Dean had always been jacked, muscular. Well, until now, when he was in his mid thirties and that kind of physique was harder to maintain, so while his stomach still remained more toned than normal— it was slightly soft. If he pinched it, he could feel pudge, and that wasn’t good, right? How did he only realise when he put on a pair of sweats?

Oh, God, what if you left him? You, his gorgeous, witty, sassy girl— you could decide upon seeing his pudge patch that you were no longer interested cause the muscle was gone. Well, not completely, just a little off his stomach, his arms, chest, those were still jacked as hell— he took pride in those. But this? This was major.

So when he saw you come in, he kind of couldn’t hide the evidence, so his eyes held a kind of puppy look— oh, mama, was that a good view for you. Your boyfriend, shirtless, in nothing but sweats, well, you could get used to this. Meanwhile, Dean was freaking out internally, he felt your eyes all over him— was this the end of your relationship?

Oh, fuck, maybe he should’ve listened to Sam and eaten more salad— rabbit food. Sam didn’t have these problems, right, Dean just knew he probably had a stomach that was flat plus abs rather than a stomach that was slightly pudgy plus abs, I mean, this would bother you, right? It would totally bother you, and you’d leave him for some guy who doesn’t have flaws, and he’d be left eternally miserable— too much, huh?

"Sweetheart," he huffed, squeezing the pudgy bit— oh, that wasn’t the best idea, he felt all soft, like he’d let go of himself, "s’ soft.” Dean looked to you, a little ashamed— why would he be feeling ashamed? He looked great to you.

“M’soft.” The word came out like a scoff— he hated feeling soft, except for when it was with you. Oh, ugh, this felt horrible.