Destiny Interrupted

Supernatural. Sam/Dean. R. 4300 words. Mpreg, almost.

For the first time in what was probably forever, it was Sam waking up to Dean shifting and squirming in the middle of the night.

In Deep Shit

Dean fell back with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Now that was a good fuck.”

His chest heaved with each gulping breath. Sweat glistened on his skin and made the sheets stick to him and the hairs on his arms prickle. He felt like a million bucks fresh out of the mint. “After a day like today, whew, I needed that.” With a grunt, he rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow.

Sam’s arm was already flung over his eyes, and everything about the shape of his mouth said ‘shut up, trying to sleep’. He plucked lamely at the sheet to drag it up, and mumbled, “Yeah. Saw stars. Go clean up.”

“You never want to cuddle,” Dean said.

The pillow hit him square in the face.

*

A few weeks later, Dean wasn’t feeling quite so chipper.

“All this greasy food is catching up to me,” he grumbled. He stared down at his open fly. His jeans hadn’t felt this snug yesterday, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t grabbed a pair that’d just run through the wash. Man, getting older was not fun on so many levels. He sucked in his belly and fastened his jeans. Inspecting his reflection, he made the decision to skip the whipped cream on the waffles today.

As Dean dragged a shirt on, Sam shouldered his way into the bathroom. His gaze flickered over Dean as he jostled for position in front of the mirror. He swiped his arm across the steamed-up surface and grabbed for the disposable razor propped in a plastic cup. “You know,” he said conversationally, “maybe you should skip the whipped cream on your waffles. It’s starting to look like all that crap you eat is catching up with you.”

“Like you eat any better than I do,” Dean said, and the no-whipped cream plan was promptly booted out the window. He’d do that tomorrow.

“I’m younger,” Sam said. Dean thought he sounded kinda smug about it rather than matter-of-fact. “And I have a more than passing acquaintance to those things called fruits and vegetables.”

“I eat fruit,” Dean protested.

“Strawberry flavoured sodas don’t count.”

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam beat him to the punch. “And potatoes are a starch, not a vegetable.”

“Alright then, genius,” Dean said, hitting Sam to give him a dead arm, “I bet you can figure out who isn’t driving today, too.”

*

The best laid plans go awry.

Dean grabbed at Sam’s sleeve with the desperation of a dying man. “Pull over.”

“Again?”

Dean’s fingers curled to white. He was prepared to take hold of the steering wheel if he had to. “Unless you want me to commit the ultimate sin and barf all over the car, yes, again.”

Sam took his eyes off the road long enough to glance over, and Dean’s current unhealthy shade of green seemed to convince him that this time, it wasn’t a false alarm. Dean practically fell out of the car before it had come to a full stop. He stumbled towards the ditch on the side of the road and keeled over, arms clutched around his belly.

By the time he slunk back to the Impala like a whipped dog, he was pretty sure there wasn’t any punishment fitting whomever had been responsible for the bad cream in his coffee.

The long stretch of road was deserted and the buzz of insects was thick in the air. Sam stood waiting at the open driver’s side, his arms folded over the top of the car. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yeah. Though you could’ve held my hair back,” Dean rasped. His throat felt raw and he dug through the cooler behind the seat to find something to drink. When nothing seemed appealing, he settled on sucking on some half-melted ice and groaned. It had been a long, long time since he’d last been sick.

“Maybe we should just stop for the night at the next place we come to,” Sam said. He had that concerned expression on his face that always made Dean feel a little shifty and uncomfortable when it was aimed at him, but with the way his stomach was behaving, that kelpie in Badger’s Quay was just going to have to wait.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, and groaned again as he slid back into the car.

*

It was well after the sundown when they stopped at a cluster of unfortunate looking buildings collectively dubbed Beaverton. It had a motel though, and by the time they’d checked in and hauled the important gear inside, Dean was feeling pretty good. In fact, he was feeling well enough to not only consider food, but to toss a grin at Sam and point at the sign on the diner across the street proudly proclaiming you could ‘Eat like a Beaver here’, and where some enterprising soul had scratched out the second word.

“My kind of place,” Dean said, as they crossed the street. Sam pushed open the door and held it for him, the bell tinkling a merry welcome. The smell of food on warm air hit Dean like a sixteen wheeler. Thankfully none of the nausea from earlier in the day came with it, and as he sniffed experimentally, his mouth watered.

It was a little late for the regulars so the place was pretty empty. They passed a small cluster of teens—one of them probably responsible for the modification to the sign outside—and a few truckers hunched over their plates. The waitress waved them into a booth. “Boys hungry?” she asked, plopping laminated menus down in front of each of them.

“Think you’ll be able to keep anything down?” Sam asked.

“I hope so, I’m starving.” In agreement, Dean’s stomach growled instead of burbled for the first time in a hundred miles. Since everything on the menu looked good to him, he ingratiated himself with the waitress by flashing a smile and asking her opinion.

“The meatloaf’s always good, but Chuck’s in the kitchen today and he’s got a way with the country fried steak that’ll have you begging for seconds.”

“I’ll have that then,” Dean decided. His eyes skipped to her nametag. “Bowl of the day’s soup and a glass of water with it, if you don’t mind, Linda.”

Sam gave him a look for ordering something so heavy after having made the trip take four times as long with how many pit stops they made, but he didn’t argue. He smiled up at the waitress and put in his own order with the ease that came from eating in places like this all the time. When she’d gone, that was when he laid into Dean. “Really, Dean, country fried steak?”

“What? I’m hungry.”

“Not surprising considering everything you’ve eaten in the past week made an encore appearance today, but couldn’t you have ordered just the soup or something?”

“Hey, Sammy, feel my forehead, would you?” Dean said, leaning forward.

Sam reached across the table to do so, and Dean cracked a smile.

“Look, no fever, that means I don’t need to starve.”

“You’re impossible,” Sam muttered.

Dean tried to keep the smugness down a few notches as Sam realised he wasn’t going to win this one. He watched his brother fiddle with the edge of the paper placemat printed with Fun Facts about the area until their food arrived. Then, in between cramming as much food as he could down his throat, Dean went over the gameplan for that nasty little water sprite they were hunting.

*

For the first time in what was probably forever, it was Sam waking up to Dean shifting and squirming in the middle of the night.

“Dean?”

Dean tried to ignore the light touch to his shoulder. “You okay?” Sam said, and Dean tried to ignore that too. Sam started to rub his shoulder soothingly and Dean batted him away. This sort of thing happened the other way around. If Sam tried to slip an arm around him, Dean wasn’t sure what to do. “Nightmare?” Sam persisted.

“That’s your thing,” Dean said and regretted it immediately. It’s not that he wasn’t prone to a bad dream here and there, but since he was a kid, he’d never had one so bad he was jerked awake. Dean wondered if he sounded as worried and uneasy as Sam did when their roles were as they generally were. “I’m fine, go back to sleep.”

“I can’t when you’re moaning and twisting around every two seconds.”

“Look, we did pay for two beds, you can take the other one if I’m bothering you.” Dean rolled onto his side and did the best job he could of curling himself into a ball.

“You’re not feeling sick again, are you? Should I put the trashcan on your side?”

Dean stuffed a pillow over his head. “I feel like I’m fucking constipated, alright? Shut up,” he snapped. The pillow may have muffled his voice a little, but it didn’t do jack to block any of the ‘told you not to order that second plate’ waves pouring off of Sam.

“At least it’s not diarrhea,” Sam said. The mattress dipped as he settled back down.

“Not helping,” Dean said through his teeth.

“We’d never make it to that mill before it re-opens if we needed to pull over a dozen times tomorrow, too.”

“I said, not helping.”

*

Asking for extra gravy on country fried steak seemed to be about three times worse than whipped cream on waffles. This morning, Dean couldn’t take a shit or get his pants to zip. He tried to suck it in further, but there was just too much of him to fit in his fucking jeans.

He snuck a look out into the room. Luckily, Sam was still a sprawl of limbs in the bed. Dieting commercials always had women on their back struggling to put their pants on, so after one more peek out the door, Dean settled on the floor and braced his feet against the tub. With a burst of effort best described as Herculean and a mental ultimatum at his gut, the deed was done.

And just in time, too, as Sam was rolling himself out of bed as Dean was tugging on the baggiest shirt he could find. It didn’t do much good. This gaining weight thing had to stop.

“You could’ve hit the snooze instead of turning off the alarm,” Sam said between yawns. He ran his hands through his hair and slumped tiredly. All things considered, Dean was glad Sam wasn’t all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.

“Could’ve, should’ve, didn’t,” Dean said curtly, and zipped up his jacket to conceal the unsightly paunch of his belly.

Sam gave him a weird look.

He continued to shoot Dean weird looks throughout the rest of the day. So what if he was letting Sam drive again, and so what if he was keeping his jacket zipped halfway and tugged low. It was cool enough for it with the windows rolled down and the crisp chill of winter approaching. Dean stared out at the scenery blurring by and did his best to pretend like he didn’t notice a single one of those slanted glances slung his way with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

With the music turned up and miles of road ahead of them, conversation tended to be at a minimum unless they stopped for a piss or a bite to eat. Only, Sam kept opening his mouth like he had something to say. Maybe he had a burning desire to chatter or something since Dean had skipped out on most of their late breakfast/early lunch to lock himself into the restroom and enjoy the simple pleasure of unzipping his pants and being able to breathe.

He’d realised about two seconds too late that it’d been a Bad Idea seeing as how he was in a place where the floor didn’t seem the most sanitary place to be rolling around on. The walls had become privy to a volley of foul language, but Dean managed to work up the zip again. It was just too damn uncomfortable to leave his jeans buttoned, though, and since then, his jacket had become an even more important form of camouflage.

Just in case Sam did want to talk, Dean announced he was going to take a nap.

*

He ended up actually falling asleep, although his dreams were a mishmash of sounds and images that were borderline nightmares.

Sam woke him up just in time from a dream that promised to turn properly disturbing. He’d been sure he was choking on something, and Dean rubbed his throat as they pulled over to a truckstop for some dinner. It took a while for his head to clear and he wasted time stacking the little plastic half-and-half containers until Sam had made a trip to the little boys’ room before getting up to go himself. Locked in a stall, he leaned his back against the door and sent up a silent prayer.

Like usual, God didn’t seem interested in anything he had to say. His body didn’t feel like giving him a break, either.

“Took long enough,” Sam said, when he got back. “Your food got cold.”

“Not hungry,” Dean said. He tugged at his jacket as he sat back down.

“You’ve eaten like a horse for two meals in a row, I guess that’s not surprising.” Sam speared a bright yellow piece of squash and kept his eyes pointedly on his plate. “Not going to take your jacket off in here, Dean?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Warm though, isn’t it?”

“I’d say it’s comfortable.” Dean picked up his fork and started pushing around the food on his plate. He was downright boiling, but taking off his jacket was the last thing he was going to do. He started to eat just to avoid having to answer anything else Sam wanted to throw at him.

The more he ate, the hungrier he seemed to get, and before he could clean his plate and feel like he was aching for more, he slid out of the booth and told Sam he was going to the car.

Sam caught up to him out front, hand clamping to his arm and dragging him back a step before he could shake it off. It didn’t do any good though, since Sam’s fingers found his arm again immediately, clutching tight enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to let Dean walk away from this. “What’s going on, Dean?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

If Dean clenched his jaw any tighter, he was pretty sure he was going to shatter some teeth. “I’m putting on a little weight, alright? Back off.”

Sam did, with a surprised look and a twitch to his mouth that was trying to turn itself into a grin.

The urge to cry hit Dean like a sucker punch and as he pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, he wondered where the fuck it’d come from. He was still trying to stomp down the feeling he was going to break down like a four year old when he felt Sam catch the zipper to his jacket and pull it down.

“God damnit, Sam,” Dean snapped. He clutched at the front of his jacket to draw it closed again, but Sam knocked his hands away with surprising efficiency.

“You really are,” Sam said. He put a hand to Dean’s belly and dragged it down, fingers pushing into flesh until Dean was backing up and feeling more uncomfortable than he had in his entire lifetime.

“Knock it off, Sammy, I don’t need the food pyramid lecture again.”

“Dean, this isn’t normal. You don’t gain weight this quickly from over-eating.” Sam’s fingers pressed more firmly and Dean made a strangled sound as his guts twisted themselves into a knot. “Actually, it’s all centred right there, it’s almost as if…”

Sam glanced up, and said almost apologetically: “Maybe you’re pregnant.”

Dean was horrified. Maybe he was.

Sam rambled on, but Dean was still stuck on the P word. Pregnancy, it was fucking impossible. He was a man. But then again, in this line of business, there really wasn’t any such thing as the word impossible. Improbable yes, but saying something was impossible was a good way to meet your grave early. Dean smoothed his hands down his face. Was this the sort of punishment God handed down when you let your baby brother fuck you up the ass two nights out of three?

“-people being impregnated via kissing if you go by what third-graders talk about. Even if we’ve tracked down some pretty tenuous urban legends in the past, I’ve never heard of anyth-”

When Dean’s brain caught up with the conversation he felt like taking hold of the front of Sam’s shirt and shaking him. Fear ran cold down his back and he was pretty sure his spine fell out with it. It made too much sense, a scary amount of sense, a holy fuck maybe he really was pregnant bucketful of sense. “Well sure, people don’t, but that thing that had me back in North Dakota wasn’t people.”

He clapped a hand over his mouth. All of a sudden he wanted to puke again, and this time it was an honest nausea, bile building in the back of his throat as he remembered that chick with the tits trying to suck his soul out of his face. She’d had that snake tongue of hers halfway down his throat before Sam had gotten her off him, and maybe it hadn’t just been his imagination that he’d felt like she’d left something behind.

Dean dug through the gear they always kept close at hand. Flipped on, the walkman registered a high squeal before he’d even brought it close to his swollen belly.

“Jesus Christ.”

Sam caught his gaze and held it. “Actually, I think this is more of an unholy conception than an immaculate one.”

*

Sam was driving like Dean normally did.

“There’s that vet Dad helped out when all those cows were turning up inside-out. He’d be better than nothing, and only a day out of our way if we hit the interstate and drive until morning.”

“C’mon, Sammy, the old guy? With the lazy eye?” Dean gnawed at the inside of his lip. That guy had been a completely different kind of creepy than they were used to, but the idea was a whole lot better than a trip to a hospital. Forgetting for a minute that he might be fucking pregnant, in their line of business, hospitals were never a good place to end up at—there were always too many questions, and way too many forms to fill out.

“Alright, fine,” Dean said. He curled a hand over his protruding stomach, and promptly jerked said hand away when he noticed what he was doing. He squirmed and made a face that turned into a scowl when Sam’s gaze skipped from the road over to him. “Pull over at the next gas station, though. Gotta take a shit like you wouldn’t believe.”

Dean really hadn’t meant that literally, and yet after twenty minutes spent dying in one of the most run-down public restrooms he’d ever had the misfortune of stepping into, he was pretty sure he’d discovered what hysterics felt like.

“Sammy? Sam? Think you could come in here a minute?” Dean’s voice rose in pitch as he backed towards the door. It was a miracle he got his pants back up with how hard his hands were shaking. He reached behind him to toss the bolt and grab the door handle, cracking the door open and trying to sneak a glance outside without taking his eyes off the thing squalling fitfully at the base of the toilet.

“Thought you were never going to be-” Sam stopped short as he pushed the door open and got a good look at Dean and his complete lack of colour. Then his eyes slid past Dean and his face paled almost enough to match.

“Dean, am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”

“Unless it’s a shared hallucination, then yes.”

“Oh, shit, you were pregnant,” his brow furrowed, “Sortof.”

“Yes, and yes again,” Dean wiped his forehead with the back of his arm If he’d thought fighting hysteria was about the worst thing ever, the creeping ache of his ass being turned inside out was about to blow that out of the water. He narrowly recovered from some honest-to-god swooning by bracing himself against a chipped, rust-stained sink.

“I take it this means you’re not feeling constipated anymore,” Sam said, eeling into the room. The door closing behind him sounded strangely ominous.

“No, not really, and do you think that maybe we could cut the banter and figure out what the hell we’re going to do about this?”

The thing on the floor chose that moment to open what passed as its mouth. It emitted a high, piercing wail, and with half-formed arms, it tried to pull itself towards them.

Sam made a gagging sound. “That is just disgusting.” He dragged the neck of his shirt up over his nose, and for a moment Dean wanted to say the place hadn’t exactly smelled like roses before that thing had crawled out of the toilet.

Instead, Dean bobbed his head in a series of curt little nods. “Yeah, now kill it.”

Sam turned a wide-eyed stare on him. “How the hell am I supposed to kill that thing?”

“I have no fucking clue. Dad never mentioned shit demons before and I hate to break it to you, but I’m not Silent Bob.”

Sam looked ready to smack him, but another screeching wail had him biting off a retort and spinning around to grab for the door handle. “You wait here, I’ll see what I can get out of the trunk.”

“Right. Wait here,” Dean muttered. He eyeballed the demon. “With that.”

*

Thankfully Sam didn’t take too long, ’cause the fucking thing was on its way to doubling in size and developing legs when Sam squeezed back in through the door. He thrust a jug of holy water—their entire supply—at Dean and hefted their grave-digging shovel up like a bat.

“Do we have a plan?” Dean asked, unscrewing the lid of the jug and taking a few mincing steps to the left.

“Not really….”

“You’re not going to hit it, are you?”

Sam stopped short, head snapping to Dean. “Why not?”

“For fuck’s sake, Sam, the thing’s gonna splatter if you do.”

Sam gagged again and he twisted the shovel around in his hand as he rethought his angle of attack. They were running out of time. “Okay,” he said, finally. “You distract it, and I’ll scoop.”

“How the hell am I-” Dean narrowly missed getting his boots dirtied when the thing reached a drippy, stubby arm at him. He cursed and circled around. The demon tracked his movements.

“Get it to move closer to the stall,” Sam ordered, following behind as it dragged itself towards Dean.

“Right,” Dean muttered. He tossed a look over his shoulder to make sure where he was going and started walking backwards, making little cooing sounds and clucking his tongue. “Come on little demon, daddy, uh, mommy, uh…oh fuck it, come on you ugly little bastard.”

Backed halfway into the stall, Dean looked up for a little help. “I’m running out of space here, Sam,” he said, and was thankful that somewhere along the way the panic had died down and now this was just feeling like a job. A highly irregular job—he refrained mightily from thinking of it as a pain in the ass—but a job nonetheless.

“Up on the tank,” Sam said, and as he lowered the shovel, Dean used the seat as a step. The jug in Dean’s hand made it difficult to hold to the tops of the stall and balance there, but somehow he managed as Sam drove the shovel straight through the demon’s body.

Top half severed and perched on the shovel, the demon wobbled and thrashed its ill-formed limbs. It spit out an ear-splitting shriek and Dean shouted for Sam to dump it as he splashed the holy water into the bowl of the toilet.

“You’re spilling too much!” Sam cried, trying to scoop up the remaining half and get it in there too.

“I’m doing the best I can!”

“Do better!”

Dean dropped a foot down onto the seat, hanging on to the one wall as he poured the rest of the jug onto the thing as it bubbled, boiled, and thankfully looked to be dissolving.

Sam backed away in time, but one swelling bubble burst, spattering Dean with foulness.

“Aw, gross.” He scowled at the mess covering his legs and then beyond to what was slowly settling in the bowl. “Ugh.”

Sam reached over gingerly to help him down, stepping away quickly before any of what was on Dean had a chance to get on him. “You think it’s safe to flush?” he asked.

“Honestly, I think I’m ready to let someone else to deal with the problem if it is.”

Sam nodded, clearly in agreement. He went for the handle.

“No, wait!” Dean grabbed his sleeve and Sam froze.

“What?”

“You can’t,” Dean said. “I- I just- That’s my baby in there.”

The incredulous look on Sam’s face was almost enough to make up for the giant fucking pain in his ass that was probably going to linger for days. “Oh fuck, c’mon Sammy, flush it.”

“Asshole.”

*

“Car’s going to stink for a week.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m going to stink for a week.” Dean struggled to hang even further out the window, hissing when he regretted the stretch.

“I am so not fucking you for a while.”

“Good, because I’m not letting you anywhere near my ass for at least a month. Probably two.”

Grinning, Sam glanced over at Dean. “Hey, if we’re lucky, maybe that kelpie will give us a car wash.”

The inflatable donut hit Sam square in the face.

*

End