Work Text:
Rosemary: Are you trying to get me to be his mother?
Roman: Aren't you his mother?
- Rosemary's Baby -
“What are you doing up this late?”
Sam flinches at the sound of Dean’s voice, hasn’t heard him approach at all, which means he’s likely barefoot, probably in cotton pajamas and his robe.
For a moment, Sam stays where he is, staring blindly into the bright light of the lamp inside the fridge. Eventually he presses his palms into his thighs and straightens carefully, braces against the strain in his back, shuts the fridge door and turns around, trying to clamp down on the feeling of dread at the prospect of looking his brother in the eye.
Dean is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, face sleep-soft and hair askew, looking at Sam with the odd, distant expression that Sam has become far too familiar with over the past few months.
There are a lot of things Sam hates about his current condition, to the point where he sometimes feels for the gun under his pillow at night, blindly toys with the safety, imagines pressing the muzzle into the underside of his chin and pulling the trigger just to make it stop.
But there’s nothing he hates as much as the shadows he sees in Dean’s eyes whenever his brother is looking at him these days. It’s not an expression he remembers ever seeing before, but Sam thinks it’s probably something like revulsion. Horror. Disgust.
What else could it be.
And Sam can’t blame him. He knows what he looks like, with his belly growing obscenely, rounder and heavier every day. There’s nothing normal about the way the skin stretches over the bump expanding his abdomen, nothing normal about the way his back curves to outbalance the extra weight, the way his nipples are even more prominent now through a layer of cotton jersey than they used to be.
His body wasn’t made for this, isn’t equipped to carry the child (the baby, the creature, the thing) inside of him. They don’t even know how – well. He knows exactly how it happened, remembers clawing at the carpet underneath him until his fingers bled, remembers the weight of a body over him, remembers Lucifer’s voice in his ear, familiar taunts about Sam being his perfect vessel, about being made for him. But he knows enough about human anatomy and the birds and the bees to be aware that this isn’t how it usually works.
“I don’t understand,” he said, at some point early on, looking from Castiel to Rowena to Crowley, accusingly, imploringly, begging for answers. “How is this possible?”
“He is Lucifer,” Castiel said mildly, vaguely compassionately, and Sam shook his head, near hysterical.
“That’s not what I mean,” he said impatiently and dragged his hands through his hair. “What I mean is that Lucifer fucked me for over a century into every possible orifice and a few impossible ones without ever knocking me up, so how come it happened this time?”
They had to put the conversation on hold at that point because Dean made a choked sound before walking straight past them and vomiting into the kitchen sink. And hadn’t that been a joy, having to sit Dean down with a bottle of bourbon and explain why he had never told his brother about all the times Lucifer had taken him in the cage, violently or gently, with fingers and fists and tongues and cocks, horns, tentacles, spears, and other things Sam doesn’t remember all that well. He only omitted the parts where Lucifer sometimes had shown him Dean's face or had appeared to him as their dad, and he was not entirely sure if that evasion was for Dean’s benefit or maybe more for his own sake.
But really, the point was, Sam said once Dean was ready to come back to the issue at hand, that getting dicked down by Lucifer in Vince Vincente’s body in the backstage area of a concert hall really hadn’t been all that special, so why –
“Because reality works different in hell,” Crowley said, matter-of-factly, “you know this better than anyone. Down there your body isn’t material, even though the pain certainly feels real. Up here … well. Nephilim are part human, so they rely on actual human bodies to grow. And yes, as far as we know all the others were born by female hosts, but –” He shrugged vaguely. “–there’s always a first time.”
“I just wish that first time didn’t always have to involve me somehow,” Sam said bitterly, “but I suppose there’s a good chance that this particular first time is going to be the last.”
Crowley actually snorted at that, a sound that rang of surprise rather than derision, and before he left, he looked back over his shoulder at Sam with an expression that mirrored Castiel in its look of almost genuine regret.
Dean clears his throat, then, and with a jolt Sam realizes that he has probably been silent for far too long.
“Can’t sleep?” Dean asks, voice carefully neutral, and Sam sighs, looks away.
“Yeah,” he shrugs, and even the small movement of his shoulders makes his entire body ache. “I guess. I don’t know.”
“You need anything?” Dean asks, and God, Sam hates how formal he sounds, how polite, how stilted.
“No,” he shakes his head, frustrated with Dean, with himself, with the world. “It’s just that my mattress is killing me. I kind of want to take a shower but I’m too exhausted, I think. I thought I was hungry, but now I just feel sick.”
Dean frowns, scratches his neck, looking awkward and uncomfortable. “How about tea,” he finally says and pads over to the stove without waiting for an answer. “I can make you some tea.”
“I can make my own tea, Dean,” Sam says, without much heat, and earns himself a dark look that somehow feels more real than anything else he has gotten from Dean in months.
“Just shut up and let me make you some goddamn tea, okay?” Dean growls, and Sam caves and nods, because protesting further feels like far too much of an effort right now.
He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, lets himself sink onto one of the kitchen stools and props his elbows onto the table, not so much because it makes him feel better but more to have an excuse to hide his face. It’s awkward, maneuvering his misshapen body into place, and he can’t help but flinch when his belly grazes the edge of the table as he sits, yet another reminder of what’s happening to him.
As if there is any chance he might forget. He can feel it growing, can feel it claim more space inside his body every day. Sometimes he senses it move now, a rolling sensation or sharp little jabs, the creature’s small limbs making contact with the outer walls of its prison, the kind of thing that parenting books probably describe as a joyful experience, a way to connect with the child – but this is not a normal pregnancy, and the foreign movement under his skin only sends shivers of cold terror down Sam’s spine.
If it was a normal pregnancy, it would already be taken care of by now. An appointment with one of the back-alley doctors whose numbers are listed on the last pages of Bobby’s old planner. Some tincture of Rowena’s that he might drink with his tea to put things in motion.
But there is no instruction manual for how to deal with this. They don’t really know how Lucifer put this child inside of him, they don’t know how it is growing there, without a natural womb to shelter, nourish it. Impossibly, the child is somehow nestled up inside of him, found a home between his organs, surviving on whatever resources it needs and drains him of.
“How do we get it out of him?” Dean asked in the beginning, with the face of a man who hadn’t slept in days, and Rowena gave Sam a look that reflected guilt and pity and a healthy dose of Better you than me.
“It’s a symbiotic relationship,” she said delicately, “or, well, parasitic rather,” she added, and Sam saw how Dean visibly winced at that word.
“What she’s saying,” Crowley continued, a little impatiently, “is that you could try cutting it out of him, but –“ He shrugged. “Good luck figuring out how to do that without killing Sam as well.”
“So what are we waiting for,” Sam said woodenly, stood up, and Dean stared up at him from bloodshot eyes.
“Where are you going?” he asked suspiciously, a dangerous thrum in his voice, and Sam shivered under his gaze.
“To get the angel blade,” he said, in a tone that he barely recognized as his own, and Dean, when he understood what Sam was saying, looked so furious that for a moment Sam thought his brother was going to punch him in the face.
Sam didn’t get punched in the end, probably because Dean had some kind of ridiculous honor code that precluded punching pregnant people, even though he likely never expected that to apply to Sam.
But Dean treated him differently after that day, and that was infinitely worse than a fist to the nose: the way Dean handled him now, the way he was hovering without being really present, always watching him but never looking him straight in the eye.
A hand settles on his back without warning, and Sam jumps, then freezes – sees, just for a split-second, flashes of an ugly green carpet, feels Lucifer’s breath against his neck, tenses already in expectation of a knee against his sacrum, and then the hand shifts, squeezes gently, and behind him Dean lets out a shaky exhale.
“It’s just me, Sam,” he says quietly, almost apologetically, and keeps his palm where it is, resting warm and heavy over Sam’s shoulder blade.
“What –“ Sam starts, doesn’t even know what he’s asking, and Dean’s fingers twitch against his back.
“I just –“ Dean says, unevenly, “just let me –“ He breaks off, but his left hand joins the right against the expanse of Sam’s back, and Sam is still struggling to make his tongue work and ask what he thinks he’s doing when Dean’s thumb digs into the thick muscle in the curve between Sam’s shoulder and his neck, and Sam groans involuntarily, helplessly, at the sharp exquisite pain.
His head tips forward on its own volition, surrendering his bare neck to Dean’s hands, and Dean moves in, starts kneading along the tendons in his neck, works his way down to Sam’s shoulders, pushes the soft t-shirt down just far enough to jam his knuckles into the tight knot right above Sam’s left shoulder blade until the stressed muscle gives under the pressure, softens, melts.
Dean’s hands are hot and dry and a little rough against Sam’s hypersensitive skin, catching against the collar of his t-shirt, dragging the fabric over the curve of his spine. It feels good, far too good, and Sam can’t help but curl into the touch, starved for connection, desperate for anything that makes him feel a little less like he’s a stranger in his own skin, even as he feels shame burning bright white under his sternum at his pathetic need.
“You, uh – “ he starts, swallows, tries to duck out from underneath his brother’s touch, but he’s stuck between the table and Dean’s grip and all he manages is to flinch.
“Dean, you don’t have to do this,” he tries again, his voice faint, unsteady, but he knows that Dean has heard him when his brother’s hands stop roaming, when his movements still.
“It helps, though,” Dean says, and it’s not really a question, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice anyway. “Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Sam concedes, because he does not have the energy to lie. “But I know you don’t like – I understand that you don’t …”
“What?” Dean asks, sharply. His hand clenches around Sam’s shoulder, abruptly. “What did you say?”
Sam closes his eyes, takes a shuddering breath. “I know you are freaked out,” he tells the kitchen table, immensely glad that he’s got his back turned at least. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “I’m not – I don’t blame you, I know what I – but you don’t have to –“
“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean says, roughly, and Sam cringes, trails off helplessly. The hand that is resting on his shoulder tugs briefly, as if Dean is urging him to turn around in his seat before remembering that Sam is not as lean and flexible as he used to be. Then his fingers drop away, and Sam has a fleeting moment to mourn the loss of his brother’s touch before Dean slides into the seat on the other side of the table, leaving Sam with no choice but to look at him after all.
“I’m not freaked out by you,” he says, and there is something like anger simmering underneath his flat, impassionate tone.
Sam rolls his eyes. “You can barely look at me,” he says, and he thinks the words should come out bitter, but instead he just sounds tired. Hopeless. Worn. “I get it. It’s not new, is it. Your brother is a freak and it bothers you. We’ve been there before.”
“You are wrong,” Dean says harshly, and Sam winces, folds his arms over his belly instinctively, protectively, then feels like a tool for doing so and drops them again.
Dean’s eyes follow his movements, an unreadable expression on his face. “You are wrong, Sammy,” he says, a little more softly. “That’s not why.”
“Then what is it, Dean?” Sam pushes, and to his horror, he feels his eyes growing wet.
Dean’s gaze skitters away. “Nothing,” he says tightly. “Let me go check on the water.”
He makes as if to stand, but Sam’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist before he can move. Dean freezes, looks down at where Sam’s fingers are wrapped around his forearm, then up at Sam.
“Sam –“ he says, his voice oddly breathy, almost scared.
“Dean,” Sam says. “Please. I don’t know how much time I have left –“
“Don’t say that, Sam,” Dean interrupts him, fiercely. He swallows, shakes his head. “Don’t say stuff like that. Castiel said –”
“We can’t know that, Dean,” Sam says quietly. “I told you to get it out. I told you to use the angel blade and you said no, and now you act like you barely know me anymore. The way you look at me –”
“Stop,” Dean growls, and pulls his hand out of Sam’s grip. He pushes away from the table, stalks over to the stove, then doesn’t do anything beyond turning off the heat, simply stands with his back turned, his shoulders shaking just the tiniest bit.
“Dean,” Sam says. “Look, maybe Castiel is right. Maybe being Lucifer’s perfect vessel means I am actually going to survive this somehow. Or maybe he is wrong and the child is just going to start eating me from the inside. Maybe the birth will kill me. And no, don’t say it – I get it, you don’t want that to happen, and neither do I, but Dean – I’m scared. Okay? I’m scared, and if you aren’t willing to kill me to end this, then at least I need to you to be able to look at me like you don’t hate me, or –“
“I’m jealous,” Dean snaps, and Sam falters, feels like he got the wind knocked out of him.
“…What?” he asks, dazed, when his tongue finally agrees to cooperate.
“You heard me,” Dean says. He turns around, drags shaking fingers through his hair.
“I heard you,” Sam says slowly. “But I don’t –“
“I’m the freak, okay?” Dean spits, angrily, hands clenched into fists at his sides as if he’s bracing himself for an attack. “You think I can’t look at you because of … this, but I’m the one who’s fucked up. I look at you and see what he – he hurt you, he did that to you, and if I could I’d tear him to shreds with my bare hands, but –” He breaks off and blanches suddenly as if the reality of what he is about to say is finally setting in.
“But what?” Sam asks, tonelessly. “Tell me, Dean.”
Dean looks like a man being led to the gallows. “But there’s that tiny voice in the back of my head,” he forces out, “this voice that says if anyone was going to –”
Sam laughs quietly. It’s an odd noise, sounding strange and rusty even to his own ears, but it may be the first time he’s even come close to laughing ever since that fateful day in LA. “What,” he asks, dark amusement prickling in his throat, “you mean if anyone has the right to knock up your little brother, it should be you?”
Dean winces. “Sammy –”
“No, you are right,” Sam agrees, a strange calm washing over him. He can’t really feel his own body, can’t feel his heartbeat, and maybe it’s because his heart has already stopped working. Maybe his body is already dead, and the creature inside of him is the only thing that’s keeping him alive.
Dean stares at him in disbelief. “Did you not hear what I said?”
“Yes,” Sam nods, feels an impossible smile tug at his lips. “I heard you. I agree. It should have been you.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Dean says flatly, and Sam isn’t entirely sure that he hasn’t, but insanity can only make the coming weeks easier to bear.
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “What do you want me to say. Do you want me to be upset?”
“I don’t understand how you are not,” Dean says, his voice hollow. “I’m no better than him.”
“It’s not the same,” Sam says, and suddenly his heartbeat is back, heart drumming a furious pace against his ribcage. “It’s not the same. I wouldn’t –” He swallows. “It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Sam –” Dean starts helplessly, and Sam cuts him off before Dean can say anything else.
“You can fuck me, you know,” he says, and the words fall from his mouth more easily than he would have thought.
Dean turns white as a sheet. “What?” he asks soundlessly, and Sam shrugs.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“No,” Dean protests, voice strangled, “no, I didn’t say –”
“It’s okay,” Sam says reassuringly, and he isn’t entirely sure which one of them he’s trying to convince. “You want to knock me up. And that’s not –” He chokes on the unexpected surge of disappointment he can taste in the back of his throat at the thought.
“That’s not going to happen. But we can pretend.”
“Pretend,” Dean says flatly. “You want us to –”
“Yes, pretend, Dean,” Sam says, impatiently. “That’s already all I’m doing these days. Pretend that I’m not carrying Lucifer’s child. Pretend that I am not going to die. Pretend that I don’t notice when you can’t look me in the eye. I have done nothing but pretend since we came home from LA.”
“Sammy, no,” Dean says, like the words are hurting his throat. “I can’t.”
“I need something real, Dean,” Sam pleads. “Something that isn’t horrible, anything that isn’t this constant panic that a monster is about to burst out of my chest, and – there’s no one else. There’s only you. So if this is what it takes to –”
Dean squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t. This isn’t right –”
“Don’t give me that,” Sam snaps. He stands up a little too quickly, ends up having to hold onto the edge of the table for support when his stomach rolls and his head starts to spin. Resentment simmers darkly under his skin. “You didn’t have a problem sticking a rogue angel inside me the last time I was dying, but sticking your dick in me is somehow too much to ask?”
“Jesus, Sammy, fuck.” Dean looks like he’s been slapped.
“Sorry. I need –” Sam takes a breath, stops himself, heart in his throat, rage thrumming in his veins, although he isn’t even sure whom he’s angry at anymore. He longingly thinks of the gun underneath his pillow, and he doesn’t want to go like this, not when they are both angry and at odds, but –
“You know what? Never mind.”
He walks out. Walks away from the conversation, from his brother, from this life – or tries to, anyway, because he doesn’t even make it two steps toward the doorway before Dean is there, blocking his path.
“Wait,” Dean says, and he sounds like the word is being ripped out of him. Sam cannot read the expression on his face, but at least Dean is actually looking at him.
“Wait,” Dean repeats, makes as if he’s about to reach for him, then aborts the gesture, drops his arm. “Please. Wait.”
“Why?” Sam asks, and he means it to sound defiant, challenging, but instead his voice comes out pleading, dangerously close to hopeful.
“Come here,” Dean says quietly, and Sam takes a hesitant step toward him, watches Dean’s face crack wide open, reels at the maelstrom of emotions he sees in his eyes.
“Dean, what –” he starts hoarsely, but he doesn’t get to finish, because Dean reaches out then, puts a hand on him, flat palm against the curve of his belly, fingers splayed wide, possessively.
“Mine,” Dean says, and Sam doesn’t know if he means him, or the child inside of him, but it doesn’t really matter, because it’s true, of course it’s true, no matter how much Sam has railed and resisted in the past, how much he tried to carve out some space for himself, how much he clung to the barely existent remnants of his autonomy. His body has never belonged to him, his own mother made sure of that before he was even born, and if he can’t be in control of his earthly shell, if someone has to lay claim on his flesh, he thinks it might as well be Dean.
“Take off your clothes,” Dean says roughly, barely even sounding like himself. His fingers twist briefly in the fabric stretching over Sam’s bellybutton before letting go, and Sam feels the heat creep up his neck under Dean’s stare, suddenly mortified.
He reaches for the hem of his shirt, clumsily pulls it over his head, doesn’t pay much attention to where it drops to the ground, and then, after a moment of hesitation, he undoes the strings on his sweatpants and lets them slide down over his hips. It’s awkward, matter-of-fact, as far from an actual striptease as one can imagine, and he’s feeling too vulnerable, too exposed. He resists the sudden urge to wrap his arms around himself, tries not to look down and remind himself that he can’t see his own toes anymore, and just for a moment he considers stepping away because Dean can’t possibly want … until his gaze drops and he sees that Dean is already hard, the outline of his cock obscenely visible against the fabric of his pajama pants.
Sam sucks in a shaky breath, sharp hiss of air too loud in the silence of the kitchen, and watches Dean’s cock stir in response to the sound, straining against the front of his pants.
“You are –” Dean starts, sounding stunned, but Sam doesn’t want to hear what Dean has to say, doesn’t want to know what Dean sees when he looks at him, not like this, not now. He turns around before Dean can finish his sentence, props his hands onto the kitchen table, and lowers his head, offering himself up, waiting for Dean to take what he needs. He isn’t hard, not yet, but it doesn’t matter, that isn’t what his body is meant for, that isn’t what this is about – all he needs is to feel Dean, feel something he can hold onto when the pain gets too much, something to hold onto at the very end.
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean says somewhere behind him, his voice cracked, ragged, and then Dean’s hands are on him for the second time tonight, wide palms sliding up his back, up to the curve of his neck, then back down, roaming the expanse of his back, trailing up his sides, as if they are mapping out the geography of his body, as if Dean hasn’t touched him a thousand times. Eventually Dean’s hands settle on his hips, tugging him backward, and Sam follows obediently, straightens his arms and shifts his weight until the bare curve of his ass is pressed up against Dean’s pelvis and he can feel the hard length of Dean’s cock dragging against his cleft, twitching impatiently through the layer of fabric separating them. Dean leans in, then, folds himself over Sam’s back, molds himself against his body, and Sam feels Dean’s breath against the top of his spine just before Dean’s lips touch his skin.
“God, if you knew –” Dean groans against his neck, sounding wrecked. He trails off, doesn’t continue, but yes, Sam thinks he might know. And part of him can’t help but be angry at Dean for staying quiet all this time, for choosing this last possible moment to bring it up, and perhaps they will even find time to talk about what that means before everything inevitably goes to hell. But it’s hard to stay focused on pointless regrets when Dean is tenderly kissing the nape of his neck, sucking on the sensitive skin underneath his ear, holding him in place with fingers curled tight around his hip bones while he licks his way down to the valley between Sam’s shoulder blades.
“So you are going to bend over for me, just like that,” Dean murmurs, nosing at the path of his vertebrae, his tone hovering between reverent astonishment and taunt. “Bend over, let your big brother fill you up, put a baby inside of you, huh?”
He lets out a shocked little gasp, goes hot all over at those words, feels arousal spark in his groin at last, helplessly and shamefully weak for Dean’s praise and attention as always, no matter what twisted, perverted form they take.
The creature inside him stays silent, small mercy that he’s grateful for. There’s no movement, no kicks or rolls, just the heavy weight of his belly underneath him, and his hardening cock dragging against the distended curve of his abdomen, smearing drops of precome across his skin as Dean’s tongue traces the length of his spine down to the small of his back.
“Dean,” he chokes out when Dean slowly sinks to his knees, not entirely sure if it is meant to be a plea or a warning, but he loses his voice when Dean’s hands steadily slide downward, gently pry apart his cheeks, and Sam’s spine becomes a liquid stream of magma when Dean’s tongue finds his hole.
“Don’t – ” he starts and doesn’t really mean it, doesn’t know what he’s asking, thinks that he wasn’t supposed to enjoy this, not really anyway; all he meant to do was give his body a purpose other than being the devil’s ragdoll, Lucifer’s little fucktoy, but perhaps Dean understands what he isn’t saying, because he doesn’t stop, just hums against his ass, encouraging and appreciative, sucks and laps at Sam’s hole until the overstimulation makes him crawl out of his skin. Then Dean’s hands pull him open even further, far enough for him to feel the stretch, to feel his entrance gape just the tiniest bit, and already Dean’s tongue is right back where it was, spearing him open, sliding into him. Sam’s cock is leaking, aching, but his mind is hazy, his thoughts too fuzzy for him to take control of his limbs and wrap a hand around himself, and all he can do is hold onto the table and give himself over to the sandpaper scratch of Dean’s scruff against his skin and the slick slide of Dean’s tongue inside of him.
Then Dean pulls away as abruptly as he put his mouth on him, and a wave of panic sloshes over Sam, the sudden loss of contact making him feel off-kilter, bereft.
“Dean?” he asks anxiously when he senses Dean climb to his feet, struggles and fails to look back over his shoulder, and only settles when Dean presses a warm palm against his back, keeping him in place.
“Stay,” Dean says breathlessly, “just gotta find –“
“No,” Sam blurts out quickly before Dean can leave him like this. “No, don’t, I don’t need it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dean says tersely, his fingers clenching and unclenching against Sam’s skin.
“You won’t,” Sam rushes, shakes his head without looking up. “You won’t, I can take it. Please. I just – I need to feel it. Everything.”
Dean is silent for a long moment, and Sam is almost convinced that he’ll refuse. But: “Why you gotta be like this, Sammy,” he finally says quietly, unsteadily, and if Sam didn’t know better, he would say that Dean’s voice is thick with tears. He hears the rustle of fabric, hears Dean spit into his hand, hears the slapping sounds of Dean jerking his own cock, once, twice, and then Dean takes hold of his waist, and two saliva-slick fingers slide into him briefly before the blunt tip of Dean’s cock presses against his hole.
Over the years, he has seen Dean’s dick often enough that he can picture it now, fat and veiny and slightly curving to the left as Dean works it into him. He can tell that his brother is trying to go slow but Sam won’t have it, pushes his pelvis back into Dean’s groin, welcomes the violent intrusion, the stab of pain slicing through his sacrum when Dean breaches him, and it’s almost, almost enough.
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean hisses through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t falter in his efforts, doesn’t stop. The nails on his left hand are leaving crescent marks in the soft flesh underneath Sam’s side ribs, his right hand finds its way into Sam’s hair, grabs a fistful of curls – and then he’s in all the way, his pelvis flush against Sam’s ass, pubes coarse against his skin, and for a moment they both freeze, locked together, breathing unsteadily, as if they have forgotten what comes next.
“Who was the first guy that did this?” Dean asks suddenly, and Sam tenses at the unexpected question about something he thought Dean knew nothing about, something that happened so long ago.
“Was it that asshole in Wisconsin?” Dean is starting to move now, just rolling his hips in tiny circles, the friction of his unlubed cock inside Sam a sweet persistent ache. “The one with the denim jacket and the Marlboro Reds?”
“Y-Yeah,” Sam stutters, irrationally embarrassed to be caught out like this, even after all this time, as if he’s still sixteen, sneaking into their motel room in Eau Claire, hoping against hope that Dean won’t be home when he walks in.
“He … ah …” He lets his head drop down on the table, presses his face into the crook of his elbow to hide his shame. “He fucked me in the locker room after practice. Gave me his old soccer cleats in exchange.”
“Goddammit,” Dean curses, and slams his hips forward with sudden force, driving his cock deeper into Sam’s ass. “You –” He picks up the pace, fucks Sam properly now, with long, deep strokes that rock Sam’s body forward, making his heavy belly sway. “You kept coming home from school smelling like a whore who’d rolled around in an ashtray and I wanted –” He breaks off, his fingers tightening in Sam’s hair.
“I should have done this then,” he grits out. “Before anyone could get their hands on you. Before any of this – I would have made it good, Sammy, you know I would have,” he swears, promises. “I would have taken care of you. You never – you never would have wanted to leave.”
“Yes,” Sam moans against the table, “yes, Dean, I know you would have” – and he’s lying, of course, knows Dean is lying too, knows that it isn’t that easy, that they never had a chance to escape their fate, but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters anymore, and pretending otherwise certainly isn’t going to make it any worse.
“That’s right,” Dean bites out, his fingers in Sam’s hair tight enough to sting, and Sam relishes the feeling, moves his head away from his grip just to make it hurt a little more.
“I would have done you bare,” Dean pants, “just like this, just like … just my dick in your little boy pussy, and every time you would have wondered if this would be the day I’d knock you up.”
Sam gasps, nods uselessly under Dean’s hand as Dean is fucking into him with abandon, his rhythm sloppy, frantic, and Sam scrambles for purchase on the surface to stop his head from banging against the wood.
“And you’d lie in the wrecked sheets,” Dean rambles, pets Sam’s hair between furious thrusts, “you’d lie in bed with my come dripping out of you, and you would have let me fuck it all back into you with my fingers just to make sure …”
It’s possible that Dean continues his sentence, but if he is still talking, Sam can’t hear it anymore. Doesn’t hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears, because Dean’s hand on his waist has started to wander, is settling against the swell of Sam’s bare stomach, and Sam shivers under his touch, feels as if he’s being torn apart between the need to press closer and the urge to flinch away. It’s too easy to tell himself, trapped like this between Dean’s cock skewering him and Dean’s hand cradling him, that the child inside of him is truly Dean’s, too easy to imagine that Dean is the one who fucked his seed into him, over and over, until it took hold, and for a moment he wants it so much that he can taste it on the back of his tongue, desperately wants all the things that Dean is promising him, promises for a different life in a different time that could never be.
“They all would have seen it then,” Dean is saying now, presses in to nip at Sam’s spine, mouth slip-sliding against his sweat-slick skin. “They would have known who you belonged to, they all – Azazel, the angels, Lucifer, I wouldn’t have let them –” His movements falter, his hips stutter helplessly.
“I would have kept you safe, Sammy,” he says, “I swear, I would have,” and he is crying for real now, choking back wet, ugly sobs. His tears are hot on Sam’s skin and his cock is splitting him open and just for a second Sam lets himself believe it, believe that giving his body over to Dean could have been enough to save him from the fall.
And perhaps it’s wrong that the thought makes his arousal burn bright, lights a flame in the small of his back, but right and wrong have lost their meaning a long time ago. He tries to reach for his cock at last and almost loses his balance when he lifts his arm off the table, groans in blind frustration as he catches himself, but before he can make another attempt, Dean’s hand is there, closing around his erection. The angle is off and Dean’s grip is too rough but it’s everything he needs right there, and he feels his orgasm build as Dean jerks him sloppily, weeps against this back, slams into him over and over again until pain and pleasure become one.
“I need –” he starts, struggles for air, tries again. “I need you to come in me, Dean,” he pants, and Dean makes a sound as if he’s dying and shoves into Sam one last time before he tenses and empties his load inside of him. Sam feels dizzy, almost drunk on the feeling of Dean coming undone for him, on the sensation of Dean’s body shuddering against his own, Dean’s unsteady gasps on the back of his neck, and it only takes a couple of strokes, a few more precious seconds until he feels the familiar tension in his lower spine and his balls tighten, and he spills, helplessly, into Dean’s hand.
He tries to catch his breath, gasps for air as he shivers through the aftershocks, only to have his back cramp up and his knees buckle under him, Dean’s arm around him the only thing holding him upright as he stumbles forward against the table.
“Whoa,” Dean says hoarsely, tightening his grip, “wait, I got you,” and Sam feels a pang of regret at the sensation of Dean’s softening cock slipping out of him, leaving him empty and aching and sore. He doesn’t protest when Dean awkwardly manhandles him down onto the ground until eventually they wind up on the concrete floor, Dean’s torso a solid wall in his back, Sam in front of him, half leaning against him, half sprawled over his lap, with Dean’s discarded robe wrapped around his shoulders haphazardly. Dean is still in his pajamas, spent cock tucked back inside the waistband, and suddenly Sam is hyperaware of the fact that he is naked, that there is come leaking from his hole and sticking to his pubes, that there’s sweat dripping down his neck, that his pregnant belly is resting on his thighs, obscenely huge and impossible to ignore, and already he feels the walls closing in on him, feels the familiar sense of panic creep up on him, the realization of what they just have done.
But Dean’s arm is still around him, holding him up. Dean’s hand is idly stroking his damp hair, and Sam ignores the voice in the back of his mind telling him that this might be the last time he’ll be held like this as he closes his eyes, gives in to the exhaustion, sinks into Dean’s embrace. A warm sensation washes over him and he relaxes into it, feels his breathing slow, focuses on the way his chest expands and contracts with his breaths, reminding him that he is still alive.
For a moment he thinks that he might even be able to fall asleep like this, right here on the cold hard kitchen floor, when Dean’s arm around him flexes suddenly.
“What the fuck –“ Dean mutters, and Sam tilts his head up towards his voice without opening his eyes.
“What?” he slurs, sleepily, and Dean’s breath hitches strangely.
“You are glowing,” Dean says, weakly, and his hand fleetingly brushes against Sam’s abdomen.
Still caught up in the haze of fatigue, Sam frowns, is about to tell Dean that he has no use for stale pregnancy puns, but when he opens his eyes, he finds Dean staring down at him with horrified fascination, his features faintly illuminated by a pale glow, and it takes Sam a long moment to understand where the light is coming from.
Sam moves as if in a trance, puts his flat palm over his stomach. His skin feels normal, damp and a little clammy. The faint glow emanating from his center persists.
The thing inside him shifts, presses up against his hand. His skin ripples and stretches with the motion, and Sam swallows, feels unsettled and dazed.
“What –“ Dean whispers, and Sam looks up at his terrified, queasy face.
“I – I think he’s happy,” he says slowly, without really knowing why he feels compelled to say it or where the thought is even coming from.
“Who’s he?” Dean frowns, and Sam takes a shaky breath.
“Jack,” he says, and isn’t entirely sure if he’s really the one saying it.
The creature in his stomach kicks. The glow intensifies. Sam closes his eyes and lets his head fall against Dean’s chest.
“His name is Jack.”