(A continuation of Lisa and Dean, exploring his 'growing' place in her life. ;) Please see Lisa's Little Thing for Part 1.)

Lisa rolls over and her arm flops onto an empty bed. It's not even warm anymore. She squints her eyes open and the white morning sun comes searing into her brain. It's Sunday, for God's sake. When did Dean get up? He should be sleeping in, snoring up a storm, enjoying the weekend.

She scrubs the sand from her lashes and lifts up on one elbow, struggling to kick-start her brain into wakefulness.

"Dean?" she rasps, clearing her throat and trying again. "Baby?"

Ah, the shower's running. She makes out Dean's nearly tuneful warbling of 'Paradise City' over the spray. Guns 'n Roses? Really, Dean? He won't come close to hearing her but whenever he's singing, it's a gorgeous sound, song choice notwithstanding. It means he didn't wake up on the edge of a nightmare, sweating and grinding his teeth. It's probably as simple as he went to bed plenty early and couldn't get back to sleep again. Usually, once he's up, he's up.

Lisa peeks at Dean's watch on the nightstand, moaning half-heartedly at the fact it's barely 8:30. She flops back down, staring at the open bathroom door through the tangle of her hair.

The shower shuts off and the curtain scrapes back, the room suddenly quiet except for the gurgle of the drain, the sparrows just outside the window, and Dean still humming that damned song. His hand snags a towel from the rack and there is the soft shushing of terrycloth on skin, visuals sadly hidden by the half-open door.

When he does finally step from the shower and into view, he has the towel snugged around his hips, tucked under his stout belly. A spot right in the middle of his back still glistens with water drops and his hair sticks up in spikes all over his head. He's gotten broad, what with all the construction work and a healthy diet. A delicious layer of soft blunts the resolve of his muscle, which is so appealing to Lisa she feels a tingle of interest between her legs just watching him move. He swipes the mirror free of steam with one hand and assesses his reflection, leaning forward. The towel slips to hint at the top of his gorgeous ass, and the sway of his belly dips lower, weightier, lapping over the edge of the sink. God, how she loves his belly. His freckled, pliantly firm belly. Dean Winchester is a work of art.

He runs his palm over his chin, frowning, then shrugs and apparently decides not to shave. He flicks off the towel, his cheeks pale in comparison to his torso where the sun touches, and squeezes into a pair of boxer-briefs. The elastic cuts into the meat of his flanks, making Lisa grin and bite her lip.

Since hunting has faded from his daily routine, other small rituals have taken the place of salting the doorways, warding the windows. He never deviates from his tried-and-true Old Spice deodorant, always brushes his teeth before breakfast, still pauses when he hears any sort of scratching sound. But he doesn't jump at shadows anymore, or instantly fear the worst if Ben is five minutes beyond curfew. In gradual steps, Dean's life is normalizing and with every passing boring habit, Lisa falls more deeply, madly, in love.

He is still blissfully unaware of her spying as he steps from the bathroom. She slams her eyes shut and feigns sleep, listening. Maybe it's a voyeuristic streak, but she can't get enough of watching him when he's oblivious: Dean, in his natural state, like some skittish woodland creature. She almost giggles and ruins the whole ruse.

Lisa hears footfalls, the wood floor creaking, then the scraping of the dresser drawer being opened. She hazards a peek with one eye. Dean is pulling out his jeans, and he gives them a good shake to unfurl the legs. One bare foot at a time, he steps into them and gets about as far as his thighs when the struggle begins. From the wear, Lisa figures they're an older pair, and clearly far too small for Dean's current physique. The skin pinches, bunches, and finally gives as he tugs upwards. He has to bounce a time or two to facilitate getting the waistband over his ass, and the image is sheer delight. Ripples jiggle over his belly and Dean juts his lip in a stern pout when he has to inhale to even consider zipping the fly. Rolls spill over the edge of the old Levis, and it's hopeless.

Lisa wants to touch herself but she's afraid the motion will give her away. When Dean swears out loud, though, she gives up the ghost.

"Come back to bed," she says, and he jumps.

"Aw, I was tryin' to be quiet," he laments, his face pinkening. He turns to her and gestures helplessly with his arms, the jeans gapping a good few inches under his solid girth.

Lisa grins wolfishly, patting the bed, and Dean sighs. Any attempt at holding in his gut dissolves in a spill of belly.

"I wanted to sneak out and get donuts, you know, the ones you like. Those –" he makes a little circle with his thumb and forefinger, brows scrunching, "– middles? Nuggets? Lumps? I dunno."

"Donut holes."

"Yeah, those things. I wanted to get you a bunch from Schneider's Bakery but …" He points at his wide torso with both hands. His expression wilts.

Lisa bites her lip, deliberately coquettish. The bigger he gets, the more present he is in her life. The more real and solid and hers. Six months ago, he would've woken her up, made sure the gun was loaded and every portal was locked, her phone was charged and she knew to say "Christo" to every so-called human who came to the door. This was such a massive improvement, she wouldn't trade it for all the money in the universe. If he wanted to get her donut holes, by God, she wouldn't stop him.

"Check the bag in the corner," she says.

He quirks a brow and shuffles off that way, grunting as his old jeans pinch when he bends over to retrieve the department store sack. He fishes inside, and discovers a new pair of Levis, albeit distressed and weathered and soft, ready for wear. Just the way he likes them.

"40's?" he fairly squawks.

Lisa smiles and shrugs.

"But I'm not –"

"Trust me, babe. You are."

He grunts again, but this time it's just an expression of doubt. He peels off the old pants, probably leaving a layer of skin behind, and dubiously narrows his eyes. Pulling on the fresh jeans, he shifts and adjusts to test the fit. Buttons them up. Gives her the equivalent of a facial shrug. "I'll be damned." He'll need a belt, but only just.

She whistles appreciatively. "You, sir, cut quite the figure."

Dean preens before he busts out a laugh. "Yeah, yeah."

Playing a finger over her lips, Lisa bats her lashes and lets her gaze wander all over him. "So."

"So?"

"So you'd better fly like the wind and get those damned donut holes because I'm not gonna wait forever and I wanna feed you pastries from my naked belly and then lick the sugar off your fingers and –"

Dean moves like he's been stung by a hornet. He grabs the first t-shirt he sets hands on, snags his cheap rubber flip-flops – that Lisa literally had to force him to buy – and with a bounce of his brows, pounds out of the bedroom and down the hall.

She hears the front door slam, his truck rumble to life and then peal out down the suburban street.

Grinning like an absolute fool, she spreads out on their big, soft bed and watches the sunlight flicker across the ceiling.