Brotherly Love Epilogue
The door of the dingy little motel room banged into a shared wall when I kicked it open. Hard. So hard, in fact, that the plaster cracked under the hideous wallpaper, the doorknob spun and sagged in its socket like it was gonna fall out, and the guy in the next room woke up. Turned out he had a vocabulary to rival mine, and he immediately started putting it to good use. I guess I couldn't really blame him, considering it was two-thirty-seven in the morning according to the Impala's clock, but that didn't stop me from bellowing, "Yeah, well, right back atcha, asshole!" as I dragged Sam over to one of the beds.
I wasn't in a good mood.
I dumped him onto the creaking mattress, and he collapsed, gasping, one hand immediately going to his torn-up thigh and a grimace of pain stretching his features. I closed the door, locked it-obsessive habit-and then went straight for his backpack, where we kept most of the medical supplies. I clawed out gauze, hydrogen peroxide, a curved needle, nylon thread. Behind me, Sam groaned. I all but bolted back to him, and pulled down his jeans, so I could get a better look at his wound. He flinched when the rough denim passed over it, and stiffened with agony. Not like it was uncommon for me to pull his pants off, but usually, I had an entirely different reason.
To my intense relief, it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd thought. Three claw marks, not deep, just messy. The bastard'd missed all the important arteries and veins, too, thank God. There probably wasn't even any damage to the muscle. Sam had gotten pretty well-padded in the thighs.
"Dean-" he started, voice strained and upset.
"Shut up." I reached for the brown bottle, dumped peroxide into the furrows, and ignored his hiss of pain as it started to foam and I dabbed all the blood and gore away with a square of gauze. The edges were neat, and he wasn't bleeding too heavily. Yeah, really not that bad.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize. 'S my fault." Yep, my fault. As per usual. I threaded the needle, cursing viciously when my hands shook and the dim light made it way more difficult than it needed to be. I jabbed myself with the needle, and cursed again.
"Well...no, not-not entirely..."
"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" I threaded the needle through his flesh, concentrating on pulling the two sides of the first, largest claw mark together. My stitches came out crooked, like a drunken toddler had put them in. "Dammit." Maybe I should've just taken him to a hospital. But then they'd want to know what'd done this to him, and, somehow, I didn't think, "Oh, it was a werewolf, Doctor," would fly.
Sam didn't say anything after that until I finished patching him up. He just let me work. I was kind of mad at him for that, too, because part of me really, really wanted another excuse to yell at him. I kept my head bent over his thigh, sewing the soft flesh back together, feeling my lips automatically press against each other into a line thin enough to make the muscles around my mouth ache. My stare was so intense as I focused on fixing up Sam that I practically had to remind myself to blink. My eyebrows were drawn down and together, into that angry, brooding expression I hated but saw in the mirror on a daily basis anyway. Or, at least, I used to see it on a daily basis. Things had been better lately. A lot better. Right up until tonight.
I tied a knot when I was done with the last cut, clipping the thread and packing everything I hadn't used back up into our makeshift medical kit. I zipped Sam's backpack closed, then just knelt on the stained carpet for a second, head still bowed and hands resting on his bare leg. I just wasn't quite sure what to do now, seeing as Sam's wound was taken care of. But I was saved the trouble of having to come up with a move to make when he put his hand on top of my head, gently running his fingers down through my hair in a soothing stroking motion.
"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.
"I should have been faster," I all but spat. I hadn't been able to get my gun, loaded with silver bullets, out of the waistband of my jeans in time. Maybe I should invest in a holster.
Maybe that wasn't entirely the real reason I felt guilty, either, but I wasn't gonna address that.
"Well, you got him, didn't you? Right through the heart."
"Yeah...after he'd clawed you up."
"Hey...stuff like this happens, all right?" He moved his hand down to cup the side of my jaw, and lifted my head so I had to look at him. "And I'm gonna be fine. You did a really good job of sewing me up."
I didn't reply, just stood up slowly, realizing how unbearably tired I was. I didn't really remember the last time I'd actually slept for more than just a couple minutes. We'd spent most of the night tracking, chasing, and then grappling with the werewolf we'd come here to hunt, and for the last few nights before this, Sam and I had...well, we'd done a lot of things that pretty much ensured that sleep was the last thing on either of our minds. It wasn't like running on empty was anything new to me, but, sooner or later, the adrenalin high wore off and I had to get some real rest. I sighed deeply as I dropped onto the bed beside Sam, springs immediately complaining about my weight. He looked at me, and I could tell he was concerned in that quiet, tight-mouthed way he had. But he didn't say anything, just reached out and wrapped an arm around my broad shoulders, pulling me against him. I let him be all gentle and comforting with me for a second, nestling into the soft, ample bulge of his stomach, and the curves of his chest, and the brand-new clothes that were already starting to get tight. It felt nice to be held, to feel him reassuringly stroke my shoulder while I pressed my face into the curve of his neck and breathed in his scent. Then I pulled back and shook his arm off.
"Okay," I said, in my firmest, most commanding, best "you're-gonna-do-what-I-say" voice. "That's it. You've gotta stop hunting."
Sam twitched away from me like I'd bitten him, all that concern gone and replaced with shock and maybe a little bit of anger. "What?!" That pissed, defensive tone had been pretty familiar to me for most of our time together. Ever since he hit puberty and really learned how to bitch. But, recently, I'd been sort of hoping I'd never hear it again.
"You heard me." I paused. "And I'm gonna tell you right now, Sammy, I ain't budging on this."
He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Really? You're really going to try to convince me to give up the "family business"-" He didn't actually make air-quotes with his fingers, but he didn't really have to. "-just because I got a little scratched up on a run-of-the-mill werewolf hunt? I've got news for you, Dean, both of us get hurt all the time, it's kind of in the job description."
"It's not about the fact you got hurt," I answered, even though, when Sam'd been leaning against the brick wall of the alley with his jeans shredded and his blood splashed all over the freaking place, it hadn't been about anything else. "It's about why you got hurt."
He just raised his eyebrows, basically telling me to continue, so I did. I reached over and laid a hand on his belly, which, even empty, spilled into his lap. He automatically closed his eyes at my touch, and I gently kneaded the soft fat between my fingers. With me spending more time on keeping him fed than on hunting or anything else, Sam'd gained weight pretty fast. His lean frame had filled out and rounded, into a potbelly, thighs that touched when he sat, a curved ass that stretched the denim of his jeans taut across it and made it nearly impossible for me to keep my hands off him if his back was to me.
"You're carrying around fifty or sixty extra pounds," I told him softly, voice a little husky and my own jeans getting tight in one particular area. Touching him, even a little, always did some pretty powerful things to me. "Don't get me wrong here, I love it like you wouldn't believe. When you can't get your pants up past your things, the way you walk now that you're so much heavier, and, damn, when you're sitting next to me in the Impala, one hand on your own belly, feeling how much you've gained lately..." This was rapidly going from the honest discussion I'd wanted to something that felt like it was going to end with both our clothes on the floor and him whimpering out my name, but maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Maybe it'd be easier for me to make things go my way if I got him so turned on he couldn't even think straight. Which was why I took my hand off of his stomach, wrapped that arm around him, and pulled him tight against me while I appreciatively stroked his gut with my other hand. He didn't really object. In fact, despite how mad he'd been just a couple minutes ago, he pressed himself up against me and moaned. My voice automatically dropped into a throaty purr I hadn't even really known I was capable of. "But it's way too dangerous for you to hunt when you're this chubby, Sammy, and getting fatter every day."
"I-" Very, very reluctantly, he pulled away from me, and hauled his bloody, torn pants back up. He winced when the denim settled against the stitches in his thigh, but the pain must have helped him focus, because he stared me down and spoke coherently. "You can't just head out alone. You need me."
"Maybe I would," I half-agreed. "If you were lighter and could still run pretty fast and weren't used to being hand-fed six meals a day."
"Well, you can't really say that like it's my fault," he snapped back, the anger starting to return. "I mean, to begin with, I was cursed, and you're the one who keeps feeding me so much now-"
"So, the point you're trying to make here is...you don't like it? You want me to stop?"
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, and looked away, obviously embarrassed.
"Look," I started. "I can handle flying solo. You know I can. And there're people I can call for help if I need it."
"Yeah. Great. And...what'll you do with me? You'll just dump me somewhere with a bunch of fake credit cards, never come back because I'm apparently so useless to you now, only think about me when you're bored and you need a fantasy? About how I'm probably gorging myself constantly out of loneliness and gaining a pound a day?" He shook his head vehemently, anger flaring white-hot in the movement. "No way. It's not gonna happen, Dean. I don't know what game you think you're playing, but I'm not going to stop hunting. You need me."
"Yeah. Yeah, exactly, I do," I said, still fixating on what he'd said and feeling every cell in my body recoil from the thought of leaving him. "I need you, Sammy. More than I have ever needed anyone or anything else, especially lately, with you..."
With you looking and feeling so perfect to me, was along the lines of what I wanted to say. You're somehow everything I never even knew I wanted, and the way you fit against me...it's like goddamn poetry. And I have never felt as whole or as happy as I have ever since we made love just outside of Berington, and...Jesus, Sammy, it's like you're a piece of me that was missing, but now we're fitted together like we should be, and I am sure as hell not gonna lose you. Not now, not ever.
But whatever was left of my brittle male pride reached up into my throat and clamped my vocal cords together, and by the time I could get anything understandable out, I'd forgotten most of that sappy little speech. Which might've been a good thing and might not have, but I guess we'll never know now, will we?
"Anyway, that's why you gotta stop," I finally said, stumbling over the words a little. "You're already doing more harm than good out there, and if we keep going the way we have been, you won't be able to outrun anything soon. And...that'll be a problem." I cleared my throat, then spread my hands in a "these-are-the-facts" sort of way. I looked at him, hoping he could see how scared I'd been, how tired I was of worrying about him, how much he meant to me. "I shouldn't've said anything about striking out on my own. I'm not gonna just up and leave you, Sam. That's not what this is." I paused. "I promise." I leaned towards him a little, widening my eyes and waiting for his answer.
He was really, actually thinking about what I'd said. I could see it in the way that he set his jaw and lowered his eyes slightly. And I couldn't believe it. He never considered my suggestions-admittedly, that was probably because most of them were not-so-subtle sex jokes and the rest were impulsive and dangerous and usually cast me as the martyr. Usually, we went with whatever he thought was best, unless I dug my heels in and made myself a real pain in the ass. This was kind of a first for me. Especially because what I'd said was so...inconceivable.
Finally, he raised his head, looked me straight in the eye, and, very calmly, said, "No."
I felt years-old frustration and despair thud up from the middle of me. "Sam-"
"Dean." Sam met my furious tone with one so calm and patient I could've hit him. "I understand why you're so worried, but...no. I'm not gonna do this."
"Why?" My voice was raw with emotion, and I almost flinched at how pathetic and beaten I sounded.
"Because you can't make these kinds of decisions for me," he explained gently. "In fact, the last time you tried...well, it's the reason we're screwing each other now."
It would've hurt less if he'd just hauled off and punched me. I felt my face twitch, and a million barbed comebacks popped into my head-that I'd really though he liked all the screwing, considering the noises he made; that said screwing was getting a little one-sided with him so out of shape; that he wouldn't be as fat as he'd gotten if he didn't love it. But my tongue felt frozen in my mouth and I could barely think past the sudden flood of guilt. About the incest thing I'd somehow been managing not to think about too hard, and what I'd done to him, and just under a million other things.
He must have seen the wounded expression on my face, because he hurried to take back what he'd said.
"I am not complaining," he said, fast and adamant and taking care to enunciate every syllable. "No. I...I love this. I love you. I'm just saying, we're lucky we got out of Berington without dying or being led on leashes by some kinky demon."
"Yeah, I guess." My voice sounded hard, even to me. "But you gotta admit you're not really cut out for this line of work anymore."
I reached over, grabbing a handful of his ample stomach, and he didn't pull away. I started to rub, watching his eyes slowly close with pleasure. In a low voice, I went on.
"You've got me feeding you almost constantly and rubbing your belly when you eat too much, like some sort of spoiled pet," I murmured. "Your belly gets in the way when you bend over, and your ass...surprised you haven't ripped any pants yet. You need to eat so much to even feel full, and you usually keep eating way past that, huh? 'Cause it feels good?"
With a sigh that was part resignation and part pleasure, Sam laid back, and I moved closer to him, still playing with the fat of his middle.
"Then you're all but useless once your belly's completely stuffed, aren't you? So heavy and full...most of the time, you can't even stand. Need me right there to rub and coo and feed you just a little more, if you can fit it," I went on. "You've been packing on the pounds pretty fast, Sammy, living like this. Imagine how big you'll be in a couple of months. A year." I smirked down at him. "There's a reason there're no fat hunters."
He sat up to speak, but didn't push my hand off him, as he quietly said, "I can make it work."
"Yeah. Sure you can." I paused to take a breath. "Way I see it, you've got two choices." I got back into a position something like I'd been in before, arms wrapped around him and both hands working at the neat, sensitive little rolls of fat on his front. Partly, it was to distract him. But, partly, it made me feel good, to have him so close. Despite what he'd said earlier. "Either you give it up, like I said..." My voice, as I whispered in his ear, had a note of sadistic glee in it. I was still kinda pissed at him. "Or you stop doing this." I squeezed at his belly. "Stop pigging out, stop letting me coddle you and stuff you full of good food, stop gaining so much weight and loving it." I paused. "Hell, maybe we should should stop all the other stuff we've been doing together, too."
Sam glared at me, even as he was unconsciously squirming closer so I could get better access to certain parts of him. The options I'd given him were most definitely not fair, especially from his perspective. But I couldn't fight back a little lightning bolt of fear. What if he chose that second option?
He wouldn't. No way.
"You're such a jerk."
"Yeah, and you love it." I was winning, I could feel it. "Wouldn't be any fun if I didn't treat you like my bitch once in awhile, huh? It's your favorite part of any feeding session when I make you eat more, even though you're already so full, or lean on your stomach..."
A little moan worked its way out of him, and I wasn't sure if it was because of what I was saying or what my hands were doing to his stomach area. But that was it, I had him. I pushed him down, pulled my legs up, and knelt right next to him, figuring that straddling his thighs couldn't be a good idea. Not with those cuts. I rested a hand on top of the soft mound of his belly, waiting.
"All right. Fine." His eyes were closed, and his voice was angry, strained with pleasure. "I don't want to stop."
"Yeah, I didn't think so." I smiled, stroking his hair with my other hand. "Don't wanna give up this cute little gut, do you, Sammy?" I patted it for emphasis. "Or the feeding. Or the belly rubs."
He didn't say anything for a second, but, suddenly, I knew what he was thinking. As clear as if it'd been in my own head. He didn't want to lose me.
I gotta tell you, realizing that made me feel pretty great. All warm and fuzzy and...well, needed. Loved.
"Okay." Sam kept his voiceas flat as possible. "Let's say that-hypothetically-I quit hunting. What would happen?"
I had to think about that one for a second, slowly rubbing his stomach as I idly wished it was round and taut with food and he was whimpering with fullness. "Guess we'd have to get a house. Just the absolute necessities-a few rooms, kitchen, TV, bed." Saying that sent a little ice-cold worm of excitement crawling through my belly. We didn't sleep in the same bed, not right now. But I...I wanted to, despite the inherent girliness of that desire. It would make everything a little more real, a little more stable. And, let's face it, Sam and I's relationship needed all the reality and stability it could get. "I could focus completely on you." I smiled a little. "I can think of only one thing I'd really need to take a break from feeding you to do."
"Wait. You'd...quit, too? Quit hunting?" He raised his head a little.
"Well, yeah, mostly." I shrugged. "I'd kinda have to, wouldn't I?"
"Well, if you'd be there...okay."
"...wait." I couldn't have heard that right. "What?"
"I said okay." He moved a little underneath my hand, pushing himself into my touch. "I think I can do this."
"Are you freaking serious?" I demanded. "After all that, you just-"
"What can I say? You convinced me." Sam grinned. "And, y'know, if you give it up, too, I...might have something to focus on besides what's happening to me." He reached up and laid a hand, palm-flat, against my stomach.
I felt my face settle into my default "expressionless" expression. "Nah, that's not gonna happen."
"You sure?" He raised an eyebrow. "I mean, no hunting, plenty of food...and I saw the look on your face when that demon was feeding you..."
I decided it would probably be best to let it go. But we were probably gonna have to have a talk (read: screaming, furious, battle-to-the-death throwdown) later.
"So," I began, changing the subject as I leaned over him. "You're really gonna stop hunting."
"Yeah." He stayed quiet for a second. "I don't really want to, but...I guess I don't really have a choice."
"Oh, c'mon, I'll make you forget all about it." I lowered my head, locked him into a quick, gentle kiss. Not really my MO when it came to him, but it felt right, in place of the raw, hungry way I usually kissed. "You know I will. 'Sides, wouldn't you rather be holed up with me, nothing to do but let me stuff you and see to all your other needs-" I left the If you know what I mean unspoken. "-than be dragged halfway across the country every day to go toe-to-toe with some fanged freak? Seriously, Sam, I can't stand this, only touching you whenever we get a couple extra minutes..."
"I know." Sam pulled me down, and I adjusted my position, so that I was all but curled up against him. "Yeah, I know." He paused. "I gotta say, I'm...kind of looking forward to this."
"Of course you are." I smiled against his chest. "It'll be just like Berington. Except, uh, without the bottle-blonde with and the occult mind control and the kinky demon..."
He laughed, softly, and pulled me into a second kiss. This one was deeper, harder, and lasted a lot longer. When I moved my mouth down to his neck and shifted, accidentally jostling his wounded thigh, he winced a little.
"Just try to remember that a werewolf tried to rip me a new one tonight," Sam panted into my ear. "Be gentle, Dean."
And I was. Because he'd asked me to, and because I figured he deserved a little bit of a reward after so readily agreeing to give up the job.
Later, I held him close to me, listened to his breathing, and grinned like an idiot in the near-darkness of noon in a small-windowed motel room. Maybe this wasn't what I'd expected when I first got up in the middle of the night, months ago, and started surfing the web. Me and Sam tangled together on a small bed, him asleep in my arms, something comforting and steady and downright beautiful pulsing right around where my heart might have been. (Human anatomy has never been my strong suit; I don't see the point in learning about something if you don't need to know where the vital organs are so you can kill it.) But, in the end, I'd gotten exactly what I wanted.
He was safe.
And he was mine. Wasn't exactly a side effect I'd been expecting, but it was definitely one I could live with.
I wasn't in a good mood.
I dumped him onto the creaking mattress, and he collapsed, gasping, one hand immediately going to his torn-up thigh and a grimace of pain stretching his features. I closed the door, locked it-obsessive habit-and then went straight for his backpack, where we kept most of the medical supplies. I clawed out gauze, hydrogen peroxide, a curved needle, nylon thread. Behind me, Sam groaned. I all but bolted back to him, and pulled down his jeans, so I could get a better look at his wound. He flinched when the rough denim passed over it, and stiffened with agony. Not like it was uncommon for me to pull his pants off, but usually, I had an entirely different reason.
To my intense relief, it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd thought. Three claw marks, not deep, just messy. The bastard'd missed all the important arteries and veins, too, thank God. There probably wasn't even any damage to the muscle. Sam had gotten pretty well-padded in the thighs.
"Dean-" he started, voice strained and upset.
"Shut up." I reached for the brown bottle, dumped peroxide into the furrows, and ignored his hiss of pain as it started to foam and I dabbed all the blood and gore away with a square of gauze. The edges were neat, and he wasn't bleeding too heavily. Yeah, really not that bad.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize. 'S my fault." Yep, my fault. As per usual. I threaded the needle, cursing viciously when my hands shook and the dim light made it way more difficult than it needed to be. I jabbed myself with the needle, and cursed again.
"Well...no, not-not entirely..."
"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" I threaded the needle through his flesh, concentrating on pulling the two sides of the first, largest claw mark together. My stitches came out crooked, like a drunken toddler had put them in. "Dammit." Maybe I should've just taken him to a hospital. But then they'd want to know what'd done this to him, and, somehow, I didn't think, "Oh, it was a werewolf, Doctor," would fly.
Sam didn't say anything after that until I finished patching him up. He just let me work. I was kind of mad at him for that, too, because part of me really, really wanted another excuse to yell at him. I kept my head bent over his thigh, sewing the soft flesh back together, feeling my lips automatically press against each other into a line thin enough to make the muscles around my mouth ache. My stare was so intense as I focused on fixing up Sam that I practically had to remind myself to blink. My eyebrows were drawn down and together, into that angry, brooding expression I hated but saw in the mirror on a daily basis anyway. Or, at least, I used to see it on a daily basis. Things had been better lately. A lot better. Right up until tonight.
I tied a knot when I was done with the last cut, clipping the thread and packing everything I hadn't used back up into our makeshift medical kit. I zipped Sam's backpack closed, then just knelt on the stained carpet for a second, head still bowed and hands resting on his bare leg. I just wasn't quite sure what to do now, seeing as Sam's wound was taken care of. But I was saved the trouble of having to come up with a move to make when he put his hand on top of my head, gently running his fingers down through my hair in a soothing stroking motion.
"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.
"I should have been faster," I all but spat. I hadn't been able to get my gun, loaded with silver bullets, out of the waistband of my jeans in time. Maybe I should invest in a holster.
Maybe that wasn't entirely the real reason I felt guilty, either, but I wasn't gonna address that.
"Well, you got him, didn't you? Right through the heart."
"Yeah...after he'd clawed you up."
"Hey...stuff like this happens, all right?" He moved his hand down to cup the side of my jaw, and lifted my head so I had to look at him. "And I'm gonna be fine. You did a really good job of sewing me up."
I didn't reply, just stood up slowly, realizing how unbearably tired I was. I didn't really remember the last time I'd actually slept for more than just a couple minutes. We'd spent most of the night tracking, chasing, and then grappling with the werewolf we'd come here to hunt, and for the last few nights before this, Sam and I had...well, we'd done a lot of things that pretty much ensured that sleep was the last thing on either of our minds. It wasn't like running on empty was anything new to me, but, sooner or later, the adrenalin high wore off and I had to get some real rest. I sighed deeply as I dropped onto the bed beside Sam, springs immediately complaining about my weight. He looked at me, and I could tell he was concerned in that quiet, tight-mouthed way he had. But he didn't say anything, just reached out and wrapped an arm around my broad shoulders, pulling me against him. I let him be all gentle and comforting with me for a second, nestling into the soft, ample bulge of his stomach, and the curves of his chest, and the brand-new clothes that were already starting to get tight. It felt nice to be held, to feel him reassuringly stroke my shoulder while I pressed my face into the curve of his neck and breathed in his scent. Then I pulled back and shook his arm off.
"Okay," I said, in my firmest, most commanding, best "you're-gonna-do-what-I-say" voice. "That's it. You've gotta stop hunting."
Sam twitched away from me like I'd bitten him, all that concern gone and replaced with shock and maybe a little bit of anger. "What?!" That pissed, defensive tone had been pretty familiar to me for most of our time together. Ever since he hit puberty and really learned how to bitch. But, recently, I'd been sort of hoping I'd never hear it again.
"You heard me." I paused. "And I'm gonna tell you right now, Sammy, I ain't budging on this."
He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Really? You're really going to try to convince me to give up the "family business"-" He didn't actually make air-quotes with his fingers, but he didn't really have to. "-just because I got a little scratched up on a run-of-the-mill werewolf hunt? I've got news for you, Dean, both of us get hurt all the time, it's kind of in the job description."
"It's not about the fact you got hurt," I answered, even though, when Sam'd been leaning against the brick wall of the alley with his jeans shredded and his blood splashed all over the freaking place, it hadn't been about anything else. "It's about why you got hurt."
He just raised his eyebrows, basically telling me to continue, so I did. I reached over and laid a hand on his belly, which, even empty, spilled into his lap. He automatically closed his eyes at my touch, and I gently kneaded the soft fat between my fingers. With me spending more time on keeping him fed than on hunting or anything else, Sam'd gained weight pretty fast. His lean frame had filled out and rounded, into a potbelly, thighs that touched when he sat, a curved ass that stretched the denim of his jeans taut across it and made it nearly impossible for me to keep my hands off him if his back was to me.
"You're carrying around fifty or sixty extra pounds," I told him softly, voice a little husky and my own jeans getting tight in one particular area. Touching him, even a little, always did some pretty powerful things to me. "Don't get me wrong here, I love it like you wouldn't believe. When you can't get your pants up past your things, the way you walk now that you're so much heavier, and, damn, when you're sitting next to me in the Impala, one hand on your own belly, feeling how much you've gained lately..." This was rapidly going from the honest discussion I'd wanted to something that felt like it was going to end with both our clothes on the floor and him whimpering out my name, but maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Maybe it'd be easier for me to make things go my way if I got him so turned on he couldn't even think straight. Which was why I took my hand off of his stomach, wrapped that arm around him, and pulled him tight against me while I appreciatively stroked his gut with my other hand. He didn't really object. In fact, despite how mad he'd been just a couple minutes ago, he pressed himself up against me and moaned. My voice automatically dropped into a throaty purr I hadn't even really known I was capable of. "But it's way too dangerous for you to hunt when you're this chubby, Sammy, and getting fatter every day."
"I-" Very, very reluctantly, he pulled away from me, and hauled his bloody, torn pants back up. He winced when the denim settled against the stitches in his thigh, but the pain must have helped him focus, because he stared me down and spoke coherently. "You can't just head out alone. You need me."
"Maybe I would," I half-agreed. "If you were lighter and could still run pretty fast and weren't used to being hand-fed six meals a day."
"Well, you can't really say that like it's my fault," he snapped back, the anger starting to return. "I mean, to begin with, I was cursed, and you're the one who keeps feeding me so much now-"
"So, the point you're trying to make here is...you don't like it? You want me to stop?"
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, and looked away, obviously embarrassed.
"Look," I started. "I can handle flying solo. You know I can. And there're people I can call for help if I need it."
"Yeah. Great. And...what'll you do with me? You'll just dump me somewhere with a bunch of fake credit cards, never come back because I'm apparently so useless to you now, only think about me when you're bored and you need a fantasy? About how I'm probably gorging myself constantly out of loneliness and gaining a pound a day?" He shook his head vehemently, anger flaring white-hot in the movement. "No way. It's not gonna happen, Dean. I don't know what game you think you're playing, but I'm not going to stop hunting. You need me."
"Yeah. Yeah, exactly, I do," I said, still fixating on what he'd said and feeling every cell in my body recoil from the thought of leaving him. "I need you, Sammy. More than I have ever needed anyone or anything else, especially lately, with you..."
With you looking and feeling so perfect to me, was along the lines of what I wanted to say. You're somehow everything I never even knew I wanted, and the way you fit against me...it's like goddamn poetry. And I have never felt as whole or as happy as I have ever since we made love just outside of Berington, and...Jesus, Sammy, it's like you're a piece of me that was missing, but now we're fitted together like we should be, and I am sure as hell not gonna lose you. Not now, not ever.
But whatever was left of my brittle male pride reached up into my throat and clamped my vocal cords together, and by the time I could get anything understandable out, I'd forgotten most of that sappy little speech. Which might've been a good thing and might not have, but I guess we'll never know now, will we?
"Anyway, that's why you gotta stop," I finally said, stumbling over the words a little. "You're already doing more harm than good out there, and if we keep going the way we have been, you won't be able to outrun anything soon. And...that'll be a problem." I cleared my throat, then spread my hands in a "these-are-the-facts" sort of way. I looked at him, hoping he could see how scared I'd been, how tired I was of worrying about him, how much he meant to me. "I shouldn't've said anything about striking out on my own. I'm not gonna just up and leave you, Sam. That's not what this is." I paused. "I promise." I leaned towards him a little, widening my eyes and waiting for his answer.
He was really, actually thinking about what I'd said. I could see it in the way that he set his jaw and lowered his eyes slightly. And I couldn't believe it. He never considered my suggestions-admittedly, that was probably because most of them were not-so-subtle sex jokes and the rest were impulsive and dangerous and usually cast me as the martyr. Usually, we went with whatever he thought was best, unless I dug my heels in and made myself a real pain in the ass. This was kind of a first for me. Especially because what I'd said was so...inconceivable.
Finally, he raised his head, looked me straight in the eye, and, very calmly, said, "No."
I felt years-old frustration and despair thud up from the middle of me. "Sam-"
"Dean." Sam met my furious tone with one so calm and patient I could've hit him. "I understand why you're so worried, but...no. I'm not gonna do this."
"Why?" My voice was raw with emotion, and I almost flinched at how pathetic and beaten I sounded.
"Because you can't make these kinds of decisions for me," he explained gently. "In fact, the last time you tried...well, it's the reason we're screwing each other now."
It would've hurt less if he'd just hauled off and punched me. I felt my face twitch, and a million barbed comebacks popped into my head-that I'd really though he liked all the screwing, considering the noises he made; that said screwing was getting a little one-sided with him so out of shape; that he wouldn't be as fat as he'd gotten if he didn't love it. But my tongue felt frozen in my mouth and I could barely think past the sudden flood of guilt. About the incest thing I'd somehow been managing not to think about too hard, and what I'd done to him, and just under a million other things.
He must have seen the wounded expression on my face, because he hurried to take back what he'd said.
"I am not complaining," he said, fast and adamant and taking care to enunciate every syllable. "No. I...I love this. I love you. I'm just saying, we're lucky we got out of Berington without dying or being led on leashes by some kinky demon."
"Yeah, I guess." My voice sounded hard, even to me. "But you gotta admit you're not really cut out for this line of work anymore."
I reached over, grabbing a handful of his ample stomach, and he didn't pull away. I started to rub, watching his eyes slowly close with pleasure. In a low voice, I went on.
"You've got me feeding you almost constantly and rubbing your belly when you eat too much, like some sort of spoiled pet," I murmured. "Your belly gets in the way when you bend over, and your ass...surprised you haven't ripped any pants yet. You need to eat so much to even feel full, and you usually keep eating way past that, huh? 'Cause it feels good?"
With a sigh that was part resignation and part pleasure, Sam laid back, and I moved closer to him, still playing with the fat of his middle.
"Then you're all but useless once your belly's completely stuffed, aren't you? So heavy and full...most of the time, you can't even stand. Need me right there to rub and coo and feed you just a little more, if you can fit it," I went on. "You've been packing on the pounds pretty fast, Sammy, living like this. Imagine how big you'll be in a couple of months. A year." I smirked down at him. "There's a reason there're no fat hunters."
He sat up to speak, but didn't push my hand off him, as he quietly said, "I can make it work."
"Yeah. Sure you can." I paused to take a breath. "Way I see it, you've got two choices." I got back into a position something like I'd been in before, arms wrapped around him and both hands working at the neat, sensitive little rolls of fat on his front. Partly, it was to distract him. But, partly, it made me feel good, to have him so close. Despite what he'd said earlier. "Either you give it up, like I said..." My voice, as I whispered in his ear, had a note of sadistic glee in it. I was still kinda pissed at him. "Or you stop doing this." I squeezed at his belly. "Stop pigging out, stop letting me coddle you and stuff you full of good food, stop gaining so much weight and loving it." I paused. "Hell, maybe we should should stop all the other stuff we've been doing together, too."
Sam glared at me, even as he was unconsciously squirming closer so I could get better access to certain parts of him. The options I'd given him were most definitely not fair, especially from his perspective. But I couldn't fight back a little lightning bolt of fear. What if he chose that second option?
He wouldn't. No way.
"You're such a jerk."
"Yeah, and you love it." I was winning, I could feel it. "Wouldn't be any fun if I didn't treat you like my bitch once in awhile, huh? It's your favorite part of any feeding session when I make you eat more, even though you're already so full, or lean on your stomach..."
A little moan worked its way out of him, and I wasn't sure if it was because of what I was saying or what my hands were doing to his stomach area. But that was it, I had him. I pushed him down, pulled my legs up, and knelt right next to him, figuring that straddling his thighs couldn't be a good idea. Not with those cuts. I rested a hand on top of the soft mound of his belly, waiting.
"All right. Fine." His eyes were closed, and his voice was angry, strained with pleasure. "I don't want to stop."
"Yeah, I didn't think so." I smiled, stroking his hair with my other hand. "Don't wanna give up this cute little gut, do you, Sammy?" I patted it for emphasis. "Or the feeding. Or the belly rubs."
He didn't say anything for a second, but, suddenly, I knew what he was thinking. As clear as if it'd been in my own head. He didn't want to lose me.
I gotta tell you, realizing that made me feel pretty great. All warm and fuzzy and...well, needed. Loved.
"Okay." Sam kept his voiceas flat as possible. "Let's say that-hypothetically-I quit hunting. What would happen?"
I had to think about that one for a second, slowly rubbing his stomach as I idly wished it was round and taut with food and he was whimpering with fullness. "Guess we'd have to get a house. Just the absolute necessities-a few rooms, kitchen, TV, bed." Saying that sent a little ice-cold worm of excitement crawling through my belly. We didn't sleep in the same bed, not right now. But I...I wanted to, despite the inherent girliness of that desire. It would make everything a little more real, a little more stable. And, let's face it, Sam and I's relationship needed all the reality and stability it could get. "I could focus completely on you." I smiled a little. "I can think of only one thing I'd really need to take a break from feeding you to do."
"Wait. You'd...quit, too? Quit hunting?" He raised his head a little.
"Well, yeah, mostly." I shrugged. "I'd kinda have to, wouldn't I?"
"Well, if you'd be there...okay."
"...wait." I couldn't have heard that right. "What?"
"I said okay." He moved a little underneath my hand, pushing himself into my touch. "I think I can do this."
"Are you freaking serious?" I demanded. "After all that, you just-"
"What can I say? You convinced me." Sam grinned. "And, y'know, if you give it up, too, I...might have something to focus on besides what's happening to me." He reached up and laid a hand, palm-flat, against my stomach.
I felt my face settle into my default "expressionless" expression. "Nah, that's not gonna happen."
"You sure?" He raised an eyebrow. "I mean, no hunting, plenty of food...and I saw the look on your face when that demon was feeding you..."
I decided it would probably be best to let it go. But we were probably gonna have to have a talk (read: screaming, furious, battle-to-the-death throwdown) later.
"So," I began, changing the subject as I leaned over him. "You're really gonna stop hunting."
"Yeah." He stayed quiet for a second. "I don't really want to, but...I guess I don't really have a choice."
"Oh, c'mon, I'll make you forget all about it." I lowered my head, locked him into a quick, gentle kiss. Not really my MO when it came to him, but it felt right, in place of the raw, hungry way I usually kissed. "You know I will. 'Sides, wouldn't you rather be holed up with me, nothing to do but let me stuff you and see to all your other needs-" I left the If you know what I mean unspoken. "-than be dragged halfway across the country every day to go toe-to-toe with some fanged freak? Seriously, Sam, I can't stand this, only touching you whenever we get a couple extra minutes..."
"I know." Sam pulled me down, and I adjusted my position, so that I was all but curled up against him. "Yeah, I know." He paused. "I gotta say, I'm...kind of looking forward to this."
"Of course you are." I smiled against his chest. "It'll be just like Berington. Except, uh, without the bottle-blonde with and the occult mind control and the kinky demon..."
He laughed, softly, and pulled me into a second kiss. This one was deeper, harder, and lasted a lot longer. When I moved my mouth down to his neck and shifted, accidentally jostling his wounded thigh, he winced a little.
"Just try to remember that a werewolf tried to rip me a new one tonight," Sam panted into my ear. "Be gentle, Dean."
And I was. Because he'd asked me to, and because I figured he deserved a little bit of a reward after so readily agreeing to give up the job.
Later, I held him close to me, listened to his breathing, and grinned like an idiot in the near-darkness of noon in a small-windowed motel room. Maybe this wasn't what I'd expected when I first got up in the middle of the night, months ago, and started surfing the web. Me and Sam tangled together on a small bed, him asleep in my arms, something comforting and steady and downright beautiful pulsing right around where my heart might have been. (Human anatomy has never been my strong suit; I don't see the point in learning about something if you don't need to know where the vital organs are so you can kill it.) But, in the end, I'd gotten exactly what I wanted.
He was safe.
And he was mine. Wasn't exactly a side effect I'd been expecting, but it was definitely one I could live with.