[spn fic] leaving no footprints
title: leaving no footprints
pairing: sam/dean
rating: pg-13
word count: 1200
prompt: sam secretly takes a pregnancy test in a gas station bathroom.
warnings: mpreg
written for spnkink_meme & originally posted here. i was the second fill: here is the first.
also on ao3
The first time Sam actually uses the headache excuse, Dean looks so damn rejected that Sam almost rolls over and says “never mind.” Then his head gives a blood-thick throb he’s sure is going to force his eyes straight out of their sockets and he gasps, “Not now Dean.” Dean sticks religiously and perhaps a little pointedly to the other side of the bed, but he does bring Sam a glass of water and two Tylenol and kisses him goodnight.
A couple days later, Sam’s morning starts with a surprise visit from last night’s dinner and he is one hundred percent sure it’s not because he tried to drink Dean under the table. Dean gives him an odd look and graciously doesn’t push for a morning blowjob. He throws up three more times that day - - again in the motel room, in a roadside ditch, and behind a gas station where Dean buys him bottled water and ginger ale. He doesn’t ask questions but keeps an eye on Sam all the same.
He writes things off for another week - - the 3 AM craving for a hamburger from a specific shop on the Jersey shore is nostalgia because Dean kissed him for the first time with the taste of the ocean on his tongue. He skips lunch because he’s eaten diner food all his damn life and he’s sick of it. He rolls down the window when all he can smell is Dean’s hair gel because cleaning vomit out of the upholstery is quite possibly the innermost circle of hell.
Dean is gentle when Sam finally responds again to his advances. He brings Sam off sweetly, mouth pressed to the curve of his neck, fingers cupped over the head of Sam’s cock when he comes, just the way Sam likes. Sleepy and sated, Sam’s thoughts come slowly and unfiltered while Dean fetches a washcloth. Some things slot into place while Dean washes come from the inside of his thighs. He tucks them away for the morning and doesn’t say a word when Dean falls asleep with his arm locked around Sam’s waist.
In the morning, he shoos Dean out to hunt down breakfast and boots up the laptop.
He cases the place first, in a way that’s second nature. Dean is outside paying for gas with a fake credit card and the owner will figure that out eventually, but there’s no need expedite their enlightenment. No security cameras save for the one over the counter. Small town like this, they’re more worried about the teller than a criminal. Sam slides a pregnancy test inside his jacket, smooth as smiling and heads for the bathroom.
Sam’s hands don’t shake when he opens the box. Sam’s hands don’t shake when the first test comes back positive. They’re still steady when the third test reads affirmative, though his breath comes faster and his vision swims. He wraps the third one in toilet paper and tucks it in his pocket.
They’re twenty miles from civilization on a dusty, sun-scorched stretch of asphalt when Sam says, “Pull over.” Dean gives him a look that clearly reads, “You cannot possibly have to go already,” so Sam says it again and Dean complies with a sigh.
Sam drops the toilet paper bundle in Dean’s lap and almost laughs at the look of pure revulsion on his face. The man rolls around in rotted corpses all day long but flinches at the suggestion of germs. He starts to unwrap it when Sam says “take a look,” but does so with as few fingers as necessary.
“Is it my birthday?” Dean asks, holding the stick, eyebrow cocked quizzically at Sam. Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing his sweaty palms against his thighs. “It’s positive,” he says, voice strangled and twisted in his throat, not sure how else to broach the subject and hoping Dean understands.
He can pinpoint the moment Dean puts two and two together and gets “it’s a boy.” His mouth flops comically open and he stares at the stick as if unsure how it got in his hand. Sam feels fragile and spun thin, like all of his fears are contained in a glass ball and the ricochet threatens to shatter it all. It’s worse now waiting for Dean’s reaction than when he was standing in a scummy bathroom in the middle of bumfuck nowhere looking at his belly and wondering if the curve is a figment of his imagination.
“You can’t be serious,” Dean says, sounding distant, then follows up before Sam can get in a scathing reply. “How long?”
“I don’t know.” Sam looks down at his stomach. He tries to imagine something other than him calling his body home and is met with total, nauseating revulsion. In a lifetime of ghosts, demons, and every manner of supernatural parasite from here to kingdom come, he’s had a dozen different things that wanted to sublet his body and somehow this is the most horrifying. “Dean, the demon blood - “
“I know, I know, just let me think.” Dean runs his freehand through his hair and inspects the stick again. “Maybe it’s a false positive.”
“They’re almost one hundred percent accurate. The odds of all three tests coming back as a false positive are … astronomical.”
“And you followed the instructions?”
“To the letter.”
Dean chuckles, drops the stick onto the seat and buries his head in his hands. Sam wonders if his nausea is just an unfortunate side effect of their conversation or a warning that he’s going to vomit. Morning sickness, as he’s found out, is the cruelest of misnomers.
“How does this even happen?” Dean swears and strikes the steering wheel with the flat of his palm. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but Sam is too sick to jump on it. He aches to comfort Dean, but doesn’t know how.
“I don’t know,” Sam repeats. “After all the shit we’ve been through, all the times we’ve died, I should be infertile and you should be shooting blanks. Hell,” Sam chuckles darkly, shaking his head,” I can’t even remember the last time we bothered with condoms.”
There’s a kind of black humor to it: the one thing that brings them comfort, the one chance they have to internalize the sadness and the chaos and the grief and it turns around to bite them in the ass. Dean would gnaw his own arm off before he hurt a child and Sam knows the conclusion his brother has reached is killing him, because it’s killing Sam too.
“We’ll get a room tonight.” Dean wets his lip, strategizing just like he would if this were a case they picked up. “We’ll find a doctor who’s in the life and we’ll - - we’ll make sure. And then . . . “ He looks down, like he’s listening to some internal pep talk and bracing for the inevitable. “Then we’ll deal with it.”
That night, when Dean is in the shower and it’s the first time he’s been alone since the grimy bathroom where two pink lines gave him news that would be great in any other life, Sam drops his head in his hands and sobs.
pairing: sam/dean
rating: pg-13
word count: 1200
prompt: sam secretly takes a pregnancy test in a gas station bathroom.
warnings: mpreg
written for spnkink_meme & originally posted here. i was the second fill: here is the first.
also on ao3
The first time Sam actually uses the headache excuse, Dean looks so damn rejected that Sam almost rolls over and says “never mind.” Then his head gives a blood-thick throb he’s sure is going to force his eyes straight out of their sockets and he gasps, “Not now Dean.” Dean sticks religiously and perhaps a little pointedly to the other side of the bed, but he does bring Sam a glass of water and two Tylenol and kisses him goodnight.
A couple days later, Sam’s morning starts with a surprise visit from last night’s dinner and he is one hundred percent sure it’s not because he tried to drink Dean under the table. Dean gives him an odd look and graciously doesn’t push for a morning blowjob. He throws up three more times that day - - again in the motel room, in a roadside ditch, and behind a gas station where Dean buys him bottled water and ginger ale. He doesn’t ask questions but keeps an eye on Sam all the same.
He writes things off for another week - - the 3 AM craving for a hamburger from a specific shop on the Jersey shore is nostalgia because Dean kissed him for the first time with the taste of the ocean on his tongue. He skips lunch because he’s eaten diner food all his damn life and he’s sick of it. He rolls down the window when all he can smell is Dean’s hair gel because cleaning vomit out of the upholstery is quite possibly the innermost circle of hell.
Dean is gentle when Sam finally responds again to his advances. He brings Sam off sweetly, mouth pressed to the curve of his neck, fingers cupped over the head of Sam’s cock when he comes, just the way Sam likes. Sleepy and sated, Sam’s thoughts come slowly and unfiltered while Dean fetches a washcloth. Some things slot into place while Dean washes come from the inside of his thighs. He tucks them away for the morning and doesn’t say a word when Dean falls asleep with his arm locked around Sam’s waist.
In the morning, he shoos Dean out to hunt down breakfast and boots up the laptop.
He cases the place first, in a way that’s second nature. Dean is outside paying for gas with a fake credit card and the owner will figure that out eventually, but there’s no need expedite their enlightenment. No security cameras save for the one over the counter. Small town like this, they’re more worried about the teller than a criminal. Sam slides a pregnancy test inside his jacket, smooth as smiling and heads for the bathroom.
Sam’s hands don’t shake when he opens the box. Sam’s hands don’t shake when the first test comes back positive. They’re still steady when the third test reads affirmative, though his breath comes faster and his vision swims. He wraps the third one in toilet paper and tucks it in his pocket.
They’re twenty miles from civilization on a dusty, sun-scorched stretch of asphalt when Sam says, “Pull over.” Dean gives him a look that clearly reads, “You cannot possibly have to go already,” so Sam says it again and Dean complies with a sigh.
Sam drops the toilet paper bundle in Dean’s lap and almost laughs at the look of pure revulsion on his face. The man rolls around in rotted corpses all day long but flinches at the suggestion of germs. He starts to unwrap it when Sam says “take a look,” but does so with as few fingers as necessary.
“Is it my birthday?” Dean asks, holding the stick, eyebrow cocked quizzically at Sam. Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing his sweaty palms against his thighs. “It’s positive,” he says, voice strangled and twisted in his throat, not sure how else to broach the subject and hoping Dean understands.
He can pinpoint the moment Dean puts two and two together and gets “it’s a boy.” His mouth flops comically open and he stares at the stick as if unsure how it got in his hand. Sam feels fragile and spun thin, like all of his fears are contained in a glass ball and the ricochet threatens to shatter it all. It’s worse now waiting for Dean’s reaction than when he was standing in a scummy bathroom in the middle of bumfuck nowhere looking at his belly and wondering if the curve is a figment of his imagination.
“You can’t be serious,” Dean says, sounding distant, then follows up before Sam can get in a scathing reply. “How long?”
“I don’t know.” Sam looks down at his stomach. He tries to imagine something other than him calling his body home and is met with total, nauseating revulsion. In a lifetime of ghosts, demons, and every manner of supernatural parasite from here to kingdom come, he’s had a dozen different things that wanted to sublet his body and somehow this is the most horrifying. “Dean, the demon blood - “
“I know, I know, just let me think.” Dean runs his freehand through his hair and inspects the stick again. “Maybe it’s a false positive.”
“They’re almost one hundred percent accurate. The odds of all three tests coming back as a false positive are … astronomical.”
“And you followed the instructions?”
“To the letter.”
Dean chuckles, drops the stick onto the seat and buries his head in his hands. Sam wonders if his nausea is just an unfortunate side effect of their conversation or a warning that he’s going to vomit. Morning sickness, as he’s found out, is the cruelest of misnomers.
“How does this even happen?” Dean swears and strikes the steering wheel with the flat of his palm. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but Sam is too sick to jump on it. He aches to comfort Dean, but doesn’t know how.
“I don’t know,” Sam repeats. “After all the shit we’ve been through, all the times we’ve died, I should be infertile and you should be shooting blanks. Hell,” Sam chuckles darkly, shaking his head,” I can’t even remember the last time we bothered with condoms.”
There’s a kind of black humor to it: the one thing that brings them comfort, the one chance they have to internalize the sadness and the chaos and the grief and it turns around to bite them in the ass. Dean would gnaw his own arm off before he hurt a child and Sam knows the conclusion his brother has reached is killing him, because it’s killing Sam too.
“We’ll get a room tonight.” Dean wets his lip, strategizing just like he would if this were a case they picked up. “We’ll find a doctor who’s in the life and we’ll - - we’ll make sure. And then . . . “ He looks down, like he’s listening to some internal pep talk and bracing for the inevitable. “Then we’ll deal with it.”
That night, when Dean is in the shower and it’s the first time he’s been alone since the grimy bathroom where two pink lines gave him news that would be great in any other life, Sam drops his head in his hands and sobs.