They'd given a lot of discussion to what they were going to do on the very last day of their bet. Just continue with business as usual? Call it off early? Do something together that satisfied both of their terms? As the big day approached, they finally decided to issue a challenge to each other, even though neither one of them really wanted to trip the other up anymore. At least, Dean knew he'd stopped wanting to do that to Sam, and judging by how simple Sam's challenge for him was, he felt the same way.
All Dean had to do was his usual two hundred push-ups, but with a basic twist: Sam would be sitting on his back the whole time. No biggie. Despite Sam's paranoia over his minuscule amount of flab, he really didn't weigh that much, an they'd actually used to do this all the time when they were kids. Like, eight and twelve. Dean had had to do the push-ups anyway because of the training regimen that Dad'd cooked up for him, and Sam had never gotten tired of going up and down on him. Which, looking back now, maybe should've been an early clue about how they were going to turn out.
For his part, Dean planned on presenting Sam with a feast. Not because he thought he'd have trouble with it, but because he honestly expected him to enjoy it. Since Dean exercised in the early morning, though, they were going to do his thing first.
To begin with, he just laid down on his stomach on the rubber mats in the bunker's gym, so Sam could climb on. He'd planned on getting into the push-up position once he was situated. But as Sam lowered himself onto him, folding his legs, the air was forced out of Dean's lungs in a loud wheeze that sounded a lot like a goose honking.
"What's the matter?" Sam asked, worried.
"You're fucking heavy," Dean replied, after sucking in a difficult breath.
"Well, yeah - I'm just a little bit bigger than I was in third grade," Sam said. Without being able to see his face, Dean couldn't tell if he was offended or not.
"Just how much weight d'you s'pose you've gained?" Dean grunted, flexing his feet to get his toes under him (for the first time in a while, it actually didn't hurt to do that) and planting his hands, palms flat, against the ground.
"Not that much." Now Sam was definitely offended, no doubt. "And most of what you're feeling right now is gonna be muscle. Which is way heavier than fat." He shifted, and something bony pressed hard on Dean's kidney. He gritted his teeth. "Now. Are you gonna stop bitching and get this over with, or do I have to call the body shop in town to make sure they've got enough millennial pink to completely cover your baby?"
"Y'know all the times you've died?" Dean ground out, as he slowly, painfully lifted both himself and Sam off the floor. "I'm really starting to wish I just would've left well enough alone."
Normally, Dean didn't really have a problem with push-ups, even as many as Sam did every morning. Upper body strength had, thankfully, never been one of his problem areas. With two hundred extra pounds on his back, though, the story was a little different.
Probably the hardest part was keeping his body straight. Sam, the bastard, had decided to plop himself down right in the small of Dean's back, so of course he wanted to bow in the middle. Doing that would ruin the push-ups and defeat the whole point of doing this, though (not to mention probably break his back), so he clenched his core as tightly as he could the whole time. It worked, but it was like planks and push-ups combined. Plus, there was still the added weight. He could feel veins popping out on his biceps every time he went up, and his elbows shook as he lowered himself. Them, technically.
Things were made even harder - quite literally - by how aware he was of Sam's ass against his body. Whatever the bony thing was, it had nothing to do with it. Round...and padded, far more so than it'd been the last time he'd had it this close to him. It actually felt like his jeans, usually so loose, might be getting a little too tight on him, and just thinking about that as Dean did push-up after push-up was enough to wake up Junior. Between his arms and his stomach, he wouldn't've thought he had enough blood to fill out all seven-and-a-half inches, but that clearly wasn't the case. The raging hard-on was yet another discomfort, but at least it gave him more incentive not to let the middle of his body go loose. He didn't want his cock bumping into the floor every time he went down.
Dean was ready to quit by fifty. By a hundred, it felt like his head was going to pop, and his face was burning from exertion. Sweat dripped off him, pooling on the mat and making it difficult to keep his hands firmly planted. By one-fifty, he was about ninety-five percent convinced that every muscle in his body was being slowly replaced by a strand of wet spaghetti, and as he neared two hundred, blackness flickered around the edges of his throbbing vision. It'd been a long time since he'd pushed himself this hard.
Sam offered constant encouragement, and Dean went back and forth on whether that was appreciated or annoying. He started telling him he could do it around forty, when he must've finally gotten over his wounded pride. At the hundred mark, he reminded him he was halfway. After that, he basically just got more surprised and impressed as the numbers steadily went higher.
"I really didn't think you were gonna be able to do this," he admitted when Dean was at one-seventy-five. "I think you might've actually gotten stronger, following my routine for six weeks."
So he hadn't thought Dean could do this, which meant he'd still been angling to slap that ugly pink all over Baby even today. The bet wasn't over yet and those were the terms, but Dean couldn't help feeling betrayed anyway. He would've tried to come up with a way to get back at Sam, but right now, his brain was full of the screams of pain and fatigue coming from all over his body.
When he counted one-ninety-six, Sam announced, "And that's two hundred! Wow, Dean, you should be really - "
"No - it - is - not," Dean grunted in time with his own movements, fully aware what Sam was up to. Then, even though it seemed impossible, he forced his body through four more push-ups. It felt like the energy for them was wrung out of his soul itself.
When he was finished, he collapsed. Sam coming down on top of him knocked the wind out of him again, but that was a single star in a galaxy of pain. It all hurt: his arms, his shoulders, his chest, his neck, his back, his legs, his feet, and especially his boner, which he'd fallen directly on. He blinked rapidly to try to clear his eyes of tears, not sure what was causing the waterworks - the pain, or the sheer relief of finally being done.
Sam climbed off of him, providing a little more relief, then got to his feet. Dean got the feeling he stood there staring down at him for a while. Eventually, he said, "You must've screwed up your count somewhere, 'cause...you realize you did two hundred and four, right?"
"Sure I did."
When Sam replied, his frustration came through in his voice. "Y'know, you really need to start trusting me. I feel like that's a big part of the reason we - " He cut himself off, paused. "Whatever. I'm gonna assume you need help getting up."
"Nope," Dean replied. Talking took a lot of effort, and not just because his jaw was pressed into the mat. "Probably easier for everybody if you just let me die here."
Sam snorted, and Dean pictured him shaking his head.
"I'm really sorry you feel so bad," he stated, and he did sound sincere. "But in my defense, I honestly didn't expect you to be able to do two hundred push-ups with me on your back. Or to want to."
"You're always underestimating me," Dean said. "That's another big part of the reason we..." He purposely trailed off, just like Sam had.
Sam didn't respond to that. Just stepped over Dean so he was straddling him. For one terrifying second, Dean thought he was going to sit on him again, but he just leaned down and put a hand on either side of his ribcage. Then he lifted him. It was awkward and painful, but at least it ended with Dean on his feet. Albeit leaning heavily against Sam.
"You're gonna need to drink a lot of water again today," Sam advised as he helped Dean towards the showers. "It'll affect how you feel tomorrow."
"Uh huh," Dean grunted, aware that he probably wasn't going to be able to move tomorrow no matter what he did today. He hadn't felt this bad since he'd first switched lifestyles with Sam. "Do I have to do everything else, too?"
"Not unless you want to, which I'm guessing you don't." Sam let go of Dean, who lowered himself onto the nearest bench as Sam moved forward to turn on the water. The shower area was essentially a locker room, so there were a lot of benches, blonde wood worn smooth by water and time. "If I do something that totally destroys me on a hunt or just in general, I take the rest of the day off, and I don't feel bad about it."
"That surprises me." Dean began to pull his shirt off, which was made difficult by the state his arms were in. He wasn't so much in pain right now as his whole body felt ridiculously weak. "I thought you took every opportunity you could to beat yourself up."
Sam snorted softly, then left the heavy spray of water alone to heat up. He crossed the tiles in order to help Dean with his shirt. Dean pried his shoes off with the toes of his aching feet, then moved onto his sweatpants. He assumed that the fact that Sam was still here meant he was comfortable with nudity. At least practically crushing his erection had made it go away, so he didn't have to be self-conscious about that.
"Just stand under there for a while," Sam instructed after helping Dean into the shower. The water was just barely on the warm side of room temperature, but that wasn't unwelcome. He was still burning up, not to mention covered with sweat. "Or sit, if you feel like you need to. I'm gonna go grab you something to eat and drink."
"That'll help?" Dean asked, closing his eyes and tipping his face up towards the shower head. He'd defer to Sam's judgement on this, since he seemed to be the expert. And why shouldn't he be? He'd been doing this a hell of a lot longer than Dean had.
"It should, yeah."
"Hey." Sam had moved to leave, but Dean called out to him. "Soon as I'm feeling a little closer to baseline, I'll make you breakfast." It was still early in the morning. Earlier than Sam usually ate, actually. On the one hand, it meant Dean had the whole rest of the day to suffer the consequences of the challenge Sam had given him, but on the other, he had the whole rest of the day to force Sam through his own challenge.
Sam blinked at him, looking worried. "Are you...sure you're up for that?" He must've been able to predict the accusation that sprang immediately to Dean's mind, because he held up a hand to keep him from saying anything. "I'm not trying to chicken out. Not on the very last day. I'm just thinking you might have a hard time standing in the kitchen all day after what you just did...not to mention your legs are still healing." He shrugged. "You don't have to cook. We can do takeout all day."
"Since we moved into the bunker, I've mostly eaten my own cooking," Dean replied. "That doesn't mean you're not gonna be having potato chips and ice cream today, but I'm at least gonna cook your meals."
"Okay...if you really wanna do that, then I guess I can't stop you," Sam said with a shrug. He still looked worried to Dean, but now he seemed resigned, too. "I'll be right back."
As he left, Dean turned his face back up into the spray, closing his eyes and opening his mouth. He swallowed a couple gulps of metallic-tasting water, then took Sam's advice and slowly, shakily sat himself down. The longer he rested and the slower his heartbeat got, the better he felt. By the time Sam returned with a bottle of water and a couple granola bars, Dean had stood up again and turned the left knob further, filling the space with a haze of steam.
"That wasn't so bad," Dean said, stepping out from under the water and taking the towel that Sam offered him. It was easier to move his arms now. He left Sam to turn the water off as he patted himself dry, moving towards the bench. He picked up the water bottle and twisted the cap to break the seal, then took a long, deep pull from it. It definitely tasted better than what'd come out of the shower head.
"Yeah, just wait until tomorrow," Sam said from behind him. The knobs squealed as they returned to their original positions.
"Tomorrow, I'm not gonna be doing this anymore." No longer dripping wet, Dean folded the towel around his waist and sat down on the bench, ripping the foil off one of the granola bars. The tiny chocolate chips in it made him way too happy. He couldn't wait to eat real food again...just as soon as he stuffed Sam so full of it he couldn't lift a finger. "You better go make yourself comfortable. And be careful where you do it, 'cause wherever you're sitting when I bring you breakfast, that's where you'll be spending the rest of the day."
"Sure." Sam didn't sound convinced. He'd regret that. Dean took a bite of the granola bar and watched him wander off, then realized he should've asked him if he could have more for breakfast than this. A second later, he decided to hell with it. Of course he was gonna have more. No way did Sam ever run on nothing but a couple granola bars, and besides. It was the last day.
Dean dumped his sweats in the laundry pile, because he'd just about sweated through them and he wasn't going to put them back on after that. He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt in his bedroom, then headed to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal and some toast. He definitely could've eaten more, but he wanted to stay light on his feet while cooking for Sam.
Speaking of Sam, he went ahead and tracked him down before he got started. Not that he was all that hard to find. He was just sitting at the map table, a mug of instant coffee close at hand and his laptop open. He was watching Netflix and had his headphones on, but he slipped them down around his neck and tapped the space bar as Dean approached.
"How're you feeling?" he asked, turning to look at him.
"Good, actually," Dean admitted. "I know tomorrow's gonna suck, and I'm gonna try not to sit down for too long today, but right now, I'm fine." He gestured to Sam's chair, then folded his arms over his chest. "So...here? You sure?"
"I figured that, if I wanna move, you can help me," Sam replied, a little dryly. Dean let it go.
"Okay, whatever. So, I was thinking that - " He paused, the screen of Sam's laptop catching his attention. "Are you watching Orange is the New Black?"
"Oh. Uh." Sam glanced at the screen. "Yeah." He looked up at Dean with a shrug. "Next season drops this summer, so I figured now's a good time to catch up."
"Is it good?" For obvious reasons, Dean wasn't all that into staying on top of the latest shows. Sam usually wasn't, either.
"I'm only on, like, the third episode, but yeah. It's not bad so far. Really, uh, raunchy, though."
"So, uh, are there..." Dean let a huge grin settle onto his face, the one he usually brought out for porn, scantily-clad witnesses, and cases rife with innuendo. Sam'd used to trigger it a lot, too. He made a V with the middle and index fingers on each hand, then locked them together.
"Yeah. There are lesbians." Sam looked very unimpressed, which was more or less the reaction Dean had been expecting.
"Sex scenes?" he pressed hopefully.
"Yeah, but..." Sam cleared his throat, then leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, staring flatly up at Dean. "You are a bisexual man. Who's fresh out of a relationship with his brother. Should you really be fetishizing lesbians?"
Dean exhaled loudly through his nose. Even after he'd almost made his arms fall off this morning, Sam still couldn't play along. "It is just so attractive when you're obnoxious."
He left Sam to hoard the lesbians for himself, returning to the kitchen. He opened the only one of the industrial-sized refrigerators that they used. At least Sam had been staying on top of the shopping. He pulled out eggs, bacon, sausage, milk, and butter, laying it all out on the counter. He set frying pans on the stove and got out mixing bowls. Tugging his phone out of his back pocket, he opened his music app, then set it to shuffle through the hundreds of songs he'd downloaded. After plugging it into the speaker he kept in the kitchen and dialing the volume all the way up, he got to work.
Dean liked cooking. He liked the rhythm, the way he could get lost in it, the rare (for him) feeling of actually making something instead of killing or burning it. It was the same feeling he got from working on the car and fixing things around the bunker, and a little bit from running, too, while he'd still been doing that. He assumed Sam had stuff like that, but he didn't know what it was.
He left the kitchen with plates up and down his arms. He'd waited and bused tables at several points during his life, and the muscle memory never really went away. He laid them all out in front of Sam with a flourish: bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, toast. He'd thought about adding potatoes to it all in some form or another, then decided that'd be too much. Especially because Sam would be eating plenty of potatoes later today, in the form of chips.
"Oh, wow," Sam commented, sounding genuinely impressed. He'd moved his computer out of the way when he saw Dean approaching. "You've really outdone yourself."
"Thanks." Dean had sort of expected Sam to be intimidated by the amount of food he'd just put in front of him. Maybe he was just trying not to show it. Maybe he'd gotten used to eating like this over the last six weeks. "Anything else I can get you?"
"Some more coffee would be nice." Sam nudged his empty mug to the edge of the table, and Dean picked it up. When Sam said "coffee," he knew he meant a splash of the black stuff drowned by cream and sugar or creamer or whatever else sweet that was available. That wasn't Dean's usual diet coming into play; he'd always been like that. Dean assumed it had to do with the fact that he'd started drinking coffee when he was still young enough to want marshmallow nachos.
He got Sam's coffee and took it back out to him. When he set it down near his elbow, Sam had started in on the pancakes. With the determined way that he was eating them, it seemed like he had a plan to get through this breakfast in the shortest amount of time possible. He wasn't too preoccupied to mumble out his gratitude for the coffee, though.
Dean went back into the kitchen to clean things up. He threw away empty packaging, wiped down the counters, and put all the dishes Sam wasn't currently eating off in the dishwasher. Normally, he would've left it all for a while, but he didn't want to stop moving and risk his abused muscles locking up. On any other day, he might've just gone to bed and made peace with the fact that he was going to be there for the next sixteen hours or so. Today, though, he had a job to do.
When he came back out of the kitchen, wiping his damp hands on the thighs of his jeans, he was surprised to see that Sam was nearly finished with breakfast. He only had a couple sausage links left, and he was alternating between taking bites of those and sipping languidly at his cup of coffee. Unlike breakfast on the first day, he didn't look like he was seconds away from upchucking all over the table. In fact, he actually kind of looked like he was enjoying himself.
"Well, look at you," Dean commented. "You're in it to win it, aren't you?"
Sam grinned up at him, then popped the last sausage link in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before responding. "I didn't spend ten years growing my hair out just for you to shave it all off."
"How're you doing?" Dean asked, angling his head to get a look at Sam's stomach. He shifted to make it easier for him. The shape of his belly was obvious under his shirt, the bottom hem riding up slightly. There was some skin exposed there, and Dean had to concentrate to keep himself from impulsively touching it. He knew it'd be warm, just like it always was. And soft, with the layer of fat that'd swelled up all over his middle. He'd been really trying to keep his hands off Sam unless he specifically asked for contact. That way, it was him initiating it.
"Not too bad," Sam replied. "I mean, I'm definitely full, but it's not like it hurts or anything. My capacity's increased." He drew an absentminded hand down the curve of his stomach, which earned an interested twitch from Dean's cock. That was a little bit of a relief - he must not've broken it when he fell on it earlier.
"I'll say," Dean agreed, then leaned down to start clearing Sam's dishes away. "How 'bout you go take a shower? Then we'll get you set up in your room for a while."
"Okay. That sounds fine." Sam planted a hand on the table and used it to lever himself up, though he didn't seem to be having that hard of a time getting to his feet. But once he was standing, a weird expression plastered itself onto his face and he put a hand on his gut again.
"Did it move?" Dean was familiar with being at least this full.
"Yeah." Sam let out a short laugh, recovering. "It happens all the time, but it just keeps on surprising me. When it...sloshes like that." He dropped his hand and straightened up the rest of the way. Dean started stacking plates. "Hey, I've got a question."
"Shoot," Dean replied, figuring it had something to do with the challenge.
"If I need you to...y'know, rub it for me," Sam began, gesturing to his stomach and looking uncomfortable, "are you gonna count it as a forfeit?"
"Nah," Dean assured him. He didn't even need to think about it before answering. "I mean, you helped me out after I got done with the push-ups, and I definitely needed that. I couldn't stand up. And you didn't count that as a forfeit."
"All right. Good point." Sam seemed relieved. "I'm good for now, but I'm guessing that I'm gonna need it later."
"Ooh, yeah," Dean agreed with a grin. "'Specially if I've got anything to say about it."
Sam smirked back, not looking nearly as intimidated as Dean would've liked him to, then left. Dean took care of his plates, then started getting his room set up for him while he was showering. As he fluffed extra pillows and set bags of chips and candy out on Sam's bedside table, he couldn't help thinking about him in there. Wet, soaped up, naked. Dean had actually enjoyed shower sex with Sam, just because it took so much effort from both of them to get it right. To make sure the lube wound up where it was supposed to, to keep one of them from freezing his balls off, to not wind up on the floor with a backful of bruises and a dislocated shoulder. It was complicated as hell, but that was why it felt so damn good when they nailed it.
He wasn't actually thinking about that at the moment, though. As he counted cartons of ice cream in the freezer and very briefly considered putting a minifridge in Sam's room (or, hell, his own, for that matter), his thoughts were more on Sam's body than what he could be doing to it.
His belly was fixed in Dean's mind. The curve and heft of it. Soft with fat (granted, not a whole lot of it) from six weeks of copying Dean, and swollen with food from the breakfast he'd served him. He'd seen more than enough of his stomach recently to be able to picture it pretty accurately.
And then there was his ass, which Dean had been very fond of way before any of this had ever even started. Admittedly, he hadn't gotten a good look at it in months. But Sam had as good as said that he'd gained weight there, too, and Dean had felt almost all of it for himself against his back while he was doing push-ups. He had enough information to come up with a decent image. It fit in well with the rest of his mental model of Sam.
Dean swallowed and palmed his crotch, adjusting the swelling there to try and make it less noticeable (falling on his dick hadn't broken it, at least). Sam'd already made it clear that he wasn't bothered at all by Dean's private standing at attention around him, but it was embarrassing for Dean himself. Made him feel like a hypocrite. They'd both done a lot of talking during the breakup, and Dean personally had a ton of things he would've liked to take back but didn't know how to.
"Whoa," Sam remarked when he finally returned to his room, where Dean had been sitting on the foot of his bed for the past couple minutes, scrolling through shows on Sam's Netflix account to kill time. He would've been flipping through the channels, but of course they didn't get cable here. "You've been busy."
"What d'you think?" Dean asked, glancing up at him and tossing the remote to the side.
"It definitely looks comfortable." Sam must not have taken a change of clothes with him to the bathroom, because he wasn't wearing anything but a towel. His belly was on full display, and Dean looked away as he approached his chest of drawers. He heard the towel hit the floor, then fabric flapped as Sam picked it up and folded it. "If your plan's to keep me in here for the rest of the day, I don't think I'm gonna complain."
"Yeah, I tried to set you up real nice," Dean replied. He retrieved the remote and put it on Sam's bedside table, in the little bit of space that wasn't covered by all the junk. "And before you ask, I've got no idea how many calories I'm gonna be pouring into you today. Guess you could add it all up if you get bored at any point."
"Today's the last day. I really don't care that much," Sam said. Dean heard him padding up behind him and moved out of his way, watching him climb onto his bed. He'd pulled on a T-shirt, a flannel, socks, and jeans. Dean was a little surprised by the jeans - didn't seem like that'd be very comfy - but it was Sam's choice. "Okay." He settled down against the pile of pillows, crossing his ankles. "I'm ready."
"All right, then." Dean scanned the food he'd put on the nightstand, grabbing a bag at random. "So...shall we start with the mini Butterfingers?"
So the Butterfingers, sour cream and onion potato chips, cherry cola. Dean had figured out the value of sweet-then-salty early on, and of course you always had to have something to drink. He stepped out of his boots and settled down on the bed next to Sam, who'd decided on a show and was focused on it. He was leaning forward, eyes on the TV, bag in his lap as he munched away. Dean allowed himself to relax for the moment, though he kept a figurative eye out for muscle stiffness. He looked at the TV and thought about what to do for lunch, chewing absentmindedly at his thumbnail.
"The whiny blonde and the sexy librarian type," Dean said. "They hate each other?"
"Exes," Sam replied, swallowing a mouthful. "Shut up and watch. You'll figure it out."
Red Vines, Mountain Dew. A couple hours had passed. Sam groaned and laid back against his pillows again, shifting, putting his belly out there. Dean looked over at him, watching as he put both hands on top of his stomach. He rubbed slightly, then moved his hands down to undo the button of his jeans. Dean had actually been thinking about doing that for him, having noticed the way his denim waistband was squeezing him. But he didn't want to touch him without permission. He didn't even think Sam would mind, but he felt weird about it anyway. There were so many rules, about brothers and boyfriends and breakups, some unspoken, a lot he'd made up himself. It was hard to know which ones were important to follow.
His erection hadn't ever gone away, either. Thinking about Sam in the shower had brought it up, and watching him eat - expand - had kept it there. If Sam'd noticed, he hadn't said anything.
"You okay?" Dean asked. Sam grunted. It was a while before he responded properly.
"I just feel..." He stretched, then clapped a hand to his mouth. For a second, Dean had no idea what he was doing, but then he realized that he was trying to muffle a burp. "God, I'm so full."
"Well, that is kinda the whole point of this," Dean pointed out. "You know we're only halfway through the day, right? Or not even, really. Wanna call it quits?" God, he hoped not, as he looked at the fall of Sam's hair over one of the pillows. He must've washed it in the shower, used conditioner, because it was looking as full and lush as...well, as the middle of him, albeit in a very different way. Honey-brown with sun at the wavy ends, coffee-black at the roots.
Sam's hair was probably his best feature, out of a whole six-course meal of really good features. Had Dean ever told him that, even while they were sleeping together? He couldn't remember.
"Uh, definitely not," Sam answered, rolling his head to the side in order to look at Dean. "Although I'm really regretting not making you do more than just the push-ups this morning."
"No takebacks," Dean said immediately as his shoulders twinged. They really should've had somebody judge this thing for them. Too bad Cas was...wherever the hell he was right now. "Too late."
Sam stuck out his tongue at him. Dean laughed and didn't feel bad about it, because the gesture'd been more playful than resentful. He looked at the dome of Sam's stomach yet again and finally took the plunge, reaching for it and laying a hand on the side. He pushed the heel in as he started rolling his wrist, and was surprised by how squishy it was. Even through the fabric of Sam's T-shirt, he could tell he wasn't packed.
"That help at all?" he asked, relieved that Sam hadn't told him to quit.
"I guess," Sam replied, making a face. He folded an arm behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, then groped for the remote with his other hand and paused the playback. "I feel like it's not really bad enough for that yet, but it definitely can't hurt."
"Want a Twinkie?" Disappointed, Dean pulled his hand back. Sam favored him with a smirk.
"That's not really my decision, is it?"
Twinkies, then, and Bugles, and beer. Maybe it was kind of early to be drinking, seeing as it wasn't even noon yet, but that'd never stopped either of them before. Dean couldn't help watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as he ate, even once he'd started the show back up. He could practically see him rounding out. Bloating up. It was no wonder that it took less than another hour for Sam to wind up resting against him, back halfway on his chest, and wanting his belly rubbed.
His hair was in Dean's face, and it smelled good. Familiar, of course. He clearly hadn't changed his shampoo in five months, since the last time Dean'd had reason to be this close to him. He vaguely remembered a lecture about how bad it was for your hair to switch your shampoo up all the time, which he'd mostly tuned out. When it came to hair, though, Sam would definitely know.
Dean had his arms around Sam and was massaging his stomach with both hands, moving them in opposing circles on either side. His wrists kept brushing against the small mounds of fat sitting on Sam's hips, his love handles. They felt bigger than they had the last time he'd been anywhere near them. He assumed the fullness of his gut was pushing them out. Hearing the crinkle of cellophane and a sigh from Sam, he asked, "Want me to move your trash can over here?"
"Do you ever do that?" Sam asked, before burping softly.
"Oh, hell, yes," Dean replied. "'Specially if I'm eating, like, Hershey's Kisses or something. Something that makes a lot of trash. I bring the basket right over to the bed. The less you gotta move, the better."
"That sounds appealing right now," Sam admitted. "And I am building up a pretty big pile of garbage over here."
So Dean climbed off the bed, careful of the hard-on that Sam had yet to comment on, and headed over to grab Sam's wastebasket from its pace by his desk. He set it right down next to the bed, and Sam rolled over with his fists full of wrappers and empty bottles, grunting as he shifted his bulk. Dean sat down behind him again as soon as he'd finished throwing everything away.
They wound up in a pretty intimate position. Dean couldn't've recounted how it'd happened even if his life had been on the line, but it'd taken effort from both of them. Sam was practically in his lap, less than half an inch between the curve of Sam's softened ass and the knife-edge of Dean's denim-wrapped erection. His back was fully on Dean's chest now, his legs stretched out in front of him, framed by the V of Dean's own. Looking at that over Sam's shoulder, the lower third or so of his vision taken up by the fluffy hamburger bun of his belly, made Dean realize just how short his legs were compared to Sam's. Not to mention...bandy.
How long had it been since they'd sat like this? Not since they were little, definitely. Not since Sam was still smaller than him.
As he put his hands back on Sam's stomach, Sam made a low noise and dropped his head on Dean's shoulder. He was practically panting into his ear. Just moving that much seemed to have really worn him out.
"Goddamn," Dean commented before he could think better of it. "You're not gonna be able to lift a finger by the time I'm done with you, are you?"
"You said I was gonna be stuck in one place for the rest of the day," Sam replied in a murmur. "Your basic thing is you want me eating constantly, right? Hand me another beer. And that Toblerone bar I saw over there."
Dean did that, then went back to rubbing. Sam's belly made noises under his palms that he felt more than heard, and to him, they came across as contented, if not happy. It liked being fed. It ought to, after six weeks of this treatment.
Lunch rolled around. Dean decided to get pizza instead of cooking; he'd save that for dinner. Thankfully, giving Sam a continuous massage seemed to have been enough to keep his arms from getting too stiff. He couldn't exactly have a delivery guy come to the bunker, so he went into town to get the pizza. He topped up Sam's stash before he left. More soda, more chips, more candy. He didn't tell him to eat it all before he got back, because he didn't think he could. But when he walked back into Sam's room with a stack of pizza boxes about forty-five minutes later, his nightstand was bare, there were a lot more wrappers in the wastebasket, and Sam was laid out on his bed, his stomach definitely, noticeably bigger. Sam opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Dean. His surprise must've showed on his face, because Sam grinned at him.
"Like you said," he said. "I'm in it to win it."
"You're a bottomless pit," Dean stated, walking in to put the pizza down on Sam's bedside table. He turned to look down at him and, impulsively, brushed his fingertips over the skin of his middle. It wasn't stretched taut, but it wasn't loose by any means. It was warm, near-velvety where he didn't have scars. Dean had actually jerked off in the bathroom before he left, really not wanting to walk into Domino's with a raging erection, but this brought his dick back up so fast he practically heard a cartoon-y "boing!" sound effect.
"I can do this all day," Sam promised. Briefly, he closed his eyes as an expression of discomfort flickered across his face, then he relaxed. He dragged one of his own hands over his belly as he nodded towards the pizzas. "So...I'm guessing none of those has a Spinach and Feta in it? Or a Pacific Veggie?"
Dean smirked at him. "You oughta know better by now." He stepped out of his boots, waked around the bed, and climbed back into his side. It'd been his side back when they'd both slept in this bed, too, he realized with a slight jolt. He looked down at Sam, touched him again. Felt the heat and the pressure. "You doing okay? Not feeling sick or anything, right?"
"Nah," Sam replied. Using his elbows, he hauled himself slowly back up into a sitting position with a grunt, then flopped against his pillows. "Just kinda sleepy. And full." He looked down at himself. His shirt had ridden up to about his belly button, and now he tugged it up the rest of the way. "I never would've guessed I could eat so much."
That was a sentiment that Dean shared a hundred percent, but he didn't say so. He reached over Sam to grab one of the pizza boxes as Sam commented, "I definitely missed your hands while you were gone."
Dean swallowed as he put the box down between them and popped the top open. "Well, I'm back now," he pointed out, not making eye contact or even looking at Sam's face.
They ate lunch, drank soda, and Dean went back to rubbing Sam's belly as he gorged himself on pizza and Coke. He felt like he was coaxing him to eat more. Sam directed him to rub the way that he needed him to, until Dean was actually kneeling on the bed next to him, hands closed into loose fists as he kneaded gently at his swollen gut like it was bread dough. He felt so much like a cat that he wanted to sneeze.
Sam napped through most of the afternoon, which was probably for the best. He woke up every couple of hours for a beer or a pint of ice cream, but for the most part he slept. Pretty deeply, too, going by the way his eyeballs flickered behind his lids. Dean stayed close, breathing in the scent of him, moving his hand slowly and languidly enough on his stomach not to disturb his sleep. He was worried he'd be creeped out or pissed off by him laying next to him while he slept, but he always seemed happy to see him whenever he came to.
Dean hadn't had a day this good since the one when his shin splints had first flared up. Actually, it reminded him a lot of that, seeing as he and Sam were on a bed together, watching a lot of TV, not moving much. And there was that element of physical intimacy, too: just like Sam had rubbed his legs on that day, Dean was rubbing Sam's belly now.
Around six, Sam woke up for good, heading into his bathroom to wake himself up. His stomach had deflated to around half the size it'd been after lunch, and gone soft. He still didn't have a snowball's chance of getting his jeans buttoned, though.
"What's for dinner?" Sam asked as he returned to his room, face fresh and eyes clear.
"We're gonna be doing a lotta cheese," Dean replied. He was sitting on the edge of the bed to put his boots on. One of his shoulders - the one he'd been laying on and not moving - had stiffened, so he was swinging his arm around to loosen it up. "Cheeseburgers, cheesecake."
"No pie?" Sam asked, sounding surprised.
"Well, first of all, I'd answer that cheesecake actually is a pie," Dean answered. "It's got a crust and filling. And second of all, yeah, there's gonna be pie, too."
Sam pulled his shirt down and successfully covered his belly with it. Dean, done with his boots and feeling more confident about his arm, made to stand up, but Sam stopped him by sitting down next to him on the bed. Dean looked at him. Sam's long hair was tucked behind his ears, but he was still somehow hiding behind it, which he did a lot. He wasn't quite making eye contact with Dean; he seemed nervous. Dean was suddenly hit by the memory of that kiss in the motel a few weeks ago, raw and visceral. He wanted Sam's mouth. Months back, he wouldn't've thought twice about kissing him, in the bunker, in his room. But it went without saying that things were different now.
Sam opened his mouth, drawing in a quite breath. It was obvious that he wanted to say something. Dean leaned in a little so he'd be able to hear him.
"Yeah?" he prompted, softly.
"I...love pie."
Dean's jaw worked. That was not what he'd been expecting him to say.
"Excuse me?"
"I actually like pie," Sam said. It sounded like a confession. "I mean, I know I always say I don't, and I'm grossed out when you eat it, and for a long time, all that was true. But you've been having me eat so much over the past six weeks, and all different kinds from a bunch of different places, and...turns out I don't hate it." He shrugged helplessly. "It's good when you make it. And when there's fruit in it. I guess."
"Uh..." That was definitely surprising, at least. "Good to know. Glad you're finally on the right side of history." He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. "Want a milkshake while I'm cooking?"
"Sure." They stood up together. "How're your legs doing?"
"Fine." Dean bounced on his heels. "Not like I've been on my feet all day - I'm okay."
