He turned from his brother and curled up in the fetal position, wrapping his arms around his middle as if to squeeze the feeling out. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek, staring at the wall.
Dean was so famished that it felt like a deep, black hole had festered inside his belly, ate away any sense of logic or control. A panicked thought crossed Dean's mind. What if he'd somehow caught worms? It wasn't uncommon. Eat bad pork with a couple of creepy crawlies and bam, anything in your intestines was an all-you-can eat buffet.
Was that the problem, worms? If so, why had it just occurred tonight?
Dean's sense of loneliness permeated the air. For a fleeting handful of seconds, Dean ached to pull Sam awake and explain what he felt. This crazed beating hunger worming in his blood. But he couldn't. Dean was always the one who had his shit together, who put on his game face, who didn't appear frail. He couldn't let Sam see him rattled.
Dean closed his eyes. Sleep grabbed him and pulled him down into a strange dreamscape. In his dream he was very high up, looking down. People everywhere were running from him, like little rabbits scurrying away from the big, bad wolf. He was invincible, untouchable. Dean felt like a god. The people, they all called to his primal instinct. They weren't people anymore-they were food.
Dean snatched one man up, a portly little thing, plump and salty with his red, terror-stricken face. The man clawed desperately at Dean's hand, but in Dean's dream he chuckled viciously, before parting his jaws. He exposed the pink, moist cavern of his mouth, down to the gaping black hole of his throat. His teeth dribbled thick drool. He carelessly shoved the man inside. The man screamed in terror, his squirming doing nothing as Dean snapped his mouth closed, enjoying the mouthful of advantageous, writhing meat.
He savored the flavor-saccharine and brackish, luscious and decadent, feral in its richness-before tilting his head back. The man-no, prey-was inched backwards, his pleas falling on deaf ears. Dean gulped, a thick, wiggling bulge forming in his throat as he tilted his head back and gulped again, the prey moving down into his chest, vanishing. Dean imagined the path to his stomach to be long and hot, until his prey was pressed into his gut. His stomach would be blistering and slimy, the air heavy and fowl. His stomach, sensing the morsel, pressed against his prey, forcing him back and forth with no mercy, crushing and grinding his body into an agonizingly slow oblivion, wearing fat and muscle down to brittle bones, extracting nutrients to fuel his giant body. His stomach groaned and glopped in effort, still yearning for more.
In his dream, Dean burped into his closed fist, licked his plush lips, and savored the lingering flavor. He glanced down at the fleeing humans before snatching another up and jostling the wailing victim into his mouth. Nothing could stop him from extinguishing his endless hunger. Nothing could deter him from getting his fill.
Dean woke. It was still dark outside. Ice clung to his feet. Grimacing, Dean tried to tuck his feet back underneath the blanket, but that only amounted to his feet sliding off the side of the bed. Oh, well. He could manage. Dean tried to turn onto his side, to get a few more hours of fleeting sleep. But it felt as if part of his ass was hanging off the side, which didn't make too much sense, seeing as he had no more room to move the direction he was facing. Groggy from sleep, Dean glanced down, adjusting to the low lighting. His eyebrows bunched up. His bed was smaller. How was that possible? Dean turned onto his back and stretched his legs out, finding that below the knees, his legs dangled off the bottom of the bed. He felt the worn hardwood floor underneath his calloused feet. He curled his toes against the wood.
Was the bed smaller…or had Dean grown? Eyes widening, Dean glanced over at Sam. Sam was fast asleep, his face mushed into the pillow, a small puddle of drool underneath his slightly parted lips. That's when the cheap frame decided to splinter under Dean's new weight. The bed, along with Dean, collapsed into a broken heap on the floor.
Sam's eyes fluttered open, and he coughed. He wiped his mouth and pushed up onto his elbow. He stared sleepily in Dean's direction.
"Sammy." Dean said, shocked. He patted his body, felt the torn piece of undergarment. He had busted out of his shorts. Literally.
"Dean?" Sam asked, yawning. He rubbed his eyes.
"Light the lantern," Dean said, dispelling any anxiousness from his voice. That's one thing he'd learn from practically being Sam's caregiver since they were kids: if you're scared, you don't let Sam know you're scared.
Sam obeyed. The room was suddenly flooded in a flickering glow. Shadows danced upon the wall. Sam stared. Realization slowly dawned on his features. He went as pale as a ghost. He rubbed his eyes. Blinked rapidly. Pulled the covers away. Twisted into a sitting position.
"I'm dreaming," Sam uttered, dumbfounded.
"No, I don't think you are," Dean managed, sitting up. The broken bed creaked underneath his shifting weight.
Dean managed to get up, although his body felt foreign and strange. He wasn't quite sure he'd be able to hold himself with his newfound legs. His head hit the ceiling. He winced, ducking. Sam got off the bed and looked up at Dean. His big brother was about eight feet tall. Dean frowned, watching Sam watch him. It felt inexplicably wrong to be taller than Sam.
"Wow," Sam breathed. Dean looked down at his naked body.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, flipping his hands back and forth, inspecting them.
Sam stepped around Dean's bed and grabbed Dean's hand. Sam's hand felt almost feminine in his large palm. Dean pulled his hand out of his brother's grasp and glowered his way.
"Don't," Dean said. "It could be contagious."
"Dean, we don't even know what this is," Sam pointed out.
Dean rubbed his bare chest, feeling his hammering heart underneath the surface. "Yeah, well."
Sam frowned. "You okay?"
"No," Dean said. He felt weird. It was like this was the calm before the storm. He felt both on the verge of vomiting and on the precipice of falling. It wasn't a sensation he'd ever had before.
Dean's world suddenly pitched to the side, his eyes becoming unfocused and Sam becoming a blur. Like pulling laughy taffy, Dean felt his muscles, bones, organs, pull upward once more. It wasn't a particularly painful sensation, but it was uncomfortable. Dean shot up another two feet, smacking his head against the ceiling, leaving a noticeable dent. He hunched his shoulders and glanced angrily at the offending plaster.
"Ow, son of a bitch," Dean said, rubbing his head.
"I think you grew more," Sam breathed.
"No shit, Sammy," Dean huffed.
"Let's get you outside. If you keep growing, you might get stuck in the house." Sam said, always the logical one. Always the brains of the operation.
Dean had to give his little brother credit. Despite this freaky situation, Sam was keeping calm and collected. On the outside. On the inside, however, that was a different story. Sam was probably freaking out.
"But people will see."
"It's dark outside, Dean. Sunrise isn't for another few hours." Sam said, yanking on his shirt and trousers.
"How did this happen?" Dean uttered, hobbling towards the front door. Despite his nudity, Dean felt strangely immune to the cold. He felt his pale, freckled skin for any goosebumps, but found none.
"You know what I think? I think it was that woman you were talking about." Sam shoved his socks on.
"What makes you say that?" Dean turned around.
"She said something to you before she left. Something about giant egos?" Sam moved past him and sat on the floor to yank on his boots.
Dean nodded, contemplating. "Yeah. She did look kind of like a…"
"Witch?" Sam finished.
Dean swallowed nervously. Witches weren't something you messed with. They were usually vindictive as hell and clever, too. Their punishments were usually as crafty as the witches themselves. Now that Dean thought about it, the woman had the whole aesthetic of a witch. Long, black dress, unearthly beautiful face, an unreasonably perfect body, and an unflinching confidence that mixed with a cocky carelessness. Yep. She was a witch.
"Son of a bitch," Dean murmured.
Sam secured his cloak and picked up the lantern. Dean shimmied out of the door. Sam closed the door behind them. Dean went over to Impala. Impala, although Dean would never admit it because manliness, was Dean's favorite thing, besides Sam, of course.
"Hey, girl." Dean said to Impala.
Impala's ears, nose, and eyes pointed at Dean. She loudly sniffed and danced restlessly in place.
"Hey, it's okay, Impala. It's just me. Settle down." Dean soothed. He reached for her.
The horse, perhaps sensing something he couldn't, reared back in terror. The whites of her oily black eyes were visible and her breath heavy. Dean watched her nostrils expand and contract and when Dean dared to get closer, she reared forward, slamming her front legs into the flimsy gate. Both brothers jerked back in shock. Dean felt a stab of hurt.
"Let's go." Sam said.
"Where are we going?" Dean responded, turning away from the terrified horse and to his brother.
"The woods. We can hide there. Figure something out."
If it weren't for the sliver of moon in the sky and Sam's lantern, they would have lost their way in the dark forest. The leaves rustled at their feet, kissing Dean's bare ankles. The wind whistled around thick trunks, the scent of autumn all around them, like rotting wood and damp earth. They trampled across uneven ground, knobby roots underfoot, dying, brittle ferns and waterlogged logs teeming with white, juicy grubs.
Dean would periodically stop when he felt what he was beginning to understand was a growth spurt. Sam would watch him with concerned eyes, shining the lantern on Dean's direction. By the time they reached the meadow, Dean had grown another three feet. He collapsed onto the grassy field in a heap. Could this kill Dean? Could the witch's curse delay the expansion of Dean's vital organs? Could his heart explode from the effort, too small to catch up? Sam prodded at the idea like a sore, infected tooth. He bent over his brother, who had his arm thrown over his eyes, and tried to keep his voice unchanged. It didn't work.
"Hey, Dean. You okay?" Sam squeaked. Sam nudged his shoulder. Dean's head was about as big as Sam's chest by then and even curled up on his side, he looked massive.
Dean groaned and rolled onto his back, leaves flicking up from the disturbance. "It hurts, Sammy."
Sam frowned, "Is…is there anything I can do?"
Dean shook his head. "I don't think so. Ah." He threw his head back as he was hit by another growth spurt. He spasmed. It reminded Sam of a villager who'd randomly collapse, twitching and foaming at the mouth. The young woman was like the town's pariah. People thought she was cursed, infected with some contagious disease. No one would get near her. Just as quickly as the spasms began, they stopped. Dean was even bigger now, probably fourteen feet long.
"Dean," Sam gently touched Dean's cheek. Panting, Dean glanced up at him. Or at least tried to. He looked disoriented, his large, green eyes bloodshot and unfocused.
"Dean," Sam said, laying his free hand on his brother's forearm. "What can I do? Dean?" He shook his arm. "Hey, stay with me."
"Sammy, I'm so tired," Dean slurred.
"No," Sam shook his head, grabbing Dean's oversized face. "Don't go to sleep."
Dean's eyes fluttered closed. He did not stir. Sam felt his heart leap into his throat. Had Dean just…died?! He shook Dean's shoulders, shouting. "Dean, wake up! Wake up!"
But nothing stirred the older Winchester. Panicked, Sam crawled on top of Dean and put his ear to his chest, praying for something, anything. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam heard a thump, thump, thump. Dean's heart. It was slow, as if in sleep. He felt the gentle rise and fall of his brother's chest. Sam's shoulders sagged in relief.
"Oh, thank God," he murmured and slid off his brother's stomach.
Sam watched Dean for a few more minutes, before resigning himself to sit beside his big brother. Hours passed. Sam watched Dean grow at a slow but steady pace, moving back the bigger Dean became. His brother did not stir once, even as the new day sprung forth from the confines of night. The sun gradually rose from behind the trees, the first rays gracing the overgrown, sandy field. The unaccustomed raw sunlight bled over Dean's slumbering, naked form and hit Sam with a breathless warmth. He blew out the lantern and inspected his brother's prone, limp body, hesitantly running his hands across Dean's smooth, pale skin, watching Dean's face for any sign of movement.
By mid-morning, Dean's eyes fluttered open, and his breathing changed key. Sam's heart leapt and he rushed forward. Dean was at least thirty-five feet tall now, Sam would guess. Their size difference was astonishing.
"Dean? You there, man?"
Dean rubbed his face groggily, before turning towards Sam. "Sammy…what?"
Why was Sam so small? Dean's eyes focused on the woods behind Sam's body. Why was he in the woods? Realization dawned on Dean's large features. He rapidly remembered why he was here and what had happened to him. He frowned, glancing down at his enlarged body.
"How do you feel?" Sam asked.
"I don't know. Different."
Dean dared to sit up. Sam moved back, gave him room. It was unreal how much he towered over his little brother, even while sitting down. He stretched his arms upward, getting out any kinks. He yawned. Despite himself, Dean had to admit that had been one of the best naps he'd ever taken.
Just as the thought occurred, Dean felt another spasm race through his body. He squeezed his eyes shut. It passed a few seconds later, leaving him giddy and sore.
"Did you just…grow again?" Sam said.
Dean nodded, looking down at him. "Yeah, I think so."
"Shit," Sam sighed.
Dean had to agree. Shit, indeed.
Dean rose from the ground. Sam scrambled back. To his surprise, despite his new height, Dean felt instantly accustomed to his legs and his enlarged stature. He could peer over the tops of the trees now and he did, mesmerized at the foreign view. Is this what being a bird felt like? The world suddenly seemed so large and yet so small. The juxtaposition messed with Dean's perception. He shifted from one foot to the other, glancing down at the leaf covered grass underneath his large toes.
Sam peered up at his brother. He was taller than any building he'd ever seen, even the courthouse in Stanford. It was overwhelming looking at Dean. Just then, Dean's stomach growled. Dean winced at the volume and a flush of embarrassment colored his cheeks. Sam didn't seem to have heard, too focused on inspecting Dean's physique. Like last night, hunger beat its savage wings against Dean's belly, bleeding into his whole body, eating away at his tissue fibers, his muscles, working its way into his bones. He squirmed uncomfortably, feeling his focus drag away. His stomach growled again and this time the sound broke Sam's concentration.
Sam's voice broke Dean out of his own fixation. "Dean, I'm going back into the village to get you some food."
Dean's eyes snapped to Sam's face, a frown playing on his lips. Before Dean could interrupt, Sam continued. "I know we don't have much saved back. But you might starve to death before we get you back to normal." Sam didn't say 'if we can get you back to normal' which Dean greatly appreciated. Although it was a good idea, Dean felt a pang of panic surge through him. He didn't want to be left alone. What a horrible thing that was, to be all alone.
"Sammy, you don't have to do that. I'll come with."
"Dean, you're a freaking giant. And it looks like you're still growing. If you go into the village, they're going to grab their pitchforks and torches. I mean…" Sam waved his hand in Dean's general direction. "Look at you."
Dean nodded. He wasn't wrong.
Although Dean wanted desperately to grab Sam and pull him back, his brother left for Lawrence with only a concerned, pained expression thrown over his shoulder. Left all alone, Dean glanced at his surroundings. He remembered the meadow from childhood. He and Sam used to run through the high grass and tackle each other. Sometimes they'd play a game of hide and seek, popping up from the tall pasture when one boy thought the other wasn't looking, laughing at the other's startled expression. He recalled one particularly hot summer's day, Sam clinging to his back in a piggyback ride as Dean ran through the field, grass flicking across his hips, Sam squeezing his neck so hard that he felt as if he'd choke. The sound of Sam's giggles, his warm breath ghosting Dean's flushed cheek. The feeling that everything would be alright, even though it wasn't. Not really. Because beyond the fields of gold was a drunken, vengeful father whose only love language was neglect.
Just then, Dean felt another growth spurt, ripping him from the memory. He squeezed his eyes shut in pain. Was it just his imagination, or were the spurts coming in more rapid succession now? Quicker and more painful. His heart, despite the stress on his body, kept a steady, slow rhythm. His stomach growled again. Dean pressed a hand against his belly as if to press the sensation away. His mouth filled with saliva. Thoughts of meat entered his mind. Dean couldn't help it, they were just there, staring him in the face. Juicy, greasy ribs. Tender smoked brisket. Rump steak, dripping with juice. Salt and fat and oil. Somehow those images of meat shifted to something else entirely: people. Plumpish, stocky bodies, the crunch of bone, hot blood squirting across his tongue like a shot of whisky. Heavy rolls of delicious fat, salty and tangy from residual terror. The succulent pull of stringy muscle and rendering organs. The heavenly splendor of a full belly.
A sharp snap of twigs broke Dean out of his daydream. A doe appeared at the edge of the meadow. Having spotted Dean, she turned and fled back into the sanctuary of the woodlands. Appalled and horrified, Dean ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. That was an atrocious thought. An unspeakable, heinous thought. Barbaric. People? What the fuck was wrong with him? What was he, a cannibal? Dean rubbed his mouth and squeezed his hand into a tight fist.
Dean thought of the stories their father had told them by candlelight when they were but small, impressionable children. The story about the boy going up the bean stock to encounter a man-eating giant. Sam hated those stories, unsettled by the cruel giant's ceaseless teasing. Sam had curled up around Dean, laying his head on Dean's chest, seeking his protection, flinching when John scolded him for being so sensitive, especially to something as trivial as a bedtime story.
Was the transformation affecting Dean's brain, too? Was Dean becoming a man-eating giant like in the fairy tale? Dean squeezed his eyes shut and shuttered as he felt another growth spurt rip through him. No. He couldn't lose himself. He was Dean, not some monster. But as the thought occurred, his stomach growled again, low and demanding, and Dean looked out across the treetops, praying for the creeping, evil inclination to flee from him like that startled doe.
Of course, it didn't. It only grew worse.
"Father Castiel." Sam called from across the way. The pastor was in front of the faded white church, watering the shrubs of fall flowers. Chrysanthemums. Festive shades of red, orange, yellow, and white. The shorter man turned towards Sam, noting the leaf stuck in his overgrown hair and the flushed pink of his cheeks. Sam was panting, as if he'd been running. Why he'd been running on such a pleasant morning, he did not know.
"What is it, my child?" Castiel said, his baby blue eyes glinting in the rich sunlight. Despite not being much older than the youngest Winchester, Castiel called everyone child. Hell, it was practically in the job title.
"My brother…" Sam began. His mouth had gone dry. How was he supposed to explain that Dean had been cursed to turn into a giant, that he was in the middle of the woods at this very moment, growing even bigger? It was mad.
"Dean? He was supposed to be here right at sunrise," Castiel said. "Is everything alright?"
"This is going to sound crazy." Sam said, glancing around. Not many villagers were out, but that didn't mean that they didn't all have a keen ear for gossip.
"Come inside, Sam," Castiel said, setting his watering jug down underneath the chrysanthemums. Sam followed Castiel inside. The church smelled of burning candles, dust, and something sweet, like dilapidated, decaying wood. Despite the coldness of the pews and the echo of their steps, it was strangely welcoming as only a church could be. That is, with a sense of sanctuary, of congregants past. The essence of events past seemed to seep from the flaking paint. Weddings. Funerals. Baptisms. Sam glanced around, nearly running into Father Castiel when the man stopped, waving him towards an empty bench. Sam sat, the bench creaking under his weight.
Castiel sat in the bench in front of him, turning around to talk. It was a purposefully casual gesture, probably because the father was trying to calm him, Sam mused.
Although Sam had come back with the intention of buying as much food as he could, he had assumed that the best place to start was to see a holy man. Didn't they have the power to stop witches? Perhaps Castiel would know how to reverse the spell.
"What do you need help with today?"
Sam opened his mouth but snapped it shut once more. Where to begin? "This is going to sound crazy, but Dean…he's been turned into a giant. Turning, I mean. He's still growing."
Castiel nodded, seeming wholly unaffected by the revelation except for a subtle twitch around his eyes. "Do you know what has caused it?"
"A lady. I think she was a witch. She told Dean something along the lines of 'giant egos can be disastrous.'"
"Your brother has been cursed by a witch." Castiel relayed.
Sam's shoulders slumped. "You don't believe me."
Castiel shook his head. "No, Sam. I do. I'm just confirming what you've said."
Sam brightened. "Yes. We think a witch cursed him. How do we undo it?"
Castiel's brow furrowed, and he turned away as if in deep thought. Sam held his breath. Castiel glanced back at him. "I don't know much about curses, to be frank with you, Sam; however, I'd suspect that finding the one who did this would be the only way to reverse the curse. Find the witch and, perhaps, you can convince her to turn your brother back."
Sam couldn't help but feel upset. That was it? No healing prayer? No magical baptism? It was all up to them? Castiel must've seen the expression on Sam's face, because he continued. "How is your brother? I mean, with his metamorphosis? Has his mind changed along with the transformation?"
Sam hadn't considered that. How would Dean's mind change? Sam wrinkled his nose in confusion. Castiel opened his mouth to reply but before he could get a word out, they both felt a distant vibration, like that of an earthquake. Sam's eyes widened. Castiel looked momentarily confused, until he put two and two together.
"Dean," Sam whispered in horror. The vibration again. Closer. Boom. Pause. Boom. The water in the baptism tub rippled. Sam clenched his hands so tight around the pew that they became bloodless and white. Didn't Dean know to stay in the valley? Hadn't Sam specifically told him to stay put? What was wrong with him? He glanced at Castiel. The priest's face was pale and bloodless, his blue eyes wide with terror. Then came the screams. Sam tore away from the pew, running towards the entrance of the church, and jerking the door open.
He was met by total chaos. Sam stood at the threshold in absolute horror. Dean was ambling through the town. He was at least sixty-five feet tall, twice the size he'd been when Sam had left for Lawrence. Dean had an annoyed expression on his face, his nose wrinkled up and his lips quivering. Dean's giant, fleshy cock swung back and forth, slapping against his ample testicles. The image was both insanely obscene and weirdly natural. Sam's eyes crept down his hairy bowed legs to his enormous feet. His weight created clear footprints on the ground. It was difficult to take all of Dean in at once, his body unequivocally terrifying while simultaneously awe-inspiring. It was like looking at a carriage accident, the horses lying dead and bloody in the middle of the road. Horrible, yet fascinating.
People were screaming, running around like mice at Dean's feet. Dean kicked aside obtrusions like they were pesky balls of lint. One person went flying at least ten feet in the air to land on their neck with a sickening crack. Dead. He'd clearly crushed the bakery in his descent upon the town. Smoke billowed from the building. Dean turned towards another building to his right and despite people being clearly inside, he slammed his fist against the roof, causing the structure to cave in. More screaming. Horrible, agonized screaming. People poured from the door, desperately trying to evade Dean's wrath. This only seemed to anger Dean more. Sam watched in complete stunned silence as Dean began destroying buildings like a petulant child. He slammed his foot against the general store, causing the structure to cave in with a sickening crack. He ripped the top off the jail, tossing it to the ground. It crushed a husband and wife like a pancake.
Then, Dean crouched down and snatched up a fleeing man.
He grabbed the man up by the back of the neck as if he were a naughty kitten. Dean opened his mouth wide, his saliva laden teeth gleaming in the light, before snapping his teeth closed around the man's thighs. The sound was like nothing Sam had ever heard before, a deafening, bone crushing crunch, before the shrill scream of pure, unadulterated agony. The man's face lost all color as Dean opened his mouth again. Where the man's legs had been were two bloody stumps, squirting blood. Rivets of muscle, like spaghetti, dangled over Dean's parted mouth. Dean shoved the rest of the man into his mouth. Like a man eating a delicious dish, Dean thoroughly chewed the man up into a thick paste before swallowing. He licked the blood from his fingers before letting his eyes flicker over the frantic, fleeing villagers.
Sam's jaw dropped. Had his brother…just eaten a person?! Sam felt his knees slam against the hardwood, half in and half out of the church. He hadn't realized his legs had given out. He thought he should feel a sting of pain, but he felt nothing.
Dean began snatching up more at random, sneering with animalistic exhilaration. Sam watched his brother grab an androgenous villager, his jaw clamping around the individual's midriff. The upper half of their body hung outside the massive mouth, the bottom lying flat on his tongue. Dean opened his jaws again, saliva slinging off his glistening white teeth and landing on the victim's heaving chest. The person waved their arms upward in terror, trying desperately to fight off the inevitable. Dean snapped his mouth shut, teeth cutting into rib cage and belly, the bloom of sour blood bursting into his mouth like a ripened berry. The bones grinded and popped, punching right through fragile lungs and spinal cord with a sickening crunch. The victim spasmed wildly, a thick torrent of frothy, dark red blood pouring down their chin and slipping past their parted lips and down, down all the way to the ground. Dean swallowed, dragging the rest of the victim into his mouth before chewing, teeth clenching deep, savoring the unmistakably decadent flavor of human meat.
These were their neighbors, some they'd grown up with, some they'd seen everyday passing in the village square, Sam thought hysterically. Dean grabbed another. He bit the woman's head clean off before shoving her still twitching body past his blood laden lips. Sam couldn't turn away, even if he wanted to. He watched Dean drag a victim up from the ground, the man kicking and screaming, and with a twisted grin, swallowed him feet first, crunching his way past blood curdling screams, completely pulverizing his body. Finally, Sam turned around and vomited. His hands shook. His heart raced. This was a nightmare. Yes. That was it. His ears began to ring. He squeezed his eyes shut, the taste of bile still burning the back of his throat and clogging his senses. The screams faded into the background. The smoke dissipated in the air.
Father Castiel's shaky hand landed on his shoulder. Squeezed. It brought everything back into focus. No. Not a nightmare. This was real.
"Father," Sam managed to utter, glancing up at the pale, trembling priest. "What…what's happening?"
"The curse," Castiel swallowed thickly. "I believe it has infected Dean's brain. Turned him evil."
Sam wanted to scream at him. No shit. Dean was ripping the village apart, literally eating people, or course he wasn't in his right mind.
"What do we do?" He asked, but Castiel had gone still. He was staring out the door. A dark splotch appeared on the crotch of the priest's trousers, quickly spreading and running down his leg. Castiel let go of Sam's shoulder and slowly backed away, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, his hands outstretched in a weirdly placating gesture, trembling like autumn leaves.
Sam screwed his face up in confusion. "Father? What's wrong?" Sam stood and turned where the priest was staring.
Dean was facing the church. Dean was staring right at Sam. Sam's eyes widened and he suddenly felt very, very weak. A flicker of recognition crossed Dean's face before his lips curled into a smile, his usually white teeth stained with a slimy layer of blood, made pink in the sunlight. Dean released the half-eaten body clenched in his fist. It splattered to the ground, knocking another villager over. The woman screeched as she writhed, soaked in another's remains. Without looking where he was going, Dean began walking towards the church. Vaguely, Sam heard Father Castiel's slick black dress shoes hitting the old wooden floors as he ran for safety, probably to the church's basement. Coward.
Sam stood alone at the threshold, both too dumbfounded and too scared to move. Soon, Dean was crouched right in front of the church. An enormous arm swung down for him, a bloody hand with even bloodier fingers reaching, grasping. Sam's survival instincts kicked in, but it was too late.
"No. No." Sam whispered in denial, shaking his head, and trying to paw away the giant hand. Fingers curled around his back as Dean grabbed him. Fingers wrapped securely around his body. He was suddenly in the air. Dean brought him up to his face.
"Sammy," he rumbled. His breath smelled like something unspeakable, like what Sam would imagine a wolf's mouth would smell like after earning a belly-full of venison. He shrunk away, shivering. Dean pursed his full lips, his huge eyes staring directly into Sam's face, as if expecting something. What Dean wanted, Sam wasn't sure.
"Sam," he repeated.
Sam squirmed in his grasp, tears streaming down his face. His vision blurred and his breath hitched in quick, sporadic sobs. "P-please, Dean. If you're still in there. Don't."
Dean looked momentarily confused, frowning. He didn't say anything, just lowered Sam until he was more level with his chest. Sam clawed fruitlessly, tried to break his hold, but Dean's hold was unbreakable. Sam dared to look down but wish he hadn't. He was high up. Too high up. Dean turned towards the way he'd come, not bothering to look where he was going, and trampled several people and animals. His calf slammed into the doctor's office, crumpling the side of the building to a pile of rubble. Sam slammed his eyes shut, wish he could block out the horrible noises, the steady, heady fragrance of smoke and debris.
Dean carried him off into the woods, trampling trees, vegetation, slamming into creeks and rivers. Minutes passed, maybe even hours. Sam couldn't tell. He was too caught up in his fear for time to be reasonable. Too scared of Dean squeezing too tight or letting go, plunging him to his death. After a while, Sam dared to open his eyes and peer up at the underside of Dean's chin. Dean was staring straight ahead, not paying much attention to the younger Winchester. Had Dean grabbed him up for a later snack? Sam couldn't help but feel like a pouch of trail mix to a hiker. Sam squirmed. Dean only seemed to hold him tighter. Not painfully, per say, but securely. Finally, Dean glanced down at him. An annoyed expression played on his features. Dean did not look happy. Sam squirmed some more, his heart racing, adrenaline flooding his whole body.
"Stop moving," Dean ordered. "I could drop you. Stop it."
Terrified, Sam obeyed. Dean glanced back up and continued walking. "Everything's going to be okay," he continued. "We're just going somewhere safe."
Sam frowned. That didn't really sound reassuring. Last time he checked, anywhere with Dean wasn't exactly safe anymore. But Sam held his tongue. About twenty minutes later, Dean stopped at a grassy patch of wildflowers. The meadow was large enough to fit the older Winchester and was by a bubbling brook polluted by brightly colored fallen leaves.
He placed Sam on the ground. Sam, too petrified to run, watched with astonishment as Dean lowered himself onto his hands and knees and then onto his stomach, leaning on his elbows. He wasted no time in grabbing Sam again and settling him in front of his face. With one hand holding him in place, Dean pinched his cloak, disrobing him. He went for his boots and socks next, plucking them off. Dean's face was soft but determined. Why was he taking his clothes off? Sam shivered as the wind licked at his exposed skin. Dean went for his pants, tearing his belt completely off with one determined fingernail.
"Dean…what?" Sam breathed, perplexed. He was being unwrapped like a piece of candy. Realizing what Dean was doing, Sam began to panic.
"Dean, s-stop." Sam whimpered, clawing fruitlessly at the fingers pulling down his undergarments. His cock and balls slipped free. Before he knew it, Sam was naked to the world.
Dean did not respond. Instead, he shoved Sam's garments aside. Sam wrapped his arms around himself, as if that could shield him from Dean's heartless gaze.
"Please, Dean. Don't. I'm Sam. I'm your brother." Sam pleaded, his eyes wet and shiny. Tears spilled over his eyelids and fell down his flushed cheeks.
Dean looked momentarily confused. "Yeah, man. I know that. What do you think I am, dumb?"
Sam's face grew pale. Dean didn't care that they were brothers, the twenty plus years together seemed to mean absolutely nothing to the older Winchester. Sam's heart plummeted. Dean was going to eat him anyway. Dean reached for him again. He started struggling. He punched at Dean's fingers, clawed, bit. Dean huffed, mildly annoyed at his resistance. Grabbing him up with his other hand, he kept Sam still with his fingers, pinning him flat.
"Relax, Sammy. I'm not gonna hurt you," Dean cooed. Panting, Sam stared up at Dean, his own tiny fingernails digging into his brother's fingers. A wryly smile curled on Dean's plump lips. It was the same expression Sam had seen on Dean's face when his brother would spot a particularly attractive barmaid across the way. Flirtatious and lustful. Seeing Dean look at him like that sent a jolt of terror straight to Sam's bones. A primal revulsion infiltrated Sam's stomach. He was queasy with it.
Dean moved his index finger up, gently stroking the tip against Sam's cheek. "You look so pretty like this, Sammy. You know that? So small and sweet."
What did that mean? Sam shivered as Dean let his fingertip trail down his throat and to his collarbone in a frightfully intimate gesture. Sam stared at Dean in shock.
As if reading his mind, Dean smirked. "No, Sam. I've wanted to do this for a long time. At first, I hated myself. But now, I can't say I really care, Sammy. It was just that pesky human inhibition that kept me back, but I don't know…I don't think I've got that anymore."
Sam stiffened when Dean lowered his mouth and moved his fingers away, pressing a lingering kiss to Sam's middle. Sam's heart thudded double time. No. This couldn't be happening. Dean wasn't saying this. He wasn't doing this.
Then, Dean licked him. His hot, wet tongue rubbed against Sam's petite cock and balls, the sensation making them feel bigger than they really were. Dean licked him again, this time getting his chest, too, up to his neck. Dean was tasting him, Sam realized in horror.
Dean pulled away to look at Sam's face. "How can something so wrong feel so right, you know?"
No, Sam didn't know. And he didn't want to find out. He began to struggle, desperately trying to get off Dean's hand, but Dean continued to hold him down.
"Shhhh, it's okay, Sammy. I've got you."
"Dean, please s-stop. I-I don't want this." He clawed at his brother's fingers.
"Sam, just calm down. This is going to be fun." Dean gave him a licentious smile before dipping his mouth lower, pressing a kiss to his privates. Despite himself, Sam's body reacted to the outside stimulation. He grew hard. He was disgusted with himself.
He shook his head in denial and uttered, "No."
"Yes," Dean countered lustfully and licked him again.
Sam felt as defenseless as a kitten. No, worse. At least kittens had claws. Sam had nothing. He was completely at Dean's mercy. Sam began to cry, but Dean just turned him over onto his side and rubbed his back, an attempt at comfort.
"Shhh, baby. Gonna make you feel so good." Dean rumbled with a primal hunger Sam had never heard, much less seen, before. He wanted to flinch away from his big brother, to hide from that licentious stare.
Sam just glanced up at Dean in horror, shaking his head. Dean turned him over onto his back once more. Sam tried to struggle again, tried to get him to let go. But Dean was so much bigger, so much stronger, and he nudged between Sam's outstretched thighs, licking between his firm ass cheeks. Sam's pucker contracted at the violation, and he choked. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Dean wasn't a giant. Dean hadn't killed all those people. Dean wasn't…he wasn't having his way with him.
Sam closed his legs shut in resistance. Dean hooked his fingers around Sam's legs and made him spread eagle.
"Like that, baby. Mmm. Good job." Dean cooed, running his tongue up his ass and flicking under his balls. Sam's face flushed with horror. It felt good. Why did it feel good? Damn him. Damn everything. Sam couldn't suppress a low groan when Dean pressed his tongue down harder directly onto his penis, swirling the appendage around. There was a rumble, a movement. Sam glanced to the side. Dean had his hand pressed underneath his own body, near his groin. It didn't take a chemist to understand what Dean was doing. The jerks matched in rhythm to each long lick of Dean's relentless tongue.
Sam threw his head back, his spine arching, trying to crawl away from the pleasure building in his groin. He curled his hands against Dean's flesh, tiny nails biting into the skin. He couldn't. He wouldn't. But he did. He tumbled over the edge. Sam orgasmed. He hated himself for it. He hated how good it felt, how all encompassing. He twitched and shook, momentarily losing his mind. Dean lapped up the warm, salty evidence, his own breath hitching in pleasure as he tumbled over the edge himself. Dean's climaxed permeated the air, like the smell of sex times one hundred.
Blinking rapidly, Sam cracked his eyes open and stared into Dean's flushed face, eyeing his half-lidden eyes. Dean was looking at him as if Sam was the best thing on earth. Sam thought he might vomit.
Once he got his heartrate down and gathered his barings, he shakily sat up in Dean's hand, staring down at his naked, sweat slicked body. He was contaminated. Filthy. He wanted nothing more than to dip in the creek and never resurface.
"Wasn't that good?" Dean asked.
Trembles raced down Sam's back. Sam rubbed his forearm in a self-soothing gesture, not looking at Dean.
"Hey, it's okay." Dean rumbled, frowning. "Sam, look at me."
Sam sat passively, numbly. Dean rubbed his side with his index finger. Every instinct told him to shy away from the touch, but he couldn't bother to do much of anything. Dean rumbled in discontent, clearly upset at Sam's blatant disregard.
"We're going away. Somewhere safe."
And just like that, Dean grabbed him up again and they were off into the autumn afternoon.