Rock, paper, scissors. Dean threw rock, Sam threw scissors.
Good thing the shit the Trials had gummed up Sam's system with didn't affect that gigantic brain of his. Otherwise, Dean might have actually had to work to lose on purpose.
"Son of a bitch." Dean threw his hands up, then went to grab the stack of pizzas, wings, and mozzarella sticks sitting on the map table.
"Hey - it's okay. I can do it for once," Sam said with a frown, reaching for them. Dean beat him to it, scooping the boxes up.
"Nah, you won fair and square. I got it." Dean cocked an eyebrow. "If we stop respecting rock, paper, scissors, are we even people anymore?" Sam snorted, and he leaned across the table in order to tousle his hair, smirking when Sam moved away from his hand with a noise of annoyance. "Hey. How 'bout you park the books for tonight and go try and get some rest?"
Sam looked down at the leatherbound headache in front of him. "I don't know, I really oughta…"
"I'll make you some soup," Dean offered. "We can watch that nerd show you like?"
That did it. Huffing, Sam pushed himself slowly to his feet. "That'd be more enticing if you didn't call everything you've ever seen me watching 'that nerd show.'"
"You're watching it, aren't you? Guilty by association."
Holding the food, Dean watched Sam shuffle off, making sure he was steady on his feet before he headed for the kitchen. He was just glad he wasn't in any kind of state to be putting up much of a fight, or he'd have to think of another excuse. Crowley wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders right now, but Dean suspected there was more than enough demon in him still to spot the angel riding shotgun in Sam.
Whistling to himself, he set the boxes down on the counter, and grabbed a six-pack out of the refrigerator. He twisted the caps off all the bottles, then opened the minifridge on the counter he'd bought special. The thought of keeping its contents anywhere near food squicked him right the hell out.
Most of the plastic bags inside, such a rich, dark red they were nearly black, had been lifted from a blood bank. He'd done his best to snatch only O-; made the weight on his conscience a little lighter. Some of them had come from him. He grabbed one of the latter, milked an equal amount into each bottle until it was empty, then tossed it in the trash.
"Blood. It does a body good," Dean mumbled to himself as he screwed the caps back on, shaking his head.
He scooped up the six pack and the rest of the boxes, and headed deeper into the bunker, down where the rooms were. He stopped in front of one that had the opening bars of "Thank You For Being a Friend" filtering out from behind it, and nudged it open with his hip.
"Got your delivery, your majesty," he announced, not without a healthy dose of sarcasm, before immediately complaining, "How many times I gotta tell you not to give 'em our address? You want something, I'll go pick it up. It's not a super secret underground bunker when every delivery guy in town knows about it, man."
"Why, I was trying to do you a favor." Fergus "Crowley" MacLeod, de facto infernal ruler in exile (mostly because nobody else had popped up to take the job yet), tipped his head lazily on the pillow to eye Dean. "Admit it. You get so bent out of shape when I ask for anything."
"You think that's me getting bent outta shape, just wait 'til you see what happens when we wind up with a whole bunch of angels crawling up our asses." Dean set the boxes down within Crowley's reach, and started sweeping garbage into the wastebasket. Empty bottles, candy and burger wrappers, crumpled chip bags. The dirty dishes, he stacked on the desk. "Fucking pigsty in here…"
"My dearest squirrel. Surely you were aware a demon might have a few bad habits when you took me in," Crowley commented.
"Yeah. Demon. You can't just...snap your fingers, clean all this up?"
"After the number that personified martyr complex you call a brother did on me? I'm in recovery. Will be for months." Crowley opened the boxes one by one, pulling out a slice of pepperoni, then paused. "Squirrel. Where's the ranch?"
"Get you some in a minute."
"Well, hurry. I can't eat without it." Crowley let out a long-suffering sigh. "And I do so need to rebuild my strength."
"Uh huh." Dean eyed him. "I'm sure."
Crowley had put his best efforts into remaking the basic room he'd been given into the lap of luxury, and Dean had to admit that his best efforts were pretty good. The TV was a sixty-inch flatscreen. He'd upgraded the bed, Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count in the thousands. There was a literal pile of cushions for him to recline on. He was in his usual outfit: padded slippers, fluffy robe, silk pajamas. Not that any of them actually fit all that well.
In the months since the church, since the angels had fallen, since Dean had once again had to walk his baby brother back from the brink, the (possibly former) King of Hell had...swollen. By about a buck-fifty, if Dean had to hazard a guess. Probably more. His face had gotten rounder, there was a double chin in the mix. Plump tits strained the buttons on his pajama top. Chunky thighs, flowing love handles, broad hips...and then, of course, there was the gut Dean couldn't help but feel his life revolved around the refilling of. Soft, huge, pillowy cleft of a belly button, permanently overstuffed. Gurgling and sloshing round the clock, constantly caressed and kneaded almost absentmindedly by one of Crowley's hands. The other, obviously, was busy cramming food in his mouth.
Really no wonder he'd blown up. Since he'd walked into the bunker, he'd parked that increasingly-wide ass in bed and pretty much never moved again. He did zilch but watch TV and eat. Really living the dream.
It felt wrong to wait on him hand and foot after the shit he'd done, but it was easy to justify. Food (and other stuff) kept him docile, blood kept him weak, and having him in the bunker meant they knew where he was and what he was doing at all times.
And Dean had already decided to give himself a pass on the fact he just liked it. Everybody deserved at least a couple weird sex things, right? And with everything else going on, he was done beating himself up over stupid shit that didn't matter.
He got the ranch. When he came back in, Crowley was halfway through his second bottle of beer with an unmistakable look of appreciation on his face. He let out an enormous belch before remarking, "Some from the private reserve tonight, hmm? I'm afraid I don't remember the occasion. Don't tell me - our anniversary?"
"Shut up," Dean told him, and handed over the ranch. "You wanna do this or not?"
"While I'm eating?" Crowley's eyebrows rose. "Someone's feeling naughty."
"C'mon, I don't got all night."
"Then by all means. Help yourself." Crowley gestured grandly to his crotch, and Dean rolled his eyes.
"Lift it," he ordered, climbing onto the foot of the bed, scooting between Crowley's legs as he worked up a mouthful of saliva. He could feel himself already straining against his jeans.
"Afraid you'll have to handle that tonight, darling," Crowley responded through a mouthful of pizza. "My hands are full."
"Course they are." Dean made a point of grunting as he lifted the firm, hot bloat of Crowley's pampered belly with one hand, reaching under to tug his pants down with the other.
"If you're getting tired of this…" Crowley's voice was practically a purr. "You could always let me get a taste of Moose."
"Keep going," Dean warned, raising his eyes as he wrapped a hand around Crowley's stiff cock, dwarfed between his plush thighs, "and I'll bite it off."
Crowley chuckled.
"Please, Dean. We both know that of the two of us, you're not the true glutton here."