Dean Smith had been aware of the weight he'd accumulated for a while before he took his first sick day in ages — how could he not be? Sure, his boyfriend, Cas Novak, hadn't said anything about the soft belly or the growing lovehandles, or about how Dean's shirts had gotten tighter, or how he'd gotten shyer in the bedroom, even after almost a decade spent together, but Dean didn't have the privilege of being a yoga instructor and Sandover paid him to notice things that other didn't. (Not that the rest of the world was oblivious to Dean's expanding waistline; in the cafeteria, once, he could've sworn that he heard Sam Wesson and Ian from tech support gossiping about it.)

He found it difficult to ignore the bloat on any given day, especially with the pictures around Cas and Dean's apartment from their time in college and the early days of their relationship — but it was even harder to ignore when his stomach rubbed against his the flannel of his pajamas as he vomited into the toilet. Also difficult to ignore were the yawn that came from the doorway, the mixed incense/pot/patchouli scent, and the gravelly, smart-ass remark that followed: "I told you that we should have been more careful about the food at that Greek place." As he tried to catch his breath between fits of puking, Dean glared up at Cas, eyes burning and nose wrinkled like an angry kitten's. The skinny bastard had no shirt on and his pajama pants slung low on his hips, displaying his lean musculature as he grunted and stretched out. "I'm calling your doctor," he announced, rolling his shoulders.

Groaning, Dean slumped and let his cheek hit the toilet seat (for the first time, he was grateful that Cas kept it down "because it was good manners for when their sisters came to visit," even if he still hated how much more this position made his belly pooch). "What're you doing that for?"

"You had a fever last night," Cas pointed out. "And that cough that's not gone away. And now you're vomiting. Why wouldn't I call her?" A moment passed between them in which Dean could think of no decent response to this question, and Cas left him there with just a well-placed, "That's what I thought you'd say."

Once he got himself up off the bathroom floor and padded to their bedroom — to the tune of Cas on the phone, asking some Secretary Whoever the Hell if Dean could come in as soon as possible to see Doctor Turner — Dean decided that jeans were probably a good idea, not considering for a moment that the pants he wore so rarely could betray him. Sure, there'd been a general upward trend in his weight — it had been there ever since he'd gotten out of high school, where his participation in track, soccer, and basketball had let him eat whatever he wanted — but that didn't mean he couldn't fit into a pair of not-that-old jeans. As he heard Cas confirming an appointment time, though — "Yep, nine-thirty; got it. We'll be there, and thank you…" — Dean looked down at a zipper that wouldn't come up and a button that refused to meet its hole.

Inhaling deep and sucking in his stomach got the zipper about halfway up, even if it left Dean grunting from the effort — but that fell apart when Dean succumbed to a fit of coughs; as he exhaled, the zipper went down, and down, until it hit its starting point. Dean sighed and laid down on the bed. Again, he held his breath and, trying a different route — the one he'd used when this sort of thing had happened to him in college — just barely managing to get the button done up. He paused, letting himself breathe, keeping a nervous hand over the button so it wouldn't pop and just listened to Cas calling in to his office — "Dean Smith is ill, Cherise, and… My name? This is Castiel Novak, I… How do I — I'm his partner, ma'am…"

Begrudgingly, Dean sighed and tried to move the zipper; it didn't budge and, when he sat up, the button came undone. Rolling his eyes, he supposed that he should've expected this. He'd weighed 165 when he'd started college, 190 when he'd finished, and, courtesy of following Cas to the classes he taught and on one retreat, 181 when he'd gotten his MBA… of course, he'd been up to 186 when he'd started working at Sandover, but five pounds, Dean had figured, weren't so bad. He'd skipped this year's annual physical, after hitting 201 at his last one, and shortly thereafter, a scale had showed up in the bathroom.

And, unfortunately, it didn't help him help him. He managed to get down to 197 again, but then his sister Jo and Cas's Anna had come up for Christmas, and New Year's Day had seen Dean's weight (200) getting met with a resolution to drop twenty pounds by Cas's birthday in March. He still didn't now how much he'd weighed that day, but it sure as Hell hadn't been 180 — not that Cas had said anything. Adorable jerk that he was, he never seemed to get heavier than 155; Dean had stopped using it when a week and a half of being on the Master Cleanse did nothing but make it harder for him to see his jaw and cheekbones. (Well, it also made Cas go out and come back reeking like weed and toting a bag of Chinese takeout and a case of beer.)

Buying bigger trousers for work had seemed inevitable, and when it had happened, Dean hadn't blinked, but these jeans, it seemed, just would not cooperate. Made sense, he guessed, but that didn't make acknowledging it fun. Shaking his head, Dean wormed out of his jeans and grabbed his pajamas off the floor. Whatever, they were just going to the doctor's office for a bit, and hey, he was sick. He got more leeway.

As he sat on the exam room table, Dean wondered if it had always been so cold in here. Cas's long, graceful fingers ran up and down his thigh (which, he noticed now, definitely felt thicker than he remembered), and the nurse went through the list of standard procedures — temperature, blood pressure, did Dean drink or smoke, and so on. Cas helped him off the table when she needed to check his height (6'1", as always), and then she had to go and ask, "Now could you just step on the scale, please, Mister Smith?"

Dean knotted his brow and took a step back. "That's not really… I mean, I'm just here because… This is a respiratory thing, not a—"

"Dean," Cas chided him with a sigh. "She's just following protocol."

Dean let his eyes drift up to the ceiling as he did what she'd asked; once he felt the cool plastic underneath his feet, he looked back down. The black digital numbers scrambled for a moment before finally settling on 227. Trying his best to ignore the nurse's little tut-tut and her statement that Doctor Turner would be with him shortly, Dean shuffled back to the table and hopped on it. Cas yawned and scratched absently at his tantalizingly slender middle before following suit and leaning into Dean's shoulder. "You know, we could go try that comfort food place down the block from home when we're done here," he mused, pulling his legs up on the table with him; Dean let his dangle over the side. "Lisa says they have good chicken noodle soup."

Dean dropped his cheek onto Cas's bedhead. "Unless it's doctor's orders, Cas? I'll be eating salad." Cas mumbled something unintelligible but pleasant-sounding as he nuzzled against Dean's neck, sharp nose pressing into the flesh that seemed so much softer, now that Dean acknowledged its presence. "Let's just say… so much for New Year's resolutions. …You think I can get away with an October resolution?" Cas shrugged and supposed that Dean could, if he wanted to. "Good. I'm thinking I might need one. Especially with all the crap you're buying to pass out for Halloween."

"Anna and I never got Halloween," Cas explained needlessly; Dean had heard all too many stories of growing up with Pastor and Mrs. Novak's insane notions of what Good Christian Kids did and did not do. "So what was the damage, then?" He listened as Dean reported, and gave a pensive hum; instead of saying anything, he snaked a hand down Dean's back and wrapped both of his beanpole arms around Dean. He slid his fingers under the hem of Dean's shirt (taut against his belly and riding up already) and caressed his hip, holding onto a little bit of fat, rubbing his own chest and stomach into Dean's other side; giving him a low chuckle in response, Dean wormed an arm free and used it to hold Cas closer.

"Don't tell me you didn't say anything about this because you've got a fetish, Cas," Dean said with a hint of a snicker. "Because… don't get me wrong, I like watching you get bendy on the floor, but that's about all the kink I think I can handle on a regular basis."

Cas scoffed, and gave Dean a slow, tender kiss. "There's no fetish," he answered, splaying one hand on Dean's middle and stroking circles on his skin. "I just love you. …And I do enjoy having more of you to love. And using you as a pillow. …And of course, I'll help you lose weight, if that's what you want, but if you think my desire at all necessitates this, you're wrong."

Smirking, Dean mussed his boy's hair and leaned down to kiss him deeper than before; Cas's response was to kiss Dean's throat. "Maybe just a few pounds…" he whispered as Cas trailed a series of kisses and nuzzles down his chest, sinking into Dean's lap. Once he got there, he slid Dean's shirt up over his stomach and then leaned in to run his stubble up and down the rounded bulge. "…Or I could always just buy bigger pants."

Cas's lips curled into a smile.