Fic: Softness (Sam/Dean - NC-17)
This was written a while back from a prompt at one of the blindfold challenges. Like with everything else I've posted, it's Sam/Dean and chubby!Dean with weight gain and enabler!Sam. This one also contains an embarrassed self-conscious Dean and some consensual feeding.
Softness
Sam starts noticing around Dean’s thirty-third birthday; a softness to his brother’s waistline that wasn’t there before, a fleshiness around his jaw. He watches Dean closely when he stalks out the shower, towel knotted around his waist, a small roll of fat forming as he bends over to go through his duffle, it’s still there when he straightens up, the soft, but unmistakeable, beginnings of a belly. Sam stares, dick going instantly and alarmingly hard as he watches Dean pull on his jeans, belly jiggling slightly as he struggles to get them on.
Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s on Dean, slamming him down onto the bed, hands roaming, squeezing and touching, all those glorious inches of soft, smooth skin. Dean moans and writhes under him, pulls him close and pants his name, “Sam, God, Sammy, Sam...” Sam comes harder than he can remember doing in a long time.
So, Dean’s gaining weight, he thinks. He’s not sure what to think of it at first; about time, is the first thing that springs to mind, because given Dean’s appetites and his age, his poor, stretched metabolism was always going to give in at some point. He should be repulsed by it, by Dean’s thickening waistline, the slight love-handles at his waist that are beginning to appear, but he’s not. He’s really not. Instead, he finds himself cataloguing the changes to his brother’s body as obsessively as he catalogues the details of every hunt. And Dean is changing, sharp planes and hard lines of his body smoothing out, chiselled rectangles slowly morphing into comfy ovals, his face getting rounder, firm, angular jaw blurring, strong, hard muscles of his arms and thighs softening, a small, round belly forming where his rock hard abs had once been, his entire body softer, puffier, squishier.
Of course, once he notices, he can’t keep from not thinking about it, eyes drawn to the soft curve of Dean’s ever-expanding belly under his too small t-shirt when he slides into a diner booth. He watches greedily as Dean eats, imagining every mouthful of heavy, calorific food settling somewhere on Dean’s gorgeous body: that firm, rounded ass, thick, muscled thighs, soft, fleshy jaw-line, or God, that perfect, squishy belly. He presses the palm of his hand against his stiffening cock through his jeans and tries to breathe.
Dean pauses, fork loaded with scrambled eggs half-way to his mouth, “You alright, dude?”
“Yeah, yeah, just,” he hesitates, slides his own half-finished pancake platter over to Dean with a shrug, “not hungry, man. Tastes funny.”
Dean leans over, stabs a forkful of pancake, swallows, he looks back up, frowns. “Tastes fine to me.” He grabs the plate, pulls it over to his side of the table, “Shame to let it go to waste.”
Dean’s clothes get too tight on him, he looks uncomfortable when he does his pants up in the morning, makes a face and tries to suck in his gut as he wrestles with the top button. He’s self-conscious about it, tries to guide Sam’s hands away from his waist and stomach when they fuck, not that Sam lets him, just squeezes tighter, pulls Dean down onto his cock harder, fingers sinking into the soft flesh at his brother’s hips. His t-shirts are all too small on him, ride up when he sits down, and in the car, on long drives, he slips the button of his jeans undone when he thinks Sam’s not looking.
They go to interview the sheriff of a small town in Maryland, put on their fake FBI suits, well, Sam does. He waits in the room for Dean, who’s in the bathroom, taking his time. He realizes why when Dean finally emerges, Dean looks supremely uncomfortable, his growing gut pushing over the waistband of the extremely tight looking pants, dress shirt snug around the full curve of his belly, buttons straining to contain it. Sam swallows, takes two strides towards him, pushes him up hard against the wall and attacks his mouth.
Dean’s startled at first, squirms, but he gives in as Sam thrusts his tongue into his mouth, practically melts in Sam’s arms. Sam’s eager to get at him, get at that naked skin, that soft, fleshy naked skin, those glorious rolls of pudge at Dean’s waist. He fucks Dean against the wall, Dean braces himself, ass hanging out his pants, Sam’s hands on his hips, squeezing and moulding the flesh as he thrusts in and out. Dean’s too gone to notice, eyelashes fluttering, so goddamn beautiful that Sam can’t shut up, can’t stop telling him that, God, Dean, so fuckin’ hot, so fuckin’ gorgeous, love you, this, love your body, God, your body, so perfect, fuck...
They’re three hours late for their appointment with the sheriff’s department.
They still don’t speak about it. It’s kinda cute, Sam thinks, Dean’s self-consciousness, his confusion at his softer, heavier body, the betrayed look he gets on his face when one morning, he finally has to give in, tosses his favourite pair of jeans away. But Dean’s not confused or upset enough to stop eating so much, doesn’t refuse Sam’s uneaten portions when Sam slides them over the table to him, still munches on the chips and muffins, donuts and cookies Sam buys at gas stations and fast food joints, leaving them in the car because he knows Dean can’t resist.
The discarded, too small jeans get left behind in the motel room, and Dean pulls on his dirty, muddy pair with a disgusted look on his face, holding his breath as he struggles with the zipper. They drive past a Wall mart and Dean pulls in. They buy the usual stuff: ammo, rock salt, snack food. Dean wanders off and reappears five minutes later with a couple of pairs of jeans, which he tosses into the cart without a word, a pink tinge of embarrassment suffusing his cheeks. Sam smiles to himself and adds a few more boxes of donuts and bags of candy bars to the cart.
Dean fractures his ankle taking out a black dog in Delaware. He’s supposed to rest afterwards, not put any weight on the ankle, so hunting’s out. Sam drives them to Bobby’s cabin in the woods about 100 miles from his place.
Dean’s bored and irritable, burning through the DVD box sets Sam rents from the local Blockbuster, and eating, snacking constantly. Sam’s only too happy to bring him jumbo bags of M and M’s, economy sized bags of chips, Twinkies and Oreos, galloon tubs of Ben and Jerry’s and boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts. Dean eats everything, lies on the couch with his ankle raised, t-shirt riding up and exposing tantalising inches of soft paunchy belly with their smattering of golden hairs.
Sam takes the opportunity to practice his culinary skills. On the first day, he makes breakfast, pancakes mixed with buttermilk and fried in butter, served with extra butter and cream, syrup and sides of bacon and sausage, makes enough for five people.
“Christ, Sammy, you expecting company?” jokes Dean, eyeing the spread with something resembling awe.
Sam shrugs, “No, just think I was a bit off with the portion control.”
“A bit?”
Dean eats it all, sits back in the chair afterwards and exhales heavily, hand absently rubbing over his bloated belly. Sam watches and gets so overwhelmingly hard that he sinks to the floor, sucks his brother off, there and then.
It’s hot outside, so Sam suggests he sit out there, enjoy the sun, get a tan. Dean insists on wearing a t-shirt at first, he’s still self-conscious about his body, still hasn’t gotten that Sam, God, loves him likes this. Dean can be so blind sometimes, but he’s embarrassed, caught up in his own head, and they still haven’t mentioned it, and Dean’s refusing to say anything, still pretending like he’s the same ultra-fit, trim guy he always was, the one who could eat whatever he wants, the one with the washboard abs, even though those abs are long gone now, vanished under soft, doughy flesh.
Sam goes inside to prepare lunch, spaghetti carbonara, with butter, eggs, cream, bacon lardens and the entire packet of pasta. Dean eats three servings, plate heaped high with food, lips working tantalisingly around his fork, as he groans in appreciation.
“Man, Sammy, this is, God... so fuckin’ good. Why you not been cooking like this before?”
Sam grins, delighted. “You like it?”
“Dude, I’ve eaten like, three platefuls.”
“Hope you saved room for dessert. I made peach cobbler.”
Dean groans again, but he takes three servings. There’s ice cream to go with the cobbler, and they take the remains of the enormous tub to the bedroom, eating with the same spoon. Dean’s tongue and lips work skilfully, licking up every last gorgeously sweet drop. Sam’s hard, so fucking turned on as he feeds Dean, chasing every spoonful with a long sumptuous kiss, passing the sweet vanilla taste between them.
There’s about a quarter left when Dean moans, says, “No more, Sam,” but it’s a token protest, easily dismissed by one of Sam’s best smiles and a softly persuasive, “C’mon, Dean, just one more, God, you’re so fuckin’ hot, love you like this….”
Dean finishes the rest on a groan, sinks back into the pillows, eyes fluttering closed. Sam places his hand on Dean’s stomach, rubs gently, his cock thickening, getting rock hard in seconds as he massages the wonderful generous swell of his brother’s belly. Dean’s too out of it to protest as he usually does, so Sam takes advantage, pushes down Dean’s absurdly tight shorts and massages at the deep, red marks made in his soft, flabby skin, stroking and fondling lovingly as Dean groans and pants. He sucks Dean off after that, the lingering taste of vanilla ice cream mixing with the salty bitter viscous taste of his brother’s come.
Dean does drop a couple of pounds when he’s finally healed, but he regains it quickly, regains it, and some extra. It’s steady, inexorable, a diet that doesn’t let up, (Sam sees to that), and although they’re back into the old routine - hunting things, training, running a couple of times a week, Dean’s still gaining weight, still eating, snacking constantly on the foods Sam buys so thoughtfully for him. They stay in motels with kitchens so Sam can cook for them, and he does cook, perfecting the recipes he’d learned at the cabin. One evening, after an enormous dinner of lasagne, garlic bread and Sam’s homemade cheesecake, Dean falls asleep propped up in bed, his head is on his chest, or about as far as it can reach his chest with his fleshy double chin, his t-shirt has ridden halfway up his belly, exposing a large expanse of pale gut, spilling over his unbuttoned jeans. Sam watches him, and jerks off surreptitiously, planning what he’s going to cook tomorrow night - steak and creamy mashed potatoes perhaps?
One night, a couple of weeks later, Sam wakes up to find the bed empty.
Dean’s in the bathroom, in front of the mirror when Sam discovers him. He’s half-naked, a towel knotted around his waist, his toothbrush in his hand, but he’s not cleaning his teeth, instead he’s staring at himself in the mirror appraisingly.
“Sam, do you think I should lose weight?”
Sam glances at him in surprise, he knows that Dean’s uncomfortable with his ever-expanding waistline, his rapid weight gain, but he’s never mentioned it before, it still goes unspoken between them.
He looks thoughtful, concerned, that crease between his eyebrows as he places his palm on the mound of his paunch, jiggling it slightly, the flesh wobbling as he grabs a handful and squeezes, “Jesus,” he mutters, “I’ve gotten kinda fat, don’t you think?”
He knows that Dean’s gained a lot of weight over the past few months, hell he’s been the one encouraging him, enabling him. He knows Dean gained about twenty five pounds in those three months his ankle was broken, add that to the fifteen pounds extra or so he was already carrying before he injured his ankle, and the weight he’s gained since, and he would guess that Dean’s about fifty pounds heavier than he was this time last year. He’s seen Dean get heavier, his gut surging forward, stretching out all his shirts, hanging over the waistbands of his pants, swelling and filling out, growing steadily bigger every day. But, God, Sam swallows, stares, because Dean looks... he’s so gorgeous, so luscious and curvy and full.
“I think you look amazing,” he breathes
Dean looks at him in the mirror, smiles ruefully, “Yeah, you’re kinda twisted, little brother.”
“What?”
“C’mon, Sammy. It’s not like I haven’t noticed that you have a thing for this.” He palms his belly again. “But I think,” he hesitates, sighs, “it’s gotten out of hand, I used to be ripped, dude! Now, I’m like the freakin’ Pillsbury doughboy.”
“I think you’re the hottest thing on the planet.”
He slides forward to stand behind Dean, pressing his rapidly hardening cock against the dip of his ass, fingers moving to unknot the towel.
“Do you feel that?” he whispers, voice low and throaty, his sex voice.
He’s rewarded by watching Dean’s eyes darken in the mirror, his face starting to heat up.
“Sam...”
“Do you feel how hard you get me?”
“Oh, God, Sam...”
“Yeah. So fuckin’ hard, Dean. You have no idea what you do to me.” He runs one hands down Dean’s side to his waist, sliding to splay it over his belly, his huge hand not big enough to cover the big, delicious swell of flesh, he kneads into it, into the soft doughy flesh. “This, and this,” his other hand goes out to squeeze Dean’s ass, his hip, he holds in a breath, his cock is so hard, pressed up against the groove of his brother’s ass. “All of it. You. I want you so much sometimes I can’t think straight. I can only think about your body, about you.”
Dean’s practically shaking, his own cock so hard and full, Sam drops his hand to it, cups his balls, hears his intake of breath, the painful sounding gasp of his own name, “Sam...”
They fuck in front of the mirror, Sam driving into Dean with hard, ruthless thrusts, one hand on Dean's waist, fingers sunk into the substantial expanse of flesh, the other on Dean's cock. Sam watches as Dean's belly jiggles, as Dean's eyelashes flutter, he jerks him through his orgasm, holding his fingers out to Dean, watching as Dean's lovely, full lips suck them in, plump, fleshy cheeks hollowing. Just before he's about to come, he pulls out, twists Dean around and comes over his belly. Dean watches, with hooded eyes, as Sam massages his own come into his brother's flesh, into those extra fleshy inches of glorious, flabby belly.
"So, you, uh, you kinda like me like this?" Dean asks finally, breath catching as he raises his eyes to meet Sam's.
"God, yes, you just gotten that?"
Dean blushes, tries to look away. Sam leans down, kisses him softly on the lips, "You know I'd want you however you looked, you could lose 100 pounds, gain another 100 pounds, and I'd still want you, you could get a hideous rash all over your body and I'd still want you. But, like this," he hesitates, "God, like this... I love this, so fuckin' hot, Dean. Promise me you won't try to lose weight?"
Dean's mouth crooks upwards, he huffs out a half-laugh, "Dude, I'm not sure I could. One thing I know is - s'long as you keep cooking me those fantastic meals, I'll keep eating them."
Sam grins, pulls him closer, "That's all I wanted to hear."
Softness
Sam starts noticing around Dean’s thirty-third birthday; a softness to his brother’s waistline that wasn’t there before, a fleshiness around his jaw. He watches Dean closely when he stalks out the shower, towel knotted around his waist, a small roll of fat forming as he bends over to go through his duffle, it’s still there when he straightens up, the soft, but unmistakeable, beginnings of a belly. Sam stares, dick going instantly and alarmingly hard as he watches Dean pull on his jeans, belly jiggling slightly as he struggles to get them on.
Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s on Dean, slamming him down onto the bed, hands roaming, squeezing and touching, all those glorious inches of soft, smooth skin. Dean moans and writhes under him, pulls him close and pants his name, “Sam, God, Sammy, Sam...” Sam comes harder than he can remember doing in a long time.
So, Dean’s gaining weight, he thinks. He’s not sure what to think of it at first; about time, is the first thing that springs to mind, because given Dean’s appetites and his age, his poor, stretched metabolism was always going to give in at some point. He should be repulsed by it, by Dean’s thickening waistline, the slight love-handles at his waist that are beginning to appear, but he’s not. He’s really not. Instead, he finds himself cataloguing the changes to his brother’s body as obsessively as he catalogues the details of every hunt. And Dean is changing, sharp planes and hard lines of his body smoothing out, chiselled rectangles slowly morphing into comfy ovals, his face getting rounder, firm, angular jaw blurring, strong, hard muscles of his arms and thighs softening, a small, round belly forming where his rock hard abs had once been, his entire body softer, puffier, squishier.
Of course, once he notices, he can’t keep from not thinking about it, eyes drawn to the soft curve of Dean’s ever-expanding belly under his too small t-shirt when he slides into a diner booth. He watches greedily as Dean eats, imagining every mouthful of heavy, calorific food settling somewhere on Dean’s gorgeous body: that firm, rounded ass, thick, muscled thighs, soft, fleshy jaw-line, or God, that perfect, squishy belly. He presses the palm of his hand against his stiffening cock through his jeans and tries to breathe.
Dean pauses, fork loaded with scrambled eggs half-way to his mouth, “You alright, dude?”
“Yeah, yeah, just,” he hesitates, slides his own half-finished pancake platter over to Dean with a shrug, “not hungry, man. Tastes funny.”
Dean leans over, stabs a forkful of pancake, swallows, he looks back up, frowns. “Tastes fine to me.” He grabs the plate, pulls it over to his side of the table, “Shame to let it go to waste.”
Dean’s clothes get too tight on him, he looks uncomfortable when he does his pants up in the morning, makes a face and tries to suck in his gut as he wrestles with the top button. He’s self-conscious about it, tries to guide Sam’s hands away from his waist and stomach when they fuck, not that Sam lets him, just squeezes tighter, pulls Dean down onto his cock harder, fingers sinking into the soft flesh at his brother’s hips. His t-shirts are all too small on him, ride up when he sits down, and in the car, on long drives, he slips the button of his jeans undone when he thinks Sam’s not looking.
They go to interview the sheriff of a small town in Maryland, put on their fake FBI suits, well, Sam does. He waits in the room for Dean, who’s in the bathroom, taking his time. He realizes why when Dean finally emerges, Dean looks supremely uncomfortable, his growing gut pushing over the waistband of the extremely tight looking pants, dress shirt snug around the full curve of his belly, buttons straining to contain it. Sam swallows, takes two strides towards him, pushes him up hard against the wall and attacks his mouth.
Dean’s startled at first, squirms, but he gives in as Sam thrusts his tongue into his mouth, practically melts in Sam’s arms. Sam’s eager to get at him, get at that naked skin, that soft, fleshy naked skin, those glorious rolls of pudge at Dean’s waist. He fucks Dean against the wall, Dean braces himself, ass hanging out his pants, Sam’s hands on his hips, squeezing and moulding the flesh as he thrusts in and out. Dean’s too gone to notice, eyelashes fluttering, so goddamn beautiful that Sam can’t shut up, can’t stop telling him that, God, Dean, so fuckin’ hot, so fuckin’ gorgeous, love you, this, love your body, God, your body, so perfect, fuck...
They’re three hours late for their appointment with the sheriff’s department.
They still don’t speak about it. It’s kinda cute, Sam thinks, Dean’s self-consciousness, his confusion at his softer, heavier body, the betrayed look he gets on his face when one morning, he finally has to give in, tosses his favourite pair of jeans away. But Dean’s not confused or upset enough to stop eating so much, doesn’t refuse Sam’s uneaten portions when Sam slides them over the table to him, still munches on the chips and muffins, donuts and cookies Sam buys at gas stations and fast food joints, leaving them in the car because he knows Dean can’t resist.
The discarded, too small jeans get left behind in the motel room, and Dean pulls on his dirty, muddy pair with a disgusted look on his face, holding his breath as he struggles with the zipper. They drive past a Wall mart and Dean pulls in. They buy the usual stuff: ammo, rock salt, snack food. Dean wanders off and reappears five minutes later with a couple of pairs of jeans, which he tosses into the cart without a word, a pink tinge of embarrassment suffusing his cheeks. Sam smiles to himself and adds a few more boxes of donuts and bags of candy bars to the cart.
Dean fractures his ankle taking out a black dog in Delaware. He’s supposed to rest afterwards, not put any weight on the ankle, so hunting’s out. Sam drives them to Bobby’s cabin in the woods about 100 miles from his place.
Dean’s bored and irritable, burning through the DVD box sets Sam rents from the local Blockbuster, and eating, snacking constantly. Sam’s only too happy to bring him jumbo bags of M and M’s, economy sized bags of chips, Twinkies and Oreos, galloon tubs of Ben and Jerry’s and boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts. Dean eats everything, lies on the couch with his ankle raised, t-shirt riding up and exposing tantalising inches of soft paunchy belly with their smattering of golden hairs.
Sam takes the opportunity to practice his culinary skills. On the first day, he makes breakfast, pancakes mixed with buttermilk and fried in butter, served with extra butter and cream, syrup and sides of bacon and sausage, makes enough for five people.
“Christ, Sammy, you expecting company?” jokes Dean, eyeing the spread with something resembling awe.
Sam shrugs, “No, just think I was a bit off with the portion control.”
“A bit?”
Dean eats it all, sits back in the chair afterwards and exhales heavily, hand absently rubbing over his bloated belly. Sam watches and gets so overwhelmingly hard that he sinks to the floor, sucks his brother off, there and then.
It’s hot outside, so Sam suggests he sit out there, enjoy the sun, get a tan. Dean insists on wearing a t-shirt at first, he’s still self-conscious about his body, still hasn’t gotten that Sam, God, loves him likes this. Dean can be so blind sometimes, but he’s embarrassed, caught up in his own head, and they still haven’t mentioned it, and Dean’s refusing to say anything, still pretending like he’s the same ultra-fit, trim guy he always was, the one who could eat whatever he wants, the one with the washboard abs, even though those abs are long gone now, vanished under soft, doughy flesh.
Sam goes inside to prepare lunch, spaghetti carbonara, with butter, eggs, cream, bacon lardens and the entire packet of pasta. Dean eats three servings, plate heaped high with food, lips working tantalisingly around his fork, as he groans in appreciation.
“Man, Sammy, this is, God... so fuckin’ good. Why you not been cooking like this before?”
Sam grins, delighted. “You like it?”
“Dude, I’ve eaten like, three platefuls.”
“Hope you saved room for dessert. I made peach cobbler.”
Dean groans again, but he takes three servings. There’s ice cream to go with the cobbler, and they take the remains of the enormous tub to the bedroom, eating with the same spoon. Dean’s tongue and lips work skilfully, licking up every last gorgeously sweet drop. Sam’s hard, so fucking turned on as he feeds Dean, chasing every spoonful with a long sumptuous kiss, passing the sweet vanilla taste between them.
There’s about a quarter left when Dean moans, says, “No more, Sam,” but it’s a token protest, easily dismissed by one of Sam’s best smiles and a softly persuasive, “C’mon, Dean, just one more, God, you’re so fuckin’ hot, love you like this….”
Dean finishes the rest on a groan, sinks back into the pillows, eyes fluttering closed. Sam places his hand on Dean’s stomach, rubs gently, his cock thickening, getting rock hard in seconds as he massages the wonderful generous swell of his brother’s belly. Dean’s too out of it to protest as he usually does, so Sam takes advantage, pushes down Dean’s absurdly tight shorts and massages at the deep, red marks made in his soft, flabby skin, stroking and fondling lovingly as Dean groans and pants. He sucks Dean off after that, the lingering taste of vanilla ice cream mixing with the salty bitter viscous taste of his brother’s come.
Dean does drop a couple of pounds when he’s finally healed, but he regains it quickly, regains it, and some extra. It’s steady, inexorable, a diet that doesn’t let up, (Sam sees to that), and although they’re back into the old routine - hunting things, training, running a couple of times a week, Dean’s still gaining weight, still eating, snacking constantly on the foods Sam buys so thoughtfully for him. They stay in motels with kitchens so Sam can cook for them, and he does cook, perfecting the recipes he’d learned at the cabin. One evening, after an enormous dinner of lasagne, garlic bread and Sam’s homemade cheesecake, Dean falls asleep propped up in bed, his head is on his chest, or about as far as it can reach his chest with his fleshy double chin, his t-shirt has ridden halfway up his belly, exposing a large expanse of pale gut, spilling over his unbuttoned jeans. Sam watches him, and jerks off surreptitiously, planning what he’s going to cook tomorrow night - steak and creamy mashed potatoes perhaps?
One night, a couple of weeks later, Sam wakes up to find the bed empty.
Dean’s in the bathroom, in front of the mirror when Sam discovers him. He’s half-naked, a towel knotted around his waist, his toothbrush in his hand, but he’s not cleaning his teeth, instead he’s staring at himself in the mirror appraisingly.
“Sam, do you think I should lose weight?”
Sam glances at him in surprise, he knows that Dean’s uncomfortable with his ever-expanding waistline, his rapid weight gain, but he’s never mentioned it before, it still goes unspoken between them.
He looks thoughtful, concerned, that crease between his eyebrows as he places his palm on the mound of his paunch, jiggling it slightly, the flesh wobbling as he grabs a handful and squeezes, “Jesus,” he mutters, “I’ve gotten kinda fat, don’t you think?”
He knows that Dean’s gained a lot of weight over the past few months, hell he’s been the one encouraging him, enabling him. He knows Dean gained about twenty five pounds in those three months his ankle was broken, add that to the fifteen pounds extra or so he was already carrying before he injured his ankle, and the weight he’s gained since, and he would guess that Dean’s about fifty pounds heavier than he was this time last year. He’s seen Dean get heavier, his gut surging forward, stretching out all his shirts, hanging over the waistbands of his pants, swelling and filling out, growing steadily bigger every day. But, God, Sam swallows, stares, because Dean looks... he’s so gorgeous, so luscious and curvy and full.
“I think you look amazing,” he breathes
Dean looks at him in the mirror, smiles ruefully, “Yeah, you’re kinda twisted, little brother.”
“What?”
“C’mon, Sammy. It’s not like I haven’t noticed that you have a thing for this.” He palms his belly again. “But I think,” he hesitates, sighs, “it’s gotten out of hand, I used to be ripped, dude! Now, I’m like the freakin’ Pillsbury doughboy.”
“I think you’re the hottest thing on the planet.”
He slides forward to stand behind Dean, pressing his rapidly hardening cock against the dip of his ass, fingers moving to unknot the towel.
“Do you feel that?” he whispers, voice low and throaty, his sex voice.
He’s rewarded by watching Dean’s eyes darken in the mirror, his face starting to heat up.
“Sam...”
“Do you feel how hard you get me?”
“Oh, God, Sam...”
“Yeah. So fuckin’ hard, Dean. You have no idea what you do to me.” He runs one hands down Dean’s side to his waist, sliding to splay it over his belly, his huge hand not big enough to cover the big, delicious swell of flesh, he kneads into it, into the soft doughy flesh. “This, and this,” his other hand goes out to squeeze Dean’s ass, his hip, he holds in a breath, his cock is so hard, pressed up against the groove of his brother’s ass. “All of it. You. I want you so much sometimes I can’t think straight. I can only think about your body, about you.”
Dean’s practically shaking, his own cock so hard and full, Sam drops his hand to it, cups his balls, hears his intake of breath, the painful sounding gasp of his own name, “Sam...”
They fuck in front of the mirror, Sam driving into Dean with hard, ruthless thrusts, one hand on Dean's waist, fingers sunk into the substantial expanse of flesh, the other on Dean's cock. Sam watches as Dean's belly jiggles, as Dean's eyelashes flutter, he jerks him through his orgasm, holding his fingers out to Dean, watching as Dean's lovely, full lips suck them in, plump, fleshy cheeks hollowing. Just before he's about to come, he pulls out, twists Dean around and comes over his belly. Dean watches, with hooded eyes, as Sam massages his own come into his brother's flesh, into those extra fleshy inches of glorious, flabby belly.
"So, you, uh, you kinda like me like this?" Dean asks finally, breath catching as he raises his eyes to meet Sam's.
"God, yes, you just gotten that?"
Dean blushes, tries to look away. Sam leans down, kisses him softly on the lips, "You know I'd want you however you looked, you could lose 100 pounds, gain another 100 pounds, and I'd still want you, you could get a hideous rash all over your body and I'd still want you. But, like this," he hesitates, "God, like this... I love this, so fuckin' hot, Dean. Promise me you won't try to lose weight?"
Dean's mouth crooks upwards, he huffs out a half-laugh, "Dude, I'm not sure I could. One thing I know is - s'long as you keep cooking me those fantastic meals, I'll keep eating them."
Sam grins, pulls him closer, "That's all I wanted to hear."