In the depths of the Pit, news filters down to Alastair about the angels.
Thin, twisted things with black eyes and horns, most of them his children, approach him as he's frying potatoes and baking pies. They tell him about dark wings, light, speckled, spotted. He listens patiently to tales of searing halos, blazing Grace, gleaming silver blades carving through swarming hordes of low-level demons.
This particular garrison that Heaven's sent, it's orphaned, Alastair hears. Not only that, but there are at least two identified troublemakers in its ranks. Sending that kind of rescue team, he has to wonder if they even want the Michael Sword back at all.
Not that it makes any difference to him. They've got an endless well of corrupted souls to drown the garrison in. It'll take years, if not decades, for them to reach this place, the kingdom of rot and exquisite suffering that Alastair rules over, and that's more than enough time for him to ensure that they don't leave with their prize.
He smiles, with the dry mouth Lucifer carved back to his ears, when he imagines the expressions on the angel's faces when they see their Sword. His Righteous Man.
Dean took so very easily to being fattened. Part of it is that he was a big man to begin with, over six feet tall, so much room for softness to blossom. Another part of it…every human soul has sins sunk into it, core vices. It's Alastair's job to bring those out. One of Dean's big ones is gluttony. At his heart, he's a pig, and Alastair is only too happy to indulge him.
Of course souls can gain weight, grow huge and round and soft. It's the same principle as being healed in Heaven, torn to pieces in Hell. Degrading into mad shrieking ghosts back on Earth.
In the beginning, Dean didn't trust the food he was given, Alastair's near-perfect attempt at a bacon cheeseburger and fries. Alastair supposes he doesn't blame him, after thirty years of torture. The first things he gave him that weren't wounds were a knife and a soul of his own to slice into (which seemed nearly as natural for him as gaining weight does now). But Dean ate eventually. Sated three decades of howling hunger and thirst. He gorged himself frantically to fullness and then he didn't stop, swollen belly bursting the button on his jeans, the weight of all that food pinning him in place as he gasped and belched and begged Alastair for more.
Alastair gave it to him. Ice cream, chocolate bars, nachos, jalapeño poppers. Grease, salt, fat, sugar. Dean's so very easy to please.
He's also incredibly willing to stuff himself. But sometimes he thinks he's full, and Alastair wants his prize hog eating constantly. He needs to, in order to gain as fast as he can, and also, when his mouth is full of food, he can't constantly scream his brother's name. So Alastair crams bags' worth of potato chips into his mouth, yanks his head back by the hair and pours gallons of heavy cream down his gullet, watching Dean's freckled, overfed gut inflate most pleasingly.
He's not worried about Dean vomiting, because he won't let him. Alastair isn't worried about Dean bursting. He's already dead.
Alastair hardly ever has to force Dean, though, these days. John Winchester's bloated eldest is an obedient little pet. He feeds without end, he doesn't move a muscle. He always, always wants more and he grows, and grows, and grows.
The pounds started piling on fast. Barely a week of glutting himself on Alastair's cooking and Dean began to soften, hiccupping constantly and a stunned, cattle-like look in the eyes Alastair has ripped out of him so many times. His baggy jeans looked tight on him, his face round, the bulging muscles in chest and arms not quite so well-defined as they were to begin with. In a month, he was chubby, round ass and shapely breasts, a second chin well on its way. He only grew plumper on the steady stream of rich food Alastair was directing into his mouth.
Firm love handles swelled over his belt as his stomach expanded to fit more and more, covered in a growing layer of blubber. He burst right out of his jeans, plush thighs and enormous ass like pillows, though Alastair left him whimpering in the painfully tight denim for days before he finally outgrew it. His shirt rolled up, acting as a bra for Dean's plush bosom, sleeves cutting into meaty arms, and he finally shredded that, too. All over him, pillowy fat swelled and swelled, scars fading on skin gone Hell-pale after so long here.
It used to be that only the fullness of his gluttonous belly held Dean down, wouldn't let him walk or even stand. That hasn't been true for several months now.
Every fifty pounds or so, Alastair ups the calorie content of Dean's diet. It adds speed to his gain and Lucifer knows Dean will devour anything Alastair gives him. He doubles the sugar in recipes, adds cream to dishes that don't technically need it, deep-fries everything. There was a week recently when Alastair had his massively-overfed Righteous Man sucking down nothing but a gallon of melted butter every hour, occasionally supplemented with a bowl of homemade frosting. The results were so incredible (over a hundred pounds in only seven days!) that he's planning to do it again very soon.
Today, the latest information about the distant angels has Alastair in a supremely good mood. They called on Heaven for backup, apparently, and their request was denied. He's decided to reward Dean, nothing but pie for the foreseeable future.
What's he rewarding him for? Why, for being Alastair's very favorite pet, of course. He's never loved any soul like he does Dean, would put a marked collar on his neck if he weren't worried about it keeping him from swallowing. It's so disappointing he'll never again be able to hollow him out and send him searching for his own organs among the other racks, but…sometimes Alastair thinks that this is almost better.
Head heavy with the four curving horns of a Jacob ram, alabaster, and arms heavy with dozens of pies, batter-wrapped and fried, Alastair goes to his precious piglet.
Dean is stuffed to the gills. Just like always. But seeing Alastair bringing him more food wrings a huge growl from the depths of his gut, obscene in its size and roundness. Conditioning, that's called. Alastair has taken full advantage of it, is so grateful to have had Dr. Pavlov on his rack many centuries before.
Dean is large. Alastair doesn't have an exact weight for him, needs to take it again. Not that it exactly matters, but he likes to know. The Righteous Man is like a marshmallow, everything firm, contained in a general shape. His belly makes up most of it, legs to either side where he kneels. The two globes of his chest rest on top of his stomach, and his chins on top of them. His ass, enormous, provides enough cushion to push him forward, put most of his weight on the gut that Alastair has so diligently tended to. The pressure must be intensely painful. Dean whines between belches and hiccups.
He's gulping cream from the tube that dangles always in front of him, Alastair's attempt at efficiency. He obediently lets go once his master is close enough, so well-trained. Alastair smiles lovingly at him.
"How's my little fatty doing today?" he coos, laying piping hot pies across Dean's bulk. Dean begins immediately to shovel them in, though he has a little difficulty, with so much pudge hanging of his arms. Soon he won't be able to move even that much and Alastair will need to hand-feed him everything. "Hungry, looks like. Good boy."
Alastair strokes Dean's hair, runs his fingers down the folds of his fat neck, to his tits and then his belly. He traces angry red switch marks, handprint bruises, bites and hickeys, everything that dapples Dean in addition to his freckles.
Just because he can't torture him anymore doesn't mean he can't have a little fun.
"You still miss your brother?" Alastair purrs into Dean's ear.
Dean pauses. But for less than a heartbeat. And then he's gorging at twice his usual pace to make up for it, because he's learned so well, but Alastair can't let it go unpunished. He grabs a nipple, grown huge and sensitive, and twists. Dean squeals in the most wonderful way. Tears well in dull green eyes, Alastair laps them up.
"Bet he's dead by now." He keeps his tone conversational. "Bet some monster sucked the meat off his bones, punched his heart outta his chest, bent him over and fucked him so hard it snapped his spine. Yeah, I bet that's how he went. Bet it took days, no feeling in his legs, blood and come running out his ass, dehydration working on him. All 'cause you weren't there to protect him."
More tears. They're so sweet. Hardly surprising, with all the sugar Alastair pumps into Dean.
"Or…he could be alive. And you could see him again." Alastair watches Dean's expression carefully, smiling. "Did you know that someone's coming for you? They want to rescue you. They want to take you out of here, lift you up, bring you back to life."
Dean doesn't stop eating, he knows better than that. But maybe Alastair doesn't have him trained quiet as well as he thought, because he could swear he's hoping. Alastair savors that.
"Even if they do," he tells Dean gently, "do you really think your Sammy would want you anymore?" He leans on Dean's gut, the full weight and power of a Lord of Hell, and makes a divot in the ample, sensitive flesh. Dean's form jiggles with a wince. "You're a blob. You're so fat you can't even walk anymore, and I know it's been years since you've seen your dick." He grins. "Not to mention I've got you spoiled rotten. You couldn't stop eating if you wanted to. Could you? Even if Sam didn't puke the second he saw you, how long d'you think he'd stick around soon as you started begging him to stuff you solid on burgers and deep-fried butter? You think he'd put up with your tantrums?"
Dean's finished with the pies. His greedy mouth roots for the cream-tube, and Alastair guides it between his plush lips before he goes to get him more to eat.
"Kind of a moot point," he murmurs, giving Dean's belly, his pride and joy, a parting caress. "The angels are years away, and by the time they get here…" He smiles benevolently. "Not even Michael himself is gonna be able to lift his Sword."