𝙳.𝚆.

this isn't to say that dean isn't fit. he is. but he's someone who is physically active, not someone who trains for aesthetics or follows a strict diet. his shoulders are broad, his arms and chest have soft edges despite the underlying muscle. his torso is thick and there's a layer of body fat over his abdomen. his stomach is flat without visible abs. he has the legs of someone who spends a lot of time on his feet. he's got a solid build. he's got functional strength. he's fit, but not lean enough for every muscle he has to stand out. reference:

he can't look any differently on a high protein, high grease, high sugar, zero balance diet. he's constantly wolfing down burgers (he loves a bacon cheeseburger), steaks, sausages, hot dogs, chili dogs, fries, onion rings, etc. and pie, obviously—cherry, pecan, apple, doesn't matter. he mainly goes for apple and tolerates pumpkin when it's in season. beer is his water; if it's sold in a six-pack, a case, or a vending machine, he's drinking it. big deal that he takes his coffee black when he's dumping half the sugar dispenser into it. 99% of what he eats can be found on a laminated menu. the reason his diet hasn't turned him into a blob is because of his physical activity levels, high metabolism + genetics, and inconsistent eating.

and there is something to be said about dean's relationship with food that prevents him from "mindful" eating. dean doesn't eat because he's hungry, he eats because there's food. when he was a kid, meals depended on whatever john managed to bring back, whatever dean could steal, and whatever he could stretch into dinner without sam noticing it wasn't enough. some weeks he had burgers and pie, other weeks he had dry, stale cereal because the milk went bad. when food is available, he eats as much as he can even if he isn't hungry because he grew up not knowing when the next meal was coming.

when dean walks in through the back door carrying an empty platter, the first thing he sees is cassie stood at the kitchen sink drying dishes.

"don't tell me," she says without turning around. "mrs. smith fed you again."

dean lifts finger. "technically, it was mr. smith. that man makes a mean burger."

cassie glances over at him. the streak of charcoal dust on his cheek and his shirt sleeve doesn't escape her narrowed eyes.

a silent second passes, then another. by the fourth, she's got him fessin' up.

"okay, their grill was actin' up so i might've looked at it."

"you fixed it."

dean shrugs. "the kid bought some fancy new gas grill and couldn't get it workin'. helped out, got some appreciation."

he leaves out the part where he ended up rebuidin' half the thing. and spendin' twenty minutes showin' the scrawny teen how to flip burgers without launchin' them into the grass. and carryin' foldin' tables from their garage. and helpin' string patio lights. and stayin' to make sure everythin' worked. all for people he's only known a couple months.

but he sees cassie leanin' forward and thinks she already knows all of that. good ol' mrs. smith does love a bit of gossip.

dean places the platter on the counter and drags himself towards the fridge. "you hungry?"

"you just ate."

"i can eat again."

cassie watches him rummage through the fridge. "you know, mrs. smith said you were the nicest man on the block."

figures. no secret stays inside that old lady's mouth.

"what'd she say?"

"that you fixed the grill."

dean waves a dismissive hand, then pulls out a container of leftovers.

"that you carried all their stuff and you taught tommy how to cook burgers."

"he asked."

dean grabs a fork from the drawer, avoiding eye contact all the while. it tells cassie all that she needs to know. her smile widens.

"uh-huh."

dean eyes her suspiciously. "you got that look," he says, shoving an unnecessarily big bite of lasagna into his mouth.

"what look?"

"y'know." another forkful. "the look." he pauses his chewing to add, "spit it out." pun intended.

cassie drags out her answer only because she likes keepin' him on his toes. "i think you pretend to be this tough guy—"

"i am a tough guy."

"—but you're just a big old mush."

dean swallows dramatically. "wow."

cassie quickly smooths his offense away by walking over and thumbing away the charcoal smudge from his cheek. he smiles despite himself.

"i help with one barbecue, now i'm suddenly mother theresa." his joke doesn't land exactly as he wants it to—his tone is too soft, his face too, but it makes cassie laugh, and that's enough for him.

then the mood shifts and dean's suddenly serious. "don't tell anyone," he warns.

"oh, i'm telling everyone."

dean hisses through his teeth as dad cuts away the ruined sleeve of his jacket.

"hold still."

"i'm holding still," dean protests, even as his shoulders jerk when the antiseptic hits his wound. the look dad shoots him has him shrinking in on himself and gulping audibly.

a med kit sits open on the bed between them, gauze and tape scattered everywhere.

the hunt went sideways fast. one second dean was drivin' the thing toward the trap, the next he took a piece of rusted metal through his side when a wall collapsed. and dad? dad spent the entire ride back to the motel alternating between silently steaming in his fury and barkin' questions.

what were you thinking? why didn't you wait for me? you tryin' to get yourself killed?

dean knows the drill. just like he knows the lecturin' ain't over.

dad presses a wad of gauze against his wound that makes him breathe in sharply. "jesus."

"yeah, well, maybe next time you'll think before chargin' in alone."

it was either me or the family, dean doesn't dare say.

dad reaches for the needle. dean glares at the opposite wall when the first stitch goes in, his hands clenched around the covers. "son of a—"

"stay still," dad commands.

"i'm tryin'," dean shoots back, face scrunched up in pain, jaw tight.

"you move, i miss."

dean lets out a strained chuckle. another stitch, another flash of pain, and then another, and another. the color drains from dean's face, sweat dampening his hairline, his breathing quick and shallow.

dad ties off a stitch before he finally pauses. "dean."

dean doesn't answer, only sucks in another sharp breath. dad calls his name again, and dean forces himself to look at him through the blurriness. the edge has faded from his expression, but his voice is still stern. he sets a steady hand on the back of dean's neck.

"deep, slow breaths. you're gonna be fine."

dean stares at him, then exhales slowly. then repeats, following the rhythm dad's set.

"that's it. good."

the softness vanishes almost immediately when dad picks up the needle again. he finishes the last stitch and wraps fresh bandages around dean's side.

leaning against the headboard, dean watches him gather the bloody gauze and shove it into a trash bag.

"you scared the hell outta me, you know that?"

dean's eyes widen some despite his exhaustion. he's glad dad can't see 'cause he's starin' at the floor. seems to him dad can only talk about what really goes on in his head in the quiet moments when his mouth works faster than his brain, or when he's avoidin' eye contact. or both.

of course it doesn't last. because dad clears his throat and rebuilds the wall. "get some sleep."

the diner is empty except for a trucker asleep in a booth near the window and a waitress refilling coffee so she wouldn't fall asleep on the job.

and of course there's dean, halfway through a double cheeseburger the size of his head, and sam sitting across from him with a newspaper spread out on the table.

"dean smash... this burger." cheeks rounded with the big bite he's taken, dean smiles proudly around the mouthful. his eyes land on sam, who looks utterly confused.

"what?"

"dean smash," he repeats slower and less animated, like that's supposed to help sam understand, "this burger."

sam's eyebrows lift quizzically, forehead creasing. "you're referring to yourself in third person now?"

dean stares at him dumbfounded, palms turned up. the burger slides out of his hand and plops onto the wrapping paper. "no, it's..." dean's shoulders roll up. "the hulk?"

sam frowns.

dean's voice lowers into a gravelly growl. "hulk smash."

still nothing.

"you have got to be kidding me. you don't know who the hulk is?"

"i know who the hulk is."

"apparently not."

"i know who the hulk is. i just don't get why you are pretending to be the hulk in public. or anywhere, really."

"please. this place is empty. and if it wasn't, everyone here would find it hilarious."

"no, they wouldn't."

"i'm just sayin', every culture's got a vampire thing. garlic, crosses, sunlight, can't enter without invitation. you guys have the worst pr campaign in history."

louis' stillness doesn't deter him. dean keeps going, pacing the entire time.

"like, the invitation thing. where did that even come from? some bloodsucker got embarrassed he couldn't work a doorknob once and suddenly it's tradition? and bats. why bats? nobody's scared of bats."

dean thinks he sees louis blink. he takes that as encouragement.

"and don't get me started on garlic. that's the dumbest thing. imagine bein' an immortal top dog and you get taken down by a spaghetti ingredient."

dean leans against a table.

"or maybe second dumbest, 'cause there's the coffin thing. you got eternity and that's your storage solution? i mean, come on, at least get a king-size bed."

"you know that one specifically irritates me."

dean pauses, blinks, his hand hanging in the air, pointer finger extended.

"well, uh."

dean scratches the back of his head, struggling to come up in a way that won't make him sound like a lunatic. it's crazy. you spend a few months with a woman, show her all your cards, and you still worry about her thinkin' you're makin' it all up 'cause of that one time.

there's a fine line between makin' the truth more colorful for storytellin' purposes and lyin'. and cassie can sniff out a lie from miles away, so dean backpedals.

"it wasn't an actual priest, it was a shifter."

cassie looks at him quizzically.

"a shapeshifter. they shift their shape. it's kinda their thing."

this is seriously not helpin' his i'm not a lunatic case.