Rating: R (just to be safe)
Word Count pt.6: 700w
Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fantasy, executed with borrowed characters. No harm intended!
A/N: I went into a bit of a dive into Dean's psyche with this, so it's a bit depressing. Whoops! Also, I wanted to tag this as round robin so it would easier for participants to check back with previous entries to keep up.
The gravity of the situation didn’t hit Dean until much later, but when it finally settled it was like a punch to his gigantic, jiggling gut.
Food had never been Dean’s enemy, not by a long shot. As far as comforts went, it was more easily accessible than Southern and more acceptable than bringing busty waitresses to the backseat of the impala. There was rarely a problem that a juicy cheeseburger or a few dozen slices of pie couldn’t fix.
Mini-bags of potato chips were his biggest comfort through the slow, cold reality of mom’s death, pulled pork sandwiches at Lucy’s had seen him through his first breakup, the Colonel held his hands (and his arteries) the first few weeks of Sam’s absence. It was a vice that wrapped him in a comforting blanket, pulled him under into a blissful, dreamless food coma where he didn’t have to worry about a thing.
After his injury — a stupid, rookie mistake he would never get over — food once again came to his rescue as a convenient and welcome distraction. Of course, the pain meds the doctor and Sam kept him stuffed to the gils with helped, but in the moments in between when Sam warned it wouldn’t be wise to take anymore, Auntie Anne’s and Little Debbie were there at his side to pull him under and dull the throbbing of his foot enough to lure himself to sleep.
Dean had thought it wasn’t any different from his regular food binges; those had never been a problem before, barely warranted a thought, actually. But this wasn’t like all the other times. Dean wasn’t out chasing monsters and pounding the pavement on the look out for clues. He was glued to a shitty couch being weighted on hand and food by his little brother. There was nowhere for all that food to go but down.
And down it went. Dean stared down at the round outline of his stomach in his oversized shirt — Sam’s shirt, as his didn’t fit comfortably anymore. Dean had never considered himself necessarily “fit”. He wasn’t like Sam, who got up at 5 AM each morning to run a couple thousand miles and scarfed down raw eggs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (probably). He got enough physical activity from his hunts, and despite a couple trips to the shooting range every week to fine-tune his marksman skills, he didn’t go out actively searching for ways to keep up with hunting. No carb counting, no trips to the gym, no skipping meals. It wasn’t like those things had ever had a detrimental effect on him, anyway. He wasn’t dead yet.
He was currently holed up on a couch 24 hours a day, but he wasn’t dead.
He poked at his stomach with one cookie crumb-covered finger and frowned deeply. Sure, he wasn’t fit before, but he had never been this disgustingly round. Maybe he hadn’t been as in good a shape as, say, Sam was before all this, but now he was so drastically different from Sam it was almost laughable. As he wiped the crumbs off on his shirt, he wondered distantly if Sam was as disgusted by him as he was of himself. He didn’t seem to be, but Sam had always been good at hiding his emotions. He was overly attentive these days, to the point that it actually annoyed Dean (though a part of him was definitely warmed by that, but he wasn’t going to acknowledge now or even, really), but he had to wonder if through all that worrying and mother henning in that big, geekboy brain wasn’t hiding a bit of disgusted contempt.
He sighs and sits up straighter — as straight as he can manage — when he hears Sam shuffle back in.
He’s got the two drinks he’s promised, both filled to the brim, and despite the already generous amount of snacks he’s already had, there’s a Snickers wrapped precariously in one giant hand. Dean sits up and grabs the drink placed on the table and takes a cautious swig, then dives for the Snickers and tears into it. He’s fat, and pathetic, but he’s still so hungry he could eat this whole table if push came to shove, and his foot is killing him.
Sam is watching him from where he’s still standing next to the couch, and the height difference makes Dean feel almost small, in a good yet irritating way. He pointedly ignores Sam and focused on eating his Snickers with measured bites, still too rushed, and licks chocolate off his fingers in between.
Sam makes a sound above him, not one of disgust or even amusement, and Dean feels the back of his neck heat up slightly.
He keeps eating.