YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT
Great big scary spoilers for 7.22 and 7.23.
Dean still hasn't quite grasped that Sam knows him better than he knows himself which is a good job really, because where Dean's stomach is concerned, common sense can take a hike!
A little one-shot that came to me while I was eating a very uninspiring lunch today.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, just not fair.
Dean stepped over the threshold and swept a furtive glance around the room before closing the door slowly behind him as silently as he could manage. He winced as the lock clicked home.
Kicking off his boots, he padded across the room and sat on his bed, taking another hesitant glance around him before he allowed himself to relax, satisfied the coast was clear. The bathroom door was locked with Sammy safely behind it. Dean listened to the reassuring hiss of the shower and smiled.
Slowly, with infinite care, as if he were handling something rare and precious, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small grease-stained paper bag. He shuddered slightly as a tingle of anticipation skittered through him like icy fingers up his spine.
He knew the deal, sure he did; he wasn't an idiot (contrary to popular opinion), but this damn rabbit food diet Sam was inflicting on them was freakin' killing him. A man, a real man doing a hard and dangerous job that is, needed meat and sugar and good old fashioned stodge to fill his belly, not goddamn grass. That was for the horses.
Hunger pains had become a constant and unwelcome companion to him, and gas? Don't even go there. Many years ago, Dean had won an obscure and slightly drunken talent contest by burping the Battle Hymn of the Republic; now he could friggin' play it from both ends.
Anyway, how much harm can one - just one - pansyass little éclair do?
Lifting the cake to his mouth, his lips parted in gleeful anticipation.
He paused, closing his eyes and imagining the deeply satisfying squelch as he bit into the moist, sugar dusted dough. The tip of his tongue made a slow sweep of his lips as he pictured slick melting chocolate coating them.
He could feel the cool, sweet cream oozing out of the side of his mouth, sliding thickly down his chin, and it was glorious.
He shuddered again. Hell, this was gonna be better than sex; and he never thought he'd live to hear those words come out of his mouth.
Taking a long fortifying breath, he felt his heart fluttering in excitement as he opened his mouth wide to take his first massive bite.
So lost was he in the moment, so wrapped up in his overwhelming need, he didn't hear the bathroom door being flung open, and he didn't hear Sam, still soaking wet from the shower dash across the room, but he did feel the éclair being snatched out of his hand a split second before his teeth clamped down through thin air with an ear-ringing, skull-jarring clack.
Dean opened his eyes just in time to see his éclair disappear into the trashcan.
"Sorry dude," Sam apologised unconvincingly; "you know the situation - we can't take the risk."
Rinsing his hands under the tap, Sam wiped them dry on the towel wrapped round his waist as he headed back toward the bathroom, offering a sympathetic shrug to his shell-shocked brother.
"Oh yeah," he added, "the carrot sticks are in the refrigerator if you're hungry."