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Title: All The Weight I Carry
Author: [ profile] serotonin_storm
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Word Count: 1334 words
For: The Sam and Dean Drabble-a-thon. Prompt: Sam/Chubby!Dean, schmoop
Warnings: incest
Summary: Dean's got a little problem that just keeps getting bigger.

Some people might say that the Winchesters are some damn luckless bastards. Dean, though, he thinks that considering the messed up shit they mess with on a regular basis, despite all the near misses—or not so much; all the dead-on hits they've bounced back from—Lady Luck's been seriously kind to them. They survived the apocalypse, after all, so there's that.

But there's some things Dean's always taken for granted, some stupid, mundane shit, and now that they've averted the end of the motherfucking world, it's all starting to go south.

“Friggin' awesome,” he mutters, taking a firm hold of his waistband and hopping. His jeans—the traitors—stubbornly refuse to quit digging into the roll of fat that Dean could swear to God (ha ha) wasn't there the last time he put these things on.

“Dean!” calls Sam from the other side of the bathroom door, and Dean slips mid-hop and catches himself at the last second on the edge of the sink. Sam's shampoos and perfumes or whatever the fuck they are clatter noisily to the ground, the largest one losing its lid and emptying itself onto the floor with a thick glug.

“Dude, are you all right in there?” comes Sam's voice again, concerned.

“Fine!” yells Dean, dumping Sam's feminine hygiene products back onto the counter of the sink. “Keep your damn pants on, I'll be out in a second.”

The jeans cut painfully, luggage overflowing and creating a little poof of fat that shows clearly through his old t-shirt. He tugs on it and sighs exasperatedly, glancing sourly into the mirror and poking at a hickey Sam gave him while attempting to be sexy or attempting to eat him alive, one or the other. “You're supposed to be on my side,” he informs his rebelling body.

“What?” asks Sam.

“Not everything's about you, you friggin' eavesdropper!” replies Dean.

“What, I was just—Ow!” Sam scowls at him, rubbing the back of his head where the door had—accidentally—brained him on Dean's way out.

“Shouldn't have been sitting so close. We don't need to go to the bathroom together, Sammy; some things are just private. Oh, and I spilled your foofy shampoo, princess.”

Sam splutters and stalks off, suitably distracted, and Dean takes the opportunity to grab his leather jacket to cover up his ever-growing problem.

See, here's the thing: Dean's just not cut out for the rabbit food Sam eats. It's baffling that people can live on that all the time and not start holding up fast food joints all over the country. There's nothing in heaven or hell like a big, beefy burger slathered in ketchup and piled with cheese, dripping with grease, going right into—

Someone else's mouth. Fucking fuck. Dean glares down at his sad, wilting salad, betrayed by his own imagination.

“Dean. Earth to Dean!” Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean's face, his brow furrowed. “What is up with you today, man? Are you eating a salad? What, are you possessed?”

“Ha ha,” Dean says dryly. “Possessed. That's hilarious. 'Cause it's not like that's actually happened or anything.”

“Seriously, Dean. What's going on?”

Dean shrugs a shoulder, hunching and spearing a watery slice of cucumber with his fork. “I figure, hey, you're eating it, there must be something to it. I gotta say, Sammy: so far, not really getting it.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says slowly. “And you're sure your arteries can take all that dangerous lettuce?”

Dean makes a face, ignores Sam, and digs into his salad. As much as a guy can really dig into a salad, anyway. Which is to say, he picks at it listlessly for the better part of an hour and then orders a burger and fries for the road.

His face is rounding out. He starts mourning his cheekbones. He's conscious of what angle people (Sam) are looking at him and whether or not it gives him a double chin. He holds a pillow on his lap when he lounges in bed at night.

It's tiring, but he's stealthy about it. Or, at least, he thinks he is until one night, as he's pulling a sweatshirt over his head in preparation for sleep, Sam explodes, “God, Dean, what is the matter with you lately?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, defensive. “Christ, what's got your panties in a twist all of a sudden?”

“You're just acting... weird, man.” Sam tugs a hand through his hair. “I mean, you got up at six this morning just to take a run. You're eating all this weird health food—”

“You eat that shit all the time!”

“—and you're always wearing that stupid sweatshirt. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were worried you were...”

He trails off, and Dean raises an eyebrow, challenging. “I'm worried I'm what, Sammy?”

“Fat,” Sam finishes flatly.

Dean gapes like a fish for a hot second because, all that he'd known there was really only one place this conversation could end up going, he hadn't actually expected Sam to go there. “I think you're confused about which of us is Regina George and which is Lindsay Lohan in this relationship.”


“I do not think I'm fat, you woman,” Dean says.

“We're not going to stop having this conversation just because you insult me, Dean.”

“We're not having this conversation at all!”

“Look, I've noticed that you gained a few pounds,” Sam says.

“Wow, baby, you say the sweetest things to me,” says Dean, attempting not to cross his arms over what used to be his truly impressive abs self-consciously.

“But what I'm saying is, I don't mind.”

“Gee.” Dean scowls. “Thanks.”

“That came out wrong.”

“You think?”

Sam inches forward and Dean steps back, the back of his legs hitting the bed frame. Sam strokes his face tenderly, which is just worlds of awkward coming from his little brother, no matter how nice it might feel.

“I hate to break it to you, but you're not exactly Tom Cruise yourself,” he snaps, pulling away, but Sam is a persistent, stubborn little bastard, and he has no issue latching onto Dean's neck instead.

“Take off your jeans,” he mumbles into the crook between Dean's shoulder and neck.

“I'm not that kind of a woman,” Dean says, but his fingers start working at his buttons seemingly of their own accord as much as he tries to remind them that he should really keep his jeans the fuck on.

Sam presses him back onto the bed as Dean tries to wriggle down jeans that—okay, they're a size or two to small at least, maybe way more. Dean gives up and lets them sit just under his ass, and Sam pulls Dean's sweatshirt over his head along with his t-shirt and starts kissing his way down Dean's body.

Dean grits his teeth and tries not to pull away as Sam nears his definitely-expanded waistline, but he must make some aborted move, because Sam stiffens instantly and sits up jerkily, looking down at him with exasperation and what looks irritatingly close to pity.


Dean feels like throwing a punch, but instead he looks away. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I like you this way,” Sam insists. “I like that you're softer and your hair is growing out and you've got laugh lines. I like it.

“You like that I don't look like 'Daddy's little soldier' anymore,” Dean says, frowning.

“Maybe,” Sam admits. “It just... it looks good on you, man. The age, the weight. Everything.”

It feels like a fifty-pound weight (hilarious) has been lifted off Dean's chest in an instant, and he scowls in response, because that is so not a Dean Winchester-appropriate emotion. “I'm so relieved,” he says sarcastically (and maybe a little truthfully), and then, deciding the conversation is just about over, he flips Sam.

“Dude!” Sam stutters, and Dean grins, kicks his jeans the rest of the way off, and gives Sam the blowjob of his life.

And so all is well. Well, at least until Dean starts going gray.

But that's a different story.
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