Ho boy. Sorry that this (and the others) are so late...I just started school, which translates to much less time to write. And which also might be why this...isn't that great, in my opinion.

This probably has the least plot of anything I've written in a while.

And, wow! I've gone a little crazy with the Dean POV, considering that the last three pieces I've published have been written in it. It's kind of a nice break, I have to say, after I practically drowned myself with the wry, intelligent Sam POV in Catching Hell.

Even compared to the little backwater Kansas town Dean had grown up in, ice storms blowing in off the prairie from September to May, Denver was cold as hell. The air was so dry it seared the inside of his nose and throat as the temperature dropped down into the teens and below - not to mention thin. They didn't call it the Mile High City because of the booming medical marijuana industry. Dean had been panting and wheezing after sprinting to class for the first few weeks of the semester, the natives snickering at him and the other lowland transfers giving him sympathetically glances. And sucking wind when it was freezing out didn't really contribute to his efforts not to burn his airways raw.

He broke down and bought himself a big, puffy coat from a ski shop after toughing out a few days of the vicious wind blowing down off the snowcapped mountains. He was sure he looked like a black marshmallow waddling around campus. He broke down and bought a tube of medicated, super-strength Chapstick after toughing out a week of cracked, bleeding lips. He was sure that he smelled like a girl (the damn thing just had to be cherry-scented). He broke down and started drinking tea after toughing out a couple weeks of the absolute havoc that using coffee to keep himself warm wrought on his innards. He was sure that everyone thought he was some sort of vegetarian hipster nutjob.

It didn't take long for Dean to decide that he hated Denver winters. Hated the cold, hated the snow, hated the ridiculous dryness. But there was one good thing about it, and that was Christmas break. Or winter break, according to his overly-PC student handbook (he'd been agnostic verging on atheist since grade school and hearing people call it Christmas break had never killed him - he still celebrated Christmas). He had over a month off, which had probably been planned out so students could go home and spend the holidays with their families. But there was nothing back in Lawrence but his mother's grave and his father's abandoned garage. The only thing he cared about had moved to California right after high school. Palo Alto, specifically, on Stanford's dime, since he'd been just special enough for them to offer him a full-ride academic scholarship. So that was where Dean would be heading.

The thing he cared about was named Sam, and he guessed it was just a little crude to call him a "thing." He was six feet and four inches of brunette hair, dewy eyes, and supple, warm tan skin. All of which Dean had started appreciating a lot more than he thought he should around the time they were sixteen. Dean was only four months older than Sam and the kid had been practically sewn to him for as long as he could remember, the two of them growing up as neighbors in the closest thing that lily-white Lawrence had to a ghetto, so their relationship had developed as quietly and naturally as Dean's hair lightened in the summer.

Despite the stress of hiding that from a community (including their families) whose opinions had never really moved out of the fifties, they hadn't even talked about whether or not they were going to give the long-distance thing their best shot when those letters showed up in their mailboxes. Dean supposed that they just both assumed that nothing but the space between them was going to change. That meant a near-daily avalanche of phone calls, handwritten letters (even though Dean had never been great at that kind of thing), texts, and e-mails. And the care packages that Dean shipped to Sam every weekend.

He'd looked after him since they were too small to open the refrigerator door on their own. Patched up his scrapes and cuts, made sure he was eating and drinking enough when they went into school and sports, picked fights with everyone who thought they could push him around. He couldn't do all of that anymore, but Friday night, he could bake cupcakes, cookies, muffins, breads, cake rolls, cream puffs, and brownies. Things he'd learned how to make perfectly in the classes he needed for his major. And Saturday morning, he could pack all that stuff into a cardboard box, sometimes with a short note he hoped got his feelings across, cart it down to the nearest post office, and pay what it took to overnight it to California. He always put enough in for Sam to share the love around his dorm. Maybe make some friends. Just because he was too surly to get along with the trust fund babies he was living with now didn't mean Sam had to be.

Even with everything else they'd worked out (like the calling schedule that wouldn't wake either of them up), they hadn't really made any solid plans about what was going to happen over break, or even talked about it. So Dean decided to be cute. He scribbled something out on a piece of notebook paper, asking Sam what his break looked like and what day would be a good one for him to come out. He dropped it into the last box that he'd be mailing before his own break, right on top of the rum cake, then got it going in the usual way. He felt good, happy, looking forward to a call from Sam. He got it Sunday afternoon, in the middle of studying for the algebra final that he had the next day - which wasn't something he'd ever been able to see himself doing before the middle of the semester. College was making a nerd out of him.

He grabbed his phone - an older model with a cracked screen that was blurry with thumbprints - on its second ring, answering it with a grin.

"Hey, Sammy," he greeted. "Betcha can't guess what I'm doing right now."

"Please tell me you're not cooking," was Sam's reply. Dean couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not.

"Baking," Dean corrected him, flipping his book shut and leaning back in his desk chair. He didn't want to think about algebra while he was talking to Sam. "I bake. Mostly. And I only do that on Fridays." He paused, considering, before he admitted, "Well, and in class, I guess."

There was a soft noise on the other side of the line. Dean squinted, unable to place it. Sam cleared his throat and asked, "So if you're not baking, what're you doing?"

"Studying," Dean said proudly. He heard Sam whistle. "Yeah, I know. Hell must've frozen over, huh?"

"C'mon," Sam replied. "I knew you had it in you. I mean, yeah, you...kind of didn't try at all in high school, but college is definitely more important." That same sound again. Maybe something was broken in the satellite that their voices were bouncing off of. If he actually understood how cell phones worked. "D'you need any tips?"

"Nah. My roommate needled me into going to this seminar thing," Dean replied, glancing out the window that his desk was wedged in next to. It was snowing again. Lightly, but still. He couldn't wait to get to California. "Y'know. The one I told you's always skiing down in Aspen? Anyway. Boring as hell, but I guess I learned a lot." He abruptly spun himself away from his desk, his chair creaking so loudly he was sure that Sam could hear it. "Buuut I don't really feel like talking about my finals, and I'm sure you don't feel like hearing about 'em."

"Well, what about my - " Sam began, sounding almost playful. Dean cut him off.

"I definitely don't wanna hear about those, Matlock," he replied. "If culinary finals are just about boring enough to put me to sleep, I don't wanna find out what kind of effect law finals'd have on me." He stared at the flimsy door that led out of his small freshman dorm room. "I wanna talk about the fact that I'm gonna be able to come and see you in a week."

He was sure that that was why Sam had called; it was about the right time for him to have opened the box and seen the note. Sam didn't really say anything, though. The only thing that came through Dean's phone was that weird sound - again. It sounded a little familiar.

"What is that?" Dean asked, half to himself.

"I don't know," Sam responded, so fast that it was almost painfully obvious that it wasn't true. He'd never exactly been awesome at lying. Unlike Dean.

Whatever, Dean could let it go. Maybe Sam had dropped his phone or something and was embarrassed about it.

"So, I'd kinda like to get out there as soon as possible, but if you'd rather I stayed put for a few days, I could do that, too," Dean continued, glossing over the thing with the sound. "Whatever works for you. I just need to know today. I've got the money for a ticket, and I wanna get it early."

"Dean, if you've got extra money, you should spend it on books, or - food," Sam replied. He sounded concerned. "Not a ticket to California."

"Scholarship pays for my books," Dean replied. He didn't really like to think about that scholarship. Sam probably did, though, considering he was the one who'd helped him apply for it after pushing him into agreeing. "And there's no way I'm gonna run outta food. Not in my major." He smirked a little, fully aware that Sam couldn't see his expression. "What's the matter, Samsquatch? Don't wanna see me?"

"I - " Sam began, before stopping abruptly. He sighed into his phone, producing a crackling noise. "Of course I wanna see you. I mean, I flew out early, so it's been almost six months. I miss you." That was more along the lines of what Dean had been expecting to hear. "But I just don't think...that you should come out here this time."

Dean mulled that over for a few seconds, pushing at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Once he was satisfied that he couldn't come up with a simple reason for Sam to say that, he asked, "You got big plans or something? You wanna go home?"

"No - no, I don't think my dad wants me there." Sam sighed again. "He doesn't need to know about...us to be pissed at me."

Dean was sympathetic. He'd met Sam's dad. The guy would probably be a lot more dangerous if he didn't spend most of his time actively trying to pickle himself, but still. If Sam wasn't going home, though...

"Then why the hell don't you want me out there?" he asked, frowning at the door. He crossed his ankles.

"It just...isn't a good idea, right now," Sam repeated, awkwardly.

"Yeah, that ain't gonna cut it, Sam," Dean replied, folding his free arm across his chest. "And I think you know it. It's the holidays - we've both got a ton of time off. Can you really think of a better time for us to be together?"

"Spring break?" Sam attempted. "That might be better. We'd have practically the whole campus to ourselves."

"Well, why can't I come out there for spring break and Christmas break?" Dean asked, starting to get frustrated. Usually, talking to Sam had the opposite effect on him. "I want a reason, Sam."

Sam didn't answer. Again. The sound came back, though, rolling out of the speaker on Dean's phone a couple times in rapid succession. He just ignored it. It probably wasn't important.

"Sammy?" Dean pressed.

"I'll tell you later," Sam said finally. "I'll explain it all later, when I've got it all taken care of. You'll probably think it's funny."

And that totally didn't sound weird or suspicious. Dean cleared his throat, shifting his position in his chair before quietly saying, "Sam. D'you not want me to come down there 'cause...there's somebody else now?"

When Sam replied, almost instantly, he sounded shocked and almost hurt. "I'm not cheating on you, Dean. How the hell could you even think that? I'd never - "

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, shouldn't've asked that, forgot you mate for freaking life or whatever," Dean interrupted. Maybe it'd be fun to listen to Sam profess his undying love for him (or say whatever it was he'd been planning on), but considering that he didn't even want to see him for Christmas, it'd sound a little hollow. "You're not cheating. Sorry."

"Yeah, okay," Sam said, not sounding very convinced. Hypocrite. Dean heard the sound for the millionth time, and he finally realized what it was.

"What're you eating?" he asked, feeling better as he relaxed back into his chair with a smile. He loved knowing that Sam was eating his baking. His psychology professor would probably say that it was because of some kind of stunted nurturing instinct. "The rum cake? I thought about making a fruit cake, but then I - "

"I'm not eating anything," Sam said, so firmly he cut into what Dean had thought was actually a pretty funny story. He heard something crinkle, like Sam was shoving it away from himself. It sounded like the wax paper he'd wrapped the cake in.

"Okay, then," Dean said, more confused than offended.

"We can talk every day," Sam told him, apparently eager to change the subject. "For as long as you want. But I don't think you should come out here."

"Okay," Dean repeated. He slowly turned back to his desk, sensing that the conversation was just about over. "If you really feel that strongly about it?"

"Thanks." Dean probably would have been able to hear the relief in Sam's voice even if he'd been deaf - it was just that obvious. "I...I'll talk to you later, okay, Dean? I've kinda got somewhere to be."

"Yeah, all right," Dean agreed, and Sam hung up. He took the phone away from his ear and stared down at it in his hand, like answers to his questions, which just kept getting more and more confusing, might suddenly flash across its battered screen.

Dean knew two things for sure - or had thought that he knew them, at least. The first was that Sam would never lie to him or cheat on him. The second was that Sam would never not want to see him if he had the chance. Since of those clearly wasn't true anymore, it only stood to reason that the other might not be, either.

So Dean shoved his algebra book out of the way, reached for his bulky secondhand laptop, and bought an AmTrak ticket to Palo Alto without thinking about it. He was going to get to the bottom of this, whether he liked what he found or not.

Finals were hell. Everything his casual acquaintances (he didn't really have friends) had told him, every seminar he'd attended - it hadn't prepared him. The week was so emotionally and physically grueling that, when the blaring of his alarm bored straight into his brain at four-thirty on Saturday morning, he spent almost twenty minutes seriously thinking about whether or not he really wanted to go. He was pretty sure that he was actually asleep for half that.

When he finally hauled himself out of bed and turned his phone off (good thing his dickwad roommate was still in Aspen), he almost hit the floor with exhaustion. But, somehow, he managed to get ready, grab his duffel, and just barely catch his train. He slept the whole way, which he thought helped him feel less like a zombie, and which no one else on the train really seemed to mind. It was mid-afternoon when he got there, and an hour later than it was in Denver, but he could deal.

Dean caught a taxi to the Stanford campus. He hoped that Sam wasn't too pissed about him coming out to lend him some money, because he was burning through his cash rapidly. Why was everything so damn expensive in California? At least it was a hell of a lot warmer than Colorado, even in December.

Sam had told him his building and room number awhile back, just something casual he'd let slip, and Dean still remembered it. Which was a stroke of luck. But he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable as he hiked across campus with his duffel bag slung across his back, searching for Sam's dorm. Dean couldn't honestly say he'd ever given a shit about what other people thought about him, but he just couldn't shake the feeling he didn't belong here, in his heavy, worn-in leather jacket and workboots and oil-stained jeans. Everywhere he looked, he saw polos and Swiss Army laptop cases and haircuts that'd probably cost more than his phone. None of these yuppies had had to work at a garage through October to pay for their meal plans. Most of them probably weren't here on scholarships or loans, either. Dean swallowed, sure that every single eye in range was on him right now. It was a relief when he found Sam's building and could duck inside.

The first floor pretty much seemed to be just a lobby, with a lot of couches and chairs that looked more comfortable than Dean's bed. So he went up to the second floor. There were rooms up here. Most of the doors were closed, but he could hear people moving and talking behind them; he thought to himself that most classes were probably over for the day before he remembered that it was Saturday. And break. Jesus, he was tired.

Pretty much every door had a name on it - or two, if it was a shared one. Magnets, stickers, permanent marker on the bare surface (Dean thought that that one might be against the rules), pieces of paper haphazardly taped up with crayon or pencil scribblings on them. More often than not, there were bumper stickers and posters and team logos under the names, but Dean wasn't interested in those. He read the names as he walked, ignoring the few other people out in the hall. Kevin and Denny. Robert. Luke. Casey and George. Jan and Antonio. Dao and Jake. Leslie (Leslie? That was a guy name?). Sam.

Dean stopped in front of the last one. This door had one of the paper-and-pencil signs taped to it, Sam's full name printed neatly on it. One of the tape pieces had had lost its stickiness, so the upper right corner had peeled off. Dean checked the number. Yep, this was it. He shifted the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder and knocked on the door.

A desk chair rolled inside the room. Feet padded on the crisp, clean-looking carpet of the dorm. Dean folded his hands, standing in a parade rest position as the door opened.

He only got the briefest possible impression of Sam. Caramel-colored hair tucked in waves behind his ears. Face freshly shaved, probably as of this morning. T-shirt loose and baggy and actually, Dean realized, one of his own. Bitch must have stolen it right before he came out here. Dean barely had time to take that much in, because almost as soon as Sam saw him, his eyes widened, and he slammed the door.

Considering how adamant he'd been that Dean not come out and see him, Dean had been more or less expecting this reaction. He rolled his eyes, huffing a sigh out through his nose, then knocked on the door again. It occurred to him that Sam probably hadn't even locked it, but he probably already wasn't too happy with him. He didn't want to make it worse by barging into his room without his permission.

"Open the door, Sam," Dean instructed, raising his oice a little so that he'd be able to hear him through it.

"What the hell're you doing here, Dean?!" Sam exclaimed from within the room, voice muffled. And panicked. "I thought I told you not to come out here!"

"Yeah, you did," Dean replied, laying his hand, palm flat, against the door. "But something about that just didn't seem right to me. So I came anyway. To try and figure out what's going on with you."

Sam didn't seem to have a response for that. Only silence came through the door. So Dean started knocking on it again, since he wasn't about to let Sam forget that he was out here. And he wasn't leaving until they talked.

A couple of the guys who were out in the hall seemed to have noticed that something was happening. Finally. Dean wasn't sure that Stanford kids were really all that smart. He saw one walking over out of the corner of his eye, a guy who'd been leaning against an open doorway and talking to whoever was inside the room. He stopped all but pounding on Sam's door (his knuckles were getting sore anyway) and turned to face him. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and seemed to be unconsciously sucking on it, and he was wearing glasses.

"Is there something going on here?" he asked in a Georgia twang so pronounced it almost sounded fake, stopping a few feet away from Dean and shoving his hands casually into his pockets.

"Obviously," Dean replied. He could feel himself being sized up. Judged. He wondered how long it'd take this guy to get campus security in here to deal with him, and guessed that he was probably thinking the same thing, going by how he was looking at him. "But nothing that has to do with you."

"Well, I'm not so sure - "

Sam's door opened again, and both Dean and the yuppie with the cigarette automatically glanced towards it. It hadn't opened very far, and Sam was kind of leaning around it, so all that Dean could see of him was his face and one shoulder. He was looking awkwardly at him.

"I guess...you can go ahead and come in, Dean," he said slowly. "Y'know. Before you get in a fight with my dormmates." He cast a quick glance at the Georgian, who raised his eyebrows.

"This that baker boyfriend of yours, Sam?" he asked curiously as Sam ducked back into the room and dean pressed the door open further so he could make it through. Dean turned and shot him a shit-eating grin over his shoulder.

"Sure am," he confirmed, and the guy grinned back.

"Those red velvet cupcakes you shipped out here were something else," he told him. "You sure got some talent."

Dean blinked, surprised. "Thanks." He'd sent the cupcakes all the way back in September. He couldn't believe he remembered them. He stepped through the doorway.

Sam shoved the door closed behind him, then dropped onto his bed. The room was small enough that he could do that. Sam didn't have a roommate, and the room definitely wasn't built for one. The twin bed, desk, chair, and combination wardrobe-dresser were all crammed in as tightly as they could get, and there was still just barely enough free space for Dean to stand without his duffel touching anything.

He gave it a critical once-over, noting the small posters and pencil sketches that Sam had very obviously done that dotted the walls, then looked back down at Sam. "Nice digs," he commented before dropping his duffel bag and sitting down next to him.

Sam smiled weakly. He was hunched over, elbows on his knees. "Yeah, well, that's the price I've gotta pay for not breathing somebody else's air."

Dean snorted softly. "Never pegged you as antisocial. Or germaphobic. Or whatever the hell that was."

"I just didn't want a roommate," Sam replied, shrugging. He seemed to be loosening up a little bit, much to Dean's relief. "Maybe I would've been okay with it if the dorms were co-ed, but another guy..." He trailed off, looking at Dean, and his eyes were so full of puppy-dog innocence and anxiety that he had to look away. He got it: sharing a room with a guy who wasn't his boyfriend would have felt too much like cheating to Sam. He'd wondered why he never mentioned a roommate during their phone conversations.

"I shouldn't've come out here," Dean said, saying the realization that he'd just had out loud before sighing heavily. "I should've known better than to think you were lying about...about cheating, and just taken your word for it."

"No, you...I think you had a right to be suspicious," Sam said. His voice was soft. Dean practically had to strain to hear him. "I mean, you didn't have any idea what was going on. I should've just sucked it up and explained why I didn't wanna see you."

"So why didn't you?" Dean asked, looking at Sam again. In response, he dropped his gaze and hunched over even further.

"I-" he began, sounding like he was completely uncertain of how to continue. Dean wasn't surprised when he didn't.

"You what?" he asked him, leaning towards him a little. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to intimidate him, or if he just wanted to get closer. "Are you trying to hide something there?"

Sam immediately shook his head, but before he'd even stopped, Dean had stood up, standing in front of him and grabbing his shoulder. He was frustrated. Sam had literally just told him that he should have explained what was up before he bothered to ride all the way out here, and now he was back to trying to hide it from him. He wasn't going to just let it go this time.

He hauled up on Sam's shoulder. Sam yelped as he was forced to straighten up. Dean stared down at him, expecting to see - well, he didn't really know what he expected to see. A bullet wound. A chestburster. A note saying "I'm sleeping with someone else." But all that was there was a round, gently-curved potbelly, just barely large enough to make the fabric of (Dean's stolen) T-shirt snug against it, and a pair of pillowy love handles above his hips.

Dean stared down at Sam. There was absolute silence between them as the seconds ticked past. Sam's eyes were so wide that white was visible all the way around his kaleidoscope irises, and a dark blush was slowly rising in his cheeks. Eventually, Dean gave up on waiting for him to say something (as his cock, inexplicably, twitched). He folded his arms over his chest and admitted, "I don't get it."

Sam blinked up at him, lips parting slightly, looking like he was at a complete loss for words. It didn't last long, though, because then he burst out with, "What the hell d'you mean, you don't get it?"

"I don't," Dean repeated. "What're you freaking out about?"

Sam stood, all of a sudden. Dean was forced to press his back against the wall, and even then, there was only a few inches of space between them. This room was really ridiculous; Dean's was more than twice its size, and he only shared it with one other person.

"Don't you see this?" Sam snapped, sounding borderline-panicky. He moved, and Dean glanced down to see that he'd put his hands on his stomach, squeezing it slightly.

"Yeah, of course," Dean replied. "Freshman fifteen. Kinda expected it. I mean, yeah, you're sort of a gym rat, but you also get freaked out real easy, and you were pretty chunky back in middle school - "

"'S more like the freshman thirty," Sam mumbled, looking away from him and angling his head so his hair (an inch or two longer than Dean remembered it being) fell over his face.

"Yeah? So?" Dean asked, still not getting it. He hadn't gotten it when Sam had started making a concentrated effort to get rid of his baby fat five or six years ago, either. Sure, muscles were nice. He and Sam had both had fairly powerful physiques since they were around fifteen, but the difference between them was that, while Sam's had been built on their high school's track and in its weight room, Dean's had come from the hours he'd logged in his dad's garage and toting around toolboxes and carrying bags of sugar and flour (though that last one had really only happened at college). In Dean's opinion, there was nothing wrong with some extra padding, and muscles weren't worth it if you had to actively work for them. Sam thought very differently. Obviously. "Why the hell is this such a big deal? Look, I've put on a few, too. Kinda hard not to, with my major."

He lifted the bottom of his shirt, exposing his lightly-freckled stomach. It'd been more or less flat before school started, but it wasn't like he'd had a six-pack or anything (he thought. Not like he'd spent a whole lot of time looking at it). Now, it was softer, about a plush inch of sugar and carbs covering the muscles. Sam didn't even glance at it, though.

"I was gonna fix it before you saw me in the spring," he mumbled, still looking away from Dean. "That's why I wanted you to stay where you were this time. I've been hitting the gym every day...trying to watch what I eat..."

Dean noted that he put a little more emphasis on "trying" than he strictly needed to, but he brushed it aside because he was actually impressed. Hitting the gym every day during finals? That took some serious commitment.

"Okay," he said, nodding. Sam had dropped back down onto the bed, giving them both a lot more room. "Good for you. But, y'know, you can still do all that. Get that beach body ready for spring break." Sam was doing that annoying thing where Dean wasn't sure if he was listening to him or not, staring down at his socks and Dean's boots. "If it'll make you feel better. 'Cause I really don't care."

Sam groaned, so Dean assumed he'd been listening after all. He straightened up, leaning back so his shoulders rested against the wall, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. It was a familiar gesture, and Dean had seen him make it about a million times before. Always when he was stressed or frustrated. This time, it seemed to be both.

"Shut up, Dean," he mumbled, hands still pushed up against his eyes. "I'm not five anymore. You don't have to try and make me feel better about being fat."

"You've got a little pudge," Dean replied. "Doesn't mean you're fat."

"Shut up," Sam repeated, though there wasn't any real force behind it. Dean rolled his eyes. Occasionally, Sam was more like a younger brother than a boyfriend.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed. "But you really don't have to pout like this. Like I said, I don't mind the belly." He paused, and decided to just go ahead and take the plunge, giving voice to something that had been tiptoeing around in the back of his mind since he'd first caught a glimpse of Sam's new poundage. "In fact, I kinda like the belly."

Sam snorted.

"No one likes extra weight on guys," he muttered, not moving an inch. "I'm not stupid, Dean."

"Well, no," Dean admitted. That much was clearly true. "But you are are acting like it right now." He lifted one of his knees to his chest so that he could unlace and tug off his boot.

"So it's 'stupid' to be upset that my physically-freaking-perfect boyfriend is seeing me fat?" Sam snapped, finally dropping his hands and glaring at Dean through slightly-puffy eyes as he set his boots next to his duffel.

Dean folded his arms across his chest, standing in front of Sam with his sock-covered feet planted shoulder-width apart. He was still tired from finals, and he was kind of sore from sleeping on the train. He hadn't seen his boyfriend in months, and even though he'd hit every tall brunette in town during high school, that meant he hadn't had sex during that time. He just wasn't in the mood to give Sam the space he probably thought he needed right now. That, and he doubted he could afford a motel room for the night, unless he wanted to hitchhike home.

"Well, you're obviously not gonna believe me no matter what I say," Dean declared, and Sam raised his eyebrows slightly in a "you think?" kind of way. "So I guess I'm gonna have to do something else."

Sam opened his mouth, presumably to snark out some skeptical, self-loathing reply. Dean didn't let him. He leaned in, just like he'd done a thousand times before, put his hands on either side of Sam's head, and fitted their mouths together. It felt good, after going for so long without it - better than he'd expected, even. Sam tasted...sugary, which Dean hadn't really expected, after his rant about how he was trying to be healthy or whatever. He cooperated with the kiss for a few seconds, pushing up against Dean and letting his tongue wander into his mouth, but then he pulled back and shook his head to get it out of Dean's grip.

"Cut it out," he commanded, giving Dean an irritable shove with one hand. "I'm really not in the mood right now, Dean."

"Okay. So we won't have sex," Dean replied agreeably, leaning back down to brush his slightly-chapped lips along the line of one of Sam's pronounced cheekbones. "I feel kinda weird about having sex in a dorm room, anyway."

"No. I just don't want - " Sam cut himself off with a little, involuntary-sounding gasp as Dean dropped his mouth down to the side of his neck, planting his hands on the mattress on either side of him.

"Yeah, you feel gross right now," Dean mumbled against Sam's soft, lightly-stubbled skin. "Or something. I'm gonna fix that."

"Stop it, Dean..." Dean felt Sam's breath hitch in his throat as he moved a little lower, to his collarbone. He wasn't fat; the ridge of it still jutted out obviously.

"D'you really mean that?" Dean asked huskily, feeling himself begin to twitch and stir in his boxers as he ran his tongue over Sam's clavicle, tasting him for the first time in months. When he thought about going even lower, to something softer, he practically shot right up.

Sam didn't answer this time. He leaned away from him, and for a second, Dean thought that he was trying to cockblock him again. But, no, he was just slowly laying down, swinging his legs up onto the small bed. Dean adjusted his position to match Sam's, getting on all fours above him and straddling him. He stared down at him. Sam's pupils were blown wide, and his irises glowed amber in the sunlight pouring in through the half-opened blinds on the window.

"I missed you so goddamn much," Dean said bluntly. Seeing Sam again after being separated from him for more than a semester was like living with chronic pain for six months and then finally getting a hit of morphine.

"I missed you, too," Sam replied, sounding vaguely guilty to Dean. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For getting - "

"Yeah, never mind." Dean was pretty sure he knew what Sam was going to say, and he was also pretty sure that he didn't want to hear it. He lowered himself but kept his knees where they were, like he was doing a girl push-up. He kissed and nuzzled the smooth hollow of Sam's throat, smirking a little as he tipped his head back appreciatively, then moved down and kissed his breastbone through the fabric of the T-shirt that he was wearing. It smelled entirely like Sam now; Dean couldn't find any hint of himself. Not that he really knew what he smelled like.

Dean worked his way down, forcing himself to go slow even though he didn't want to. Along the flat stiffness of Sam's sternum, fingertips digging into the light comforter he was laying on, and finally down to where he really wanted to be. The swell of his clearly well-fed stomach. Dean supported himself on his elbows so that he could hook his thumbs under the hem of Sam's shirt and roll it up to reveal his middle. Sam shuddered under him, and Dean was sure that he'd be blushing again if he looked up at his face. He half-expected him to try to get him to stop again, or to at least tug his shirt down, but he stayed where he was.

Dean pressed his nose and lips into Sam's belly, just reveling in the softness of him for...a few seconds, maybe, or a few minutes. He wasn't really keeping track of time. This was a totally new experience for him, since Sam had already been taut and hard the first time Dean had really put hands on him, in the back seat of his car. He inhaled the irresistible, familiar scent rolling off of Sam's warm skin, affectionately nuzzling into the thick padding right below his navel. He had to go pretty deep to hit the layer of muscle underneath it, and that discovery had more blood pooling in his groin.

He brought his hands down to cup Sam's love handles, groaning softly at the way they jiggled a little when he touched them. He critically eyed the waistband of Sam's jeans, digging into the soft flesh in a way that suggested it was a size or two too small for him, then planted a gentle kiss on the slim trail of dark brunette hair that peeked out of it.

"I really like the belly, Sam," Dean said, voice muffled by Sam's stomach. He felt him shudder again, and it sent the hard bulge in his too-small jeans bumping against Dean's throat. Dean couldn't help but smile.

"Why?" Sam grunted it out, voice rough in a way Dean definitely recognized.

"I dunno," Dean admitted, lifting his head so he could peer at Sam over the curve of his belly. "I just do. Maybe I think it's cute. Maybe I'm actually a little bit of a chubby chaser." He grinned at Sam's soft snort, then let go of his love handles and pushed himself up. He crawled along the bed until he could lay next to Sam. Just barely. On his side. The bed was as ridiculous as the room that it was in. Dean put a hand on the dome of Sam's pudge and kissed his ear. "Anyway. This is a super nice belly, Sam...kinda makes me wonder how you got it." He hoped he wasn't going too far. The words were just rolling out of his mouth, the same way they usually did when he was horny and around Sam. "You must really like the caf food here."

He felt a little spike of regret when Sam squirmed against him. He should've just kept his big mouth shut. He'd already known that Sam was self-conscious about this.

"Well, that's...that was part of it, yeah," Sam admitted with a sigh, and damn if that didn't pique Dean's interest.

"'Part of'?" he parroted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look curiously down at Sam. "Then what was most of it?" Belatedly, he added, "I mean, if you don't mind me asking."

"...I guess I don't," Sam replied warily. "You probably have a right to know. Since it's another reason I didn't want you coming out here."

"Well, now I really wanna know what it is," Dean said. He couldn't think of any overlap between why Sam had gained weight and why he didn't want to see him.

Sam cleared his throat, like he was embarrassed. He lifted a hand, laying his forearm over his eyes before mumbling out his answer. "Your, um...y'know those boxes you've been sending?"

Dean frowned for a beat, and then he got it. His care packages. His huge boxes of pastries, packed with more than enough for Sam to pass some out to his dormmates and still have plenty left for himself. Except maybe Sam hadn't been sharing. Maybe the guy Dean had talked to outside had remembered his red velvet cupcakes because they were the last things of his he'd had. Maybe Sam had been snacking his way through the entire box over the course of each week.

Thinking about that made Dean's cock pulse hotly. Sam sitting at his desk every night, studying, macaroons or brownies or - or rum cake, he remembered suddenly, next to him, taking absentminded bites even though his stomach was already bloated with sweets. Packed with them. It was Dean's turn to shudder now, and with the way he felt, he was actually surprised he didn't just come in his pants.

Dean gave Sam's stomach a little squeeze, being careful not to hurt him. He'd made that.

"What're you thinking?" Sam asked. He moved his head slightly on the pillow, so he could look at Dean. "D'you feel bad? Because you really should. I'm twenty-two pounds heavier than I was when I left Lawrence, and it's all your fault."

"I know," Dean replied, and it came out as a growl that even surprised him. Sam blinked, eyebrows inching towards each other.

"Are you okay?" he asked slowly. Dean closed his eyes for a second, nodding as he rolled his wrist against Sam's belly without really thinking about it, lightly massaging the pillowy softness.

"Yeah," he assured Sam, voice still rough. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, letting the relative silence that always filled dorm buildings stretch out as he tried to decide what the best way to tell Sam what he was thinking right now would be. It was harder than he would have thought, given that he'd known him practically his whole life. "'Cept I think I just found out I'm a whole hell of a lot kinkier than I thought I was."

Sam frowned at him, but like he'd said before, he wasn't stupid. He got what Dean was talking about almost immediately, and his frown deepened. Dean swallowed the urge to lecture him about premature wrinkles, like he'd done in high school.

"Oh, no," Sam said, slowly starting to shake his head. The shaking got faster and firmer as he kept talking. "No. No way. You can't - you can't possibly be turned on by this." He gestured disgustedly to his stomach.

Dean shrugged, not very bothered by Sam's reaction. His freak-outs weren't anything new to him.

"Well, it ain't really something I can help," he pointed out. Very reasonably, he thought. "I mean, it's sex. It's sexuality. I can't help being bi, either."

Sam was stonily silent in response to that, eyes cast down towards his feet, and Dean knew he'd given him a point that he really couldn't argue with. No one knew better than the two of them that you couldn't choose what you liked.

"Actually, I'm kinda surprised you aren't happier about this," Dean commented when Sam didn't say anything. "Considering how strung out you were about what I was gonna think about this." He affectionately patted Sam's little belly, which his hand was still comfortably resting on. Sam squirmed, like he wanted to shove his hand off, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

"Of course I'm not happy about it," Sam replied irritably. "I hate this." He put his own hand on his stomach, next to Dean's. "I wanna get rid of it. And then I found out that it gets you hot."

"Well, if you're really that bothered by it..." Dean dropped his head and sighed softly against Sam's temple before nuzzling into his hair. "Then you can do whatever you want. You can keep going to the gym every day while I'm here. I'll come with you, and talk to you or something. We can eat salads and boiled chicken and tofu and all that stuff." He could feel Sam relaxing incrementally against him as he spoke. "It won't be a big deal. Just 'cause I've got a kink doesn't mean I'm gonna break up with you if you slim back down."

"Pretty sure I already knew that, Dean," Sam mumbled, but Dean thought he was breathing easier now.

"There's just one thing I want you to do for me. Tonight." Dean kissed Sam's temple as a plan percolated in his mind. He didn't know how this was going to go; he might be sleeping on one of the comfortable couches down in the lobby tonight.

"What?" Sam asked. The wary note from earlier was back in his voice.

"I wanna see you eat for me," Dean replied, heart starting to race in his chest at the thought. "As much as you can."