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He's not joining Weight Watchers. He's not counting calories or starting Jenny Craig or going paleo or any of that bullshit. He just...
The last hunt went way long. They were out of the Bunker for almost three weeks. And Dean does not watch what he eats when he's on a hunt. When he's on a hunt he eats greasy road food and plenty of it, grateful for the burst of energy and the comfort of a full belly it provides. So they make it back home, finally, and none of Dean's fucking pants fit. Even his ratty stretched-out sweatpants are uncomfortably tight around his gut.
No big deal, right? It's not the first time he's put on a little around the middle. Cut out the beer for a couple days, go easy on the snacks, he'll be back down to fighting weight by the end of the week.
Except a week later, the weight's still there. Apparently once you're on the downslide to forty, the pounds don't melt off so easy any more.
So he cuts out meat. And cheese. And eggs, and basically, if it tastes good? He's not eating it. He's still making it, of course, because he has to feed his family. So the good stuff all goes to them, and he nibbles at the scraps.
It's not like he hasn't spent years of his life eating like this. He just pretends John dumped him and his brother in a motel somewhere with $20 that's supposed to last them a week. The way that goes is: Sammy gets three squares a day, Dean gets what's left, if there's anything left. The only difference is now he's got four Sammys to feed instead of one.
So his family gets spaghetti and meatballs with extra cheese and garlic bread, and he has a small bowl of plain noodles. His family gets triple-decker club sandwiches with homemade potato chips on the side, he has a couple pieces of dry toast. He begs off of their usual sit-down dinners together, claims pressing business in his room or under his car. He says he filled up tasting the food while he was cooking it. He fixes everyone's plates and then just fucking dips, driving out to Lawrence to complete a list of errands that are in no way as urgent as he makes them sound.
If Sam was paying attention, he'd have called his big brother on his bullshit by now. But he's caught up in his honeymoon phase with Eileen. Dean could paint himself pink and walk around naked whistling “Camptown Races” and those two wouldn't notice, too busy making googly eyes at each other and disappearing to their room for hours at a time, bless 'em both.
Jack (nephilim; sort-of-God; four year old in a twenty-something's body; son of two angels, three hunters, and a presidential aide) still lacks a clear idea of what normal human behavior looks like, for some reason. So there's no way he's going to take note of Dean's eating (or, rather, the lack thereof). At every meal, he smiles and cleans his plate and chirps “Thanks, Dean!” Then he wanders off to his room to get back on MyTikTakTweetCraft or whatever incomprehensible thing he's into this week.
Dean's not in the clear, though, because there's one more member of their little Bunker brood. Someone who can sit for hours in silence, doing nothing more than observing the world around him. Someone who sees Dean in a way that no one else ever has. Someone named–
“Cas!” Dean turns the corner into the library and Cas is rightfuckingthere, so close they almost collide. Startled, he hollers and drops his armful of books. “Jesus, buddy! You scared the shit out of me! Why are you spending your day lurking in dark corners like a creeper?”
The angel stares at him, unbothered, unblinking. “I was waiting for you. We need to talk.”
“You breakin' up with me, man? Because you'd need to ask me out first for that to work.” It's a lame joke, born of a desperation to distract, to defuse the tension between them, and it falls completely flat. Cas bats it aside like so much warm air.
“I know what you're doing, Dean. You're hurting yourself.”
“Huh?”
“You're skipping meals. When you do eat, you take in only a few hundred calories a day. It's self-harm.”
The hunter scoffs. “Self-harm? I'm just tryin' to lose some flab, dude. Got a little spare tire action goin' on.” He grabs his belly, jiggles it a bit.
“Setting aside the question of whether you need to lose weight or not for later discussion, there are healthy ways to do that. What you are doing is actively detrimental to your goals and it's self-destructive as well.” Cas was close to begin with; he'd never taken the step back that normal human etiquette would prescribe after their near-collision. But as he speaks, he looms over Dean, eyes flaring with holy fire. “You are damaging your body through starvation, and restricting your intake so severely has slowed your metabolism, which actually makes it more difficult for you to lose weight. Don't you see, you are–” The anger that had been fueling him seems to dissipate in a rush, and his shoulders slump. His voice turns hoarse and quiet. “Dean, you are precious to me. Every bit of you, body and soul.”
He takes that step back now, and another one, then bends to pick up the dropped books and place them on a nearby table. He seems to have run out of steam, perhaps vaguely embarrassed by the strength of his outburst. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and continues.
“There are simple changes you could apply to your recipes that would make them healthier for all of us. I can show you. You can eat well and still lose weight, if that's what you want. Really, though, Dean, you don't need to change anything about your body. I think the slight softness you've acquired recently is... Quite fetching.”
He's gotten closer again, Dean realizes. A lot closer. He can feel the warmth of Cas's breath on his face when he continues.
“On the subject of weight control and healthy living, the other piece of the puzzle is regular exercise,” he murmurs, gaze downcast. “I've been thinking recently of some ways I could help you to burn some calories, get your heart rate up... We could incorporate those items you've got stored in the back of your sock drawer...” As his words trail off, he flicks his eyes up to meet Dean's and the moment stretches like taffy.
“Y-you mean the... The ones with the l-leather?” Dean stammers.
“And the ones with the lace, yes. I apologize for snooping, but I found them when I was helping with the laundry last week, and I haven't been able to stop wondering about them. I would very much like to see how they look on your beautiful body. Would you let me see you like that, Dean? I think it would be very good exercise for us both.”
“Well, you know me, I'm a huge proponent of healthy exercise,” Dean blurts, grabbing Cas's hand and dragging him down the hall to his room.