Music Meme Fill #2
Song Title: Between Us (by Brendan Benson)
Pairing: Smith/Wesson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 700
Warning: implied secret feeder!Wesson
Note: This is a continuation of the last story I wrote: Guilty Pleasure
Dean Smith wakes up at half past seven. It’s early in terms of a Saturday, but late in comparison to his usual routine of up by six for a morning jog and then a shower and breakfast by eight.
The sheets shift along with the body next to him and Sam murmurs something about it being too damn early.
Sam.
He isn’t sure when they lost the formality of it all and transitioned to first names. Everything is becoming so-he doesn’t even want to think it, but real between them.
Once upon a time it was quick romps in supply closets, both of them high on knowing just how wrong what they’re doing is. Then one day they wound up back at Dean’s apartment and after some time he stopped hurrying Sam out right after sex. Now he stays the night. He has a stack of clothing in the bottom drawer. Good god, he doesn’t dare refer to him as anything other than a casual fuck but it’s clear that they’re on verge (or well past the verge) of something more. They’re damn near domestic at this point and the thought never fails to make his stomach churn because hell if he knows what to make of it all.
His stomach is another matter entirely. He runs his hand over the softened area. It pushes over the waistband of his boxers, boxers that dig subtly into his sides. He eyed a package at the store the other day in a size up, but didn’t buy it. He’s beginning to reconsider. Everything he owns is beginning to get a little snug and he can only chalk it up to a mishap at the dry cleaners so many times.
He knows what’s happening. Sam’s a big guy, and he likes to eat. He also likes to make Dean eat. It started as a little indulging here and there, but it’s definitely beginning to catch up with him. The reality of it really hit home when he went in for a new suit last week and his tailor reluctantly suggested they go up a size. There was a time when Dean might have bitten his head off for a comment like that, but he swallowed any urge to protest and agreed. To be honest, he was a little intrigued when the man verbalized his rational by reading off some of the numbers he’d gained since the last time he was in.
Yeah, he's definitely put on weight. The thing is, he should probably care a little more. He can’t deny that he missed real food, though. It would be difficult to go back to his old diet at this point. He also likes how happy it makes Sam when they eat together, and he’s beginning to see that the weight actually looks kind of good on him. He knows Sam doesn’t mind it-hell, it’s almost like he wants Dean to gain weight-and a small voice in the back of Dean’s mind occasionally wonders what he’d look like with a little more, even. It isn’t a thought he’s going to act on but it doesn’t hurt to be curious.
The sheets shift again and Sam turns over next to him. He slips an arm around his waist and his palm flattens against Dean’s hip, nudging him to turn onto his side. Dean does so, and Sam peers up at him from the pillow, floppy brown hair falling into his eyes. He smiles.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
Sam’s hand runs the length of his side and stops to gives the soft padding that’s beginning to form over Dean’s hips a light squeeze. It sends a strange tingle up Dean’s spine. He doesn’t flinch away from the touch like he used to. He kind of likes it now.
“Fucking early,” Sam murmurs as he closes his eyes again momentarily. He then yawns and pulls the hand away from Dean’s side to stretch. After a minute of rolling around and waking himself up, he finally sits up and leans down to kiss Dean chastely on the lips. A smile turns his mouth as he pulls away and he tilts his head toward the door. “Want me to make pancakes?”
Dean kisses him one more time and nods.“Definitely,” he replies with a smile.
Pairing: Smith/Wesson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 700
Warning: implied secret feeder!Wesson
Note: This is a continuation of the last story I wrote: Guilty Pleasure
Dean Smith wakes up at half past seven. It’s early in terms of a Saturday, but late in comparison to his usual routine of up by six for a morning jog and then a shower and breakfast by eight.
The sheets shift along with the body next to him and Sam murmurs something about it being too damn early.
Sam.
He isn’t sure when they lost the formality of it all and transitioned to first names. Everything is becoming so-he doesn’t even want to think it, but real between them.
Once upon a time it was quick romps in supply closets, both of them high on knowing just how wrong what they’re doing is. Then one day they wound up back at Dean’s apartment and after some time he stopped hurrying Sam out right after sex. Now he stays the night. He has a stack of clothing in the bottom drawer. Good god, he doesn’t dare refer to him as anything other than a casual fuck but it’s clear that they’re on verge (or well past the verge) of something more. They’re damn near domestic at this point and the thought never fails to make his stomach churn because hell if he knows what to make of it all.
His stomach is another matter entirely. He runs his hand over the softened area. It pushes over the waistband of his boxers, boxers that dig subtly into his sides. He eyed a package at the store the other day in a size up, but didn’t buy it. He’s beginning to reconsider. Everything he owns is beginning to get a little snug and he can only chalk it up to a mishap at the dry cleaners so many times.
He knows what’s happening. Sam’s a big guy, and he likes to eat. He also likes to make Dean eat. It started as a little indulging here and there, but it’s definitely beginning to catch up with him. The reality of it really hit home when he went in for a new suit last week and his tailor reluctantly suggested they go up a size. There was a time when Dean might have bitten his head off for a comment like that, but he swallowed any urge to protest and agreed. To be honest, he was a little intrigued when the man verbalized his rational by reading off some of the numbers he’d gained since the last time he was in.
Yeah, he's definitely put on weight. The thing is, he should probably care a little more. He can’t deny that he missed real food, though. It would be difficult to go back to his old diet at this point. He also likes how happy it makes Sam when they eat together, and he’s beginning to see that the weight actually looks kind of good on him. He knows Sam doesn’t mind it-hell, it’s almost like he wants Dean to gain weight-and a small voice in the back of Dean’s mind occasionally wonders what he’d look like with a little more, even. It isn’t a thought he’s going to act on but it doesn’t hurt to be curious.
The sheets shift again and Sam turns over next to him. He slips an arm around his waist and his palm flattens against Dean’s hip, nudging him to turn onto his side. Dean does so, and Sam peers up at him from the pillow, floppy brown hair falling into his eyes. He smiles.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
Sam’s hand runs the length of his side and stops to gives the soft padding that’s beginning to form over Dean’s hips a light squeeze. It sends a strange tingle up Dean’s spine. He doesn’t flinch away from the touch like he used to. He kind of likes it now.
“Fucking early,” Sam murmurs as he closes his eyes again momentarily. He then yawns and pulls the hand away from Dean’s side to stretch. After a minute of rolling around and waking himself up, he finally sits up and leans down to kiss Dean chastely on the lips. A smile turns his mouth as he pulls away and he tilts his head toward the door. “Want me to make pancakes?”
Dean kisses him one more time and nods.“Definitely,” he replies with a smile.