I'm so sorry for not updating my other fics, but this just served as a way to just un-block my writer's block.
Dean knew how to be hungry. Hell, he spent most of his life in that perpetual state of gnawing ache. It came in stages, like a step-to-step rulebook.
First comes the low grumble, the kind of hunger that makes you yearn for a grilled-cheese sandwich or mac-and-cheese. It tears through you, like a small quake. You can hear it, a small rumbling roar.
Then it disappears. It recedes back into your stomach, and you can almost forget the fact that you were even hungry in the first place. It's like a small fly hovering about your head. Dean quickly learned how to swat it away.
Next came the nauseating churn. It tumbles about in your stomach, and you feel like you're about to retch. Dean used to gag in the backseat of the impala, when the sickness mixed with the speed of the old engine pushing the car forward and the smell of Jack Daniels wafting about his nose got to be too much. It was always a dry, almost gentle action. It wasn't strong, like the violent, bilious hurl you get when you have the stomach flu, but small, and barely noticeable. He would open his mouth, just the slightest bit, and his tongue would poke out a bit. His stomach would cave in, and his ribs expand. It would put a pressure on his chest, as if someone was holding a boot there. Then something would push him forward, just the slightest bit, to the point where he was almost curled in on himself. It felt like his esophagus was trying to force its way from his throat, a soft but forceful motion. Dean didn't make a noise, and as the years passed, he became more and more in control of this urge to spill the bile from his stomach. He always hated this particular stage, because if he was at that point when he finally did get to eat, he didn't want any food at all, lest he lose it in the backseat of his father's precious car.
After the nausea came the true ache. It spreads through you like a fire, and burns the inside of your skin. It wrapped around Dean's back and crept up his ribs, and he wanted to moan. He used to cry, softly in the back, curled up on the worn leather seats. When he was especially young, he would whimper and whine, so low that John wouldn't be able to hear over the blare of the radio. He desperately tried to keep quiet, but the pain always was a bit too much. Eventually his whimpers and moans, so soft not even little Sammy could hear, dwindled to soft sniffs as the tears streamed down his round face. Then he stopped crying all together.
The final stage was the easiest. By then the worst was over, and the ache was so deep that Dean didn't even feel it anymore. But the hardest part was that by the time he got to that point, food was disgusting. He looked at it and no longer had that ravenous gleam in his eyes. It was replaced with a dull acceptance. He knew he had to eat it, but he didn't want to. He crammed the offending matter down his throat, stuffing his face in a trance like state. Even the smell was disgusting. He found that feeding Sammy first prepped his stomach for the heavy weight.
They would stop for food each night, but more often than not, it was at a convenience store, where John threw Twinkies, Yodels, and sometimes pretzels in the backseat with a careless hand. As Sam grew, Dean gave more and more of his proportions to sate the growing boy's needs. On the rare occasion that they stopped at a diner, John would order one plate for both siblings, the cheapest thing on the menu. Dean knew that Sammy was his responsibility, and he knew what that sharp look from his father meant when the waitress set the plate down in front of them. He would always slide the plate over so that it was directly in front of the younger Winchester, and tell him to eat until he was full. On good days, Sam only ate about a quarter to half of the crap on the plate. On bad days, Sam devoured the whole meal, unwittingly leaving his big brother with nothing.
All-you-can-eat buffets were always his favorite. He would get up and fill their plate to the brim, stacking it high with warm, starchy things that expanded in the stomach. Sam would pick at it, eat his fill, and then push the plate over to the empty space before his brother with a disgusted twitch of his lip. Dean would then dig in with varied amounts of enthusiasm, depending on the kind of hunger he felt that particular day. He would eat until he was full, stuffed to the point where he was borderline queasy. Then they would leave and Dean would fight to keep it all down.
Eventually Sam caught on, but by then John was throwing Dean a wad of tens or twenties and leaving them for days on end, leaving Dean the job of caring for his younger brother, even more so than he usually did. Dean didn't mind. He would rent out the cheapest motel and he and Sammy would eat at their own pace, when they were hungry, only stopping when they were full or the money gone. Dean always made sure that that was never the case, even if he had to turn down that deluxe burger at the local diner and have something cheaper and less filling instead.
He never particularly minded it. Sam tended to be more upset about it than he was. Dean Winchester learned to handle hunger well, but that doesn't mean it didn't affect him. He had aches from certain vitamin deficiencies, and always ate too much when he stopped off for meals, even when he had enough money to have three steady ones a day. It was just something that stuck with him. Because when Dean was little, he never knew when he was going to get another mouthful.