#feeder!sam

[fancycroissantgothparty]

Hitting a huge milestone calls for a big celebration ;)

Based off a prompt from Discord

[fancycroissantgothparty]

do you have any immobile!dean thoughts, and what are they

Is that even a question? Man, all I can think about is how much care he'd need. Just someone (Cas, Sam, whoever) taking time to adjust whatever (struggling) furniture he's lounging on, message his rolls and poor overfed belly. Tending to his needs, lathering his soft, freckled fat with lotion to sooth the itches he can't reach anymore. Spending hours cooking to to satiate his ever growing gluttony. Having to start help feeding him because he's more and more struggling to move his arms to eat the growing sum, maybe even force feeding him when they know he needs more, despite his words. I think about how he managed to get there, how his totally greed and laziness led him to the day when he'd spend minutes a struggling, sweating, panting mess refusing to admit that he's finally eaten himself firmly into one spot, his feeder around the corner with his next feast. Or maybe he never notices, completely turned into a mindless pig, far to driven by his need for fullness to even care about his fading mobility. So to answer your question, of course I have thoughts about immobile!Dean, who the hell do you think I am?

[a-deed-without-a-name]

Thanksgiving is always a big deal in the Winchester household, any excuse to throw a feast is really. 16 year old Dean Winchester has all week taken full advantage of the constraint stream of food that comes out of Mary’s kitchen.

Noe it’s the morning of his first day back at school, if he could just…. get….. out… of bed….

"Dean!" Standing at the foot of the stairs with her hands on her hips, Mom stared expectantly up. "Dean, come on, we're going to be late!"

The reply came a second later, about the same as it had been for the past half hour, increasingly breathless and frustrated. "I-I'm - I'm working on it!"

Mary let out an exasperated sigh, throwing her hands in the air. "I know going back after the holidays is difficult, but I swear, that boy..."

"Maybe something's wrong," Sam volunteered from the couch, where he'd been reading.

"I don't think so, Sammy. Just a bad case of the Mondays."

"Yeah, but he missed breakfast," Sam pointed out, then asked, "Has Dean...ever missed a meal before?"

Mom stood there for a moment, then shook her head, gesturing for Sam to get up and go upstairs.

"Could you check on him? I need to finish packing your lunch."

Sam looked down at his book, then set it regretfully aside. "Okay." Much as he didn't want to stop reading, he would do anything for his big brother.

He heaved himself off the couch with a grunt, then headed slowly upstairs. He walked down the hall, past his room to Dean's, then opened the door.

Dean was still in bed, red-faced and huffing and sweaty. Sam wondered what he could possibly have been doing. Instead of asking, he told him, "Mom's mad at you. She wants you to get up."

"Yeah, well, trust me, that makes two of us," Dean grunted out, and then swung his beefy arms up and attempted to heave himself into a sitting position. He tried a couple times, but never got further than what looked like the very earliest stages of a situp...which was the closest Sam had ever actually seen his brother get to a situp. It made him jiggle, his round belly creasing in the middle where it was spread across the bed.

As Dean collapsed back, mattress squeaking and bedframe groaning, Sam stared at him.

"Can you not get up?"

"Starting to look that way," Dean replied tersely.

"...how come?"

Dean snorted, then looked at Sam, chins dragging as he turned his head. He seemed to realize he was serious, then heaved out a deep sigh.

"So, you know how I've always been...big," he began.

"Uh huh." One of Sam's earliest memories was of Dean eating an entire birthday cake all by himself, stomach rounder than one of the balloons tied to his high chair.

"And you know how much I ate over Thanksgiving," Dean continued. Sam nodded. His older brother had barely even stopped cramming food into his mouth to breathe, the sheer fullness of his food-packed gut pinning him in place. "Well. Think I. Might've finally gotten too fat to get outta bed. Without help, at least."

He looked shamefully at Sam, who asked, "Do you want me to help you?"

Dean shook his head, sighing deeply. "Don't want you hurting yourself." He groaned, and kneaded the heels of his plump hands against his eyes. "Goddammit. Know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I'm starving."

"Oh!" Sam turned, wondering why he was kind of excited. "I'll go get you some breakfast." A lot of breakfast.

"Wait, Sammy - "

He paused, but Dean just shook his head. "Never mind." A pause. "Thanks."

[a-deed-without-a-name]

The first time Adam had come to live with the winchesters he had been a skinny little thing, all skin and bones. A lot’s changed since then.

"How's he doing?" Dean asked, glancing toward Sam as he stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

"Uh, dead to the world," Sam answered. "I don't think we're getting him back 'til morning, he crashed out pretty hard."

"Well, no wonder, with how much he ate tonight." Dean had been washing dishes. He turned the water off, dried his hands as he turned to face his brother. "He at least finish off the brownies before he went down for the count?"

"Ooh, yeah." Sam nodded, then gestured to the door. "He's probably gonna need a belly rub. If you wanna...?"

"You seriously gotta ask?" Dishtowel tossed over his shoulder, Dean threw a wounded look at Sam as he passed him, who smirked.

"You're right. My bad."

Adam Milligan had first come to them as a runaway. Mother dead, no place to go, he'd gone looking for his biological father, who happened to also be theirs, and found the two of them instead. He hadn't initially wanted to intrude. He hadn't been all that comfortable with their relationship, either. But with plenty of wheedling, and cajoling, the tiny, underfed kid who was pretty much nothing but eyes and ribs and collarbones had reluctantly agreed to stay. Just for a month. Maybe two. Long enough to find a job and get on his feet.

That was four years ago, now.

Sam was a part-time lecturer at the local college and a personal trainer. Dean worked back of house at a local high-end restaurant, and had the hefty gut to prove how much he enjoyed his own (excellent) cooking. Four years ago, they had absolutely towered over their little half-brother. Even if he'd been taller than both of them, they would have entirely dwarfed him.

That wasn't exactly the case anymore.

They had a very comfortable couch in the living room, not that big but not that small either, secondhand, much beloved. Adam took up two of the three cushions now, and was steadily inching onto the third, better-fed by the day. Sitting, his plush thighs spread in order to accommodate his perpetually-bloated gut, with the round little tits perched on top of it his shirts only barely seemed to contain. Love handles, double chins...he had it all.

Right now, he sat stuffed to the gills and snoring gently to himself, belching, occasionally hiccupping. It was loud in the living room, but it wasn't his mouth making the noise; it was his churning, gurgling belly, full of gas and rich, heavy food. In need of a belly rub, indeed.

It had started with Dean's cooking, and a lack of activity. Sam needed hours at the gym to burn off what he ate. Adam was young, had a fast metabolism, but after a month, he was looking at a little muffin top that could've been water weight. After two, it wasn't water weight anymore. Then there had been the snacking, including at night, the doubling and tripling of his portions, the extra desserts, the introduction of the belly rubs, the fact the kid asked for everything because he was as natural a glutton as could be, and...well. Miracle he only weighed six hundred by now, really.

"Shit, Sammy." Taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Adam so he could tend to that much-abused stomach, Dean sighed dramatically. "Think our kid might be getting kinda fat."

[a-deed-without-a-name]

@fancycroissantgothparty, you have drawn so many fabulous pieces for my fics, and I wanted to finally do something in return - this drawing reaaaally spoke to me, and this was the result.

[a-deed-without-a-name]

Solve et Coagula Ch. 2

Castiel was in Dean's room when Sam returned, sitting in the chair at his desk and watching him sleep. He glanced at Sam, and didn't ask how whatever he'd been doing had gone as he stood up and left. But he did squeeze Sam's shoulder when he passed him.

Sam just stood there for a while, looking at Dean. He looked so peaceful, in an obscene, almost twisted way. Bloated belly laid out on the mattress in front of him where he'd settled on his side, one arm tucked around it. Tube running into his mouth, slight motion of cheeks and lips and throat as he sucked and swallowed.

Soda sitting in his mouth all night was going to be absolute hell on his teeth, they needed to figure out some way to keep him from winding up with a hundred cavities a week. Then again, according to Crowley, he was literally made for this now. Maybe he didn't have to worry about cavities any more than he did hardening arteries or high blood sugar.

He was still thinking along those lines when he realized that Dean's breathing had changed, and his eyes were open a slit. In the dark, Sam couldn't tell what shape his pupils were.

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