Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Word Count: 1,300 approx
Dean's a tough guy, but there's one part of him that's very easy to injure ... his pride!
Written as a birthday gift for my wonderful partner in drabbling, vansgroi whose big day is tomorrow. Hope your day is fabulous my friend!
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own him.
Sam knew he was staring: and what's more, he knew he shouldn't. But he just couldn't help it.
It was like looking at a train wreck. Something gruesome and terrible that you knew you shouldn't stare at, but you just couldn't stop.
But that's was what it was like watching Dean trying to choke down a salad.
All that and more.
The thing is, Dean never ate salad; not unless it was a component part of a burger or a garnish on a steak. However, here he was, across the table from Sam, sitting behind a plate piled high with green stuff, glaring at a radish skewered on the end of his fork as if it had personally affronted him.
Sam was about to ask the question when Dean saved him the trouble.
"Like what you see?" Dean snorted, dropping his fork onto his plate with a defeated sigh.
"Sorry Dean," Sam mumbled, "it's just … what's with the ... you know, the …" he waved a hand across the table as if to encompass the whole situation.
"The rabbit food?" Dean replied with a raised eyebrow.
"Well, yeah," Sam responded; "I mean, it's not exactly your usual choice!"
Dean's stomach grumbled angrily as if to lend its opinnion to the conversation.
"Tell me about it," Dean moaned, clutching his protesting midriff; "I'm freakin' starving."
"But why?" Sam asked.
Dean shrugged. "Jus' … well, because," he mumbled evasively into his chest. Picking his fork up again, he shook off the radish and stabbed the bare implement instead into a slice of cucumber with malicious intent.
"Because what?" Sam probed.
Dean sighed. "Because, I just … because I've got to Sam."
Sam rolled his eyes. "English, Dean?" he prompted.
Dean popped the cucumber chunk in his mouth and chewed down with a disgusted grimace. He knew the game was up; Sam was on a mission, and he wasn't going to get away without coming clean.
"That waitress at the diner on the way to Des Moines last week …" Dean began on the back of another heavy sigh.
"The one you hooked up with?" Sam asked.
Dean nodded, swallowing the chewed cucumber with a pained effort.
"Yeah, well, we had a few drinks, then she wanted to go for a walk, then we …"
"I get the picture," Sam interrupted, holding up his hands in an desperate attempt to shut Dean off.
"Well, we got back to the Impala," Dean continued, seemingly oblivious to Sam's discomfort; "and then we talked. Then we got cosy, and so I took my shirt off, and …"
"And then she …"
Sam suddenly realised that Dean was blushing. And he realised then that whatever this was, it must be apocalyptic.
"Dean, what is it?"
Dean pulled in a deep breath.
Sam froze. And stared.
"She squeezed your stomach and said your belly was cute?" he eventually repeated.
"Really cute, apparently," Dean corrected sourly.
Sam's mouth moved and no sound came out. "Holy crap Dean," he eventually exclaimed; "I thought you were going to tell me something serious!"
"Sam, this IS serious," Dean snapped, arms flailing energetically enough for the tomato chunk on his fork to fly across the room; "you know what this means, don't you?"
"Someone said your belly was cute?" Sam responded cautiously. "Is that such a bad thing?"
"Damnit Sam, Yes. What she means is that it's fat, Sam. Not cute – FAT!"
"And besides, I'm a freakin' badass monster hunter. I don't do 'cute'. I'm not 'cute'. There is not a single atom in my body that is in any way friggin' 'cute'." With that Dean stabbed his fork into an unfortunate slice of beetroot and stuffed it into his mouth, wrinkling his nose in utter revulsion as he did so.
It was actually kind of cute.
Sam took the opportunity to discreetly skim an eye over Dean's grievously offended midriff.
Dean had never been fat, and likely never would be. However, he had also never been the workout fiend that Sam was, and so would never sport the kind of iron-hard sculpted torso that Sam boasted.
Even under the faded black fabric of his T-shirt, Sam could see the faint softness that cushioned the otherwise lean lines of Dean's powerhouse frame.
"Not 'fat' as such," Sam ventured, choosing his words very carefully; "but, maybe you just need to tone up a little bit."
Dean harrumphed miserably as he sat, moving a mess of grated carrot around his plate with torpid disinterest. "You too, huh?" He grumbled.
TWO WEEKS LATER ...
Sam had begun to regret suggesting that Dean should accompany him at some of his workouts in the little gym he had installed in the bunker.
He'd always known that Dean was tenacious, but exercising Dean with a flat belly fixation was beyond tenacious, passing into the realms of relentlessly and unhealthily obsessed.
Monopolising the treadmill and hugging Sam's medicine ball as if it was suddenly his lifelong friend, Dean had practically taken root in the gym. Grunting and groaning, puffing and panting, crimson-faced and dripping sweat in every direction, he was there – a vision of self-inflicted pain and suffering everywhere Sam looked.
Even the extensive range of tunes on Sam's IPod wasn't enough to blot out the nightmare, and if Dean challenged him to yet another round of competitive Hack Squats, he was seriously going to shove that dumbbell so far up Dean's ass, he'd never squat again.
It was a little over a month later when Dean strode into the bunker's kitchen with a triumphant grin and lifted his shirt in front of Sam.
"Check it out," he instructed with a smug grin, and there it was. Sam couldn't deny, a pronounced six pack sitting atop an impressively taut midriff. He could see that Dean was leaner, his typically slim waist and hips looking even trimmer than usual. Dean had done well; all the agony – well, Sam's agony anyway - had been worth it.
"Just in time for me to see Chantelle from the gas station tonight," Dean grinned; "I'm not going to be humiliated in front of some hot chick ever again!"
Sam grinned, shaking his head in exasperation at Dean's slightly overdramatic definition of humiliation. "Looking good there dude," he grinned. "Well done – now put it away; save it for the ladies."
Sam was sitting in the library, engrossed in a book about faerie lore when he heard the outer door open, then close rapidly, and Dean's heavy footsteps clatter down the staircase into the bunker's depths.
Glancing at his watch, he frowned in confusion; 9.30 pm? He hadn't been expecting to see Dean until dawn at least.
Cautiously following Dean's stomping footfalls into the kitchen, he was perplexed to find his brother, arms loaded with what looked suspiciously like the entire contents of the refrigerator; irritably kicking the door to the plundered appliance closed.
He announced his presence with a brief cough. "Uh, date not work out then?" He asked.
Dean dumped his picnic on the table, and headed to the cutlery drawer. "You could say that," he snorted.
"Oh … why not?"
Dean turned, brandishing an alarming variety of knives and a dessert spoon.
He sighed. "Remember what I said about not being humiliated in front of a hot chick ever again?"
Sam nodded cautiously.
"So, I got down off the bar stool to take her, well, you know, somewhere quiet, and I'd lost so much freakin' weight ... my goddamn pants fell down!"
Silence reigned for a long moment.
Sam palmed his face and pulled in a deep breath. He knew anything resembling a laugh now would mean instant death ...
But, on the plus side, at least he'd have his gym back now.