Fic: ... by a rocking cradle
Title: ... by a rocking cradle
Author: britomart_is
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/OFC, Sam/Dean/OFC
Words: 5100
Notes: Follows Centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare, I recommend that you read that first. Thanks to my rockstar beta obeetaybee for catching mistakes both obvious and small, and to dev_earl for nudging me along as I wrote.
Summary: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
Working plumbing is as distant a memory as walking alone at night and trusting strangers, so you take the test over a squat toilet, a pit dug in the dirt. You try to aim but pee on your hand.
Josh finds you crying in the latrine when you don't come in for dinner. He leans in the doorframe, face soft with concern and body rigid with awkwardness.
"Negative?"
You shove the test stick at him and he flinches away from it. "Grow up, Josh, it's only pee."
"It's my sister's pee," he says emphatically. "Maybe the test's a dud. Sat on the shelf for months before we cleared out the store."
You gesture at the other five tests lying on the ground beside you and sniffle miserably. You're honestly not sure what gets to you the most: the disappointed hopes symbolized by the single pink lines, or the fact that you had to take the tests alone, squatting in a filthy shack. "This isn't how I imagined it."
"What?"
You shrug, dig your toe in the dirt. "Having kids. Thought I'd-well." It sounds stupid now. "Y'know. Go to prenatal yoga and paint the nursery gender-neutral colors and buy Baby Mozart tapes."
"Hey," Josh says. "Hey, you still could. When this is all over-"
You push past him abruptly, let the door of the latrine bang behind you. "Don't be an idiot, Josh." You regret the harsh words almost instantly, because Josh is trying so hard to be understanding. This is the great difference between you and your brother: he still clings to the belief that someday, things will go back to normal. The Antichrist and Lucifer will hug it out, the fires where the East Coast used to be will burn down to cinders, and somehow the anarchic bands of human survivors will rebuild society-new and better, with renewable energy and assault weapon bans.
You don't think things ever were normal, because all those years when you were worried about grad school recommendations and antioxidants, apparently the world was full of demons and sigils and hex bags and a war that you never even saw coming.
"This is all his fault, you know," Josh grumbles. "If he hadn't come along-"
"We'd all be dead," you snap. But again, you're being too hard on the kid. Need to ease the tension. "You never did like my boyfriends. Worse than Dad. You gonna pull a shotgun on him?"
The corner of Josh's mouth twitches upward before he can solidify his stern expression. "That's not funny."
"Come on, let's go to dinner." You go to wipe your eyes and stop abruptly, then double over in laughter.
"What?" Josh sounds nervous. Probably thinks you've finally lost it. "What is it?" He grabs your shoulder.
You feel breakable, precarious, careening too quickly from gloom to hysteria. "I have pee on my hand."
Josh rolls his eyes, looking relieved. "So tell your boyfriend to get us some soap." He pushes you toward the house. "He's the Antichrist, can't he come up with a few Wet-Naps?"
You eat with your family in the corner of the mess tent. There was a time when you always ate with the other young people, laughed, played cards, flirted with Ian the vegetable-garden guy, avoided the advances of Neil the survivalist-in-a-bad-way. When you came back from your visit to the Antichrist's compound, you sat down at the kids' table with your bowl of don't-ask-what's-in-it chili just like normal, and then lost your appetite as the raucous conversation fell dead silent around you.
So, dinner with the family it is. Canned mushroom soup on Spam, Spam which you appreciate a whole lot more lately, ever since the meat in the supermarkets rotted without refrigeration and the animals escaped from the abandoned factory farms and went feral.
After you eat, you surreptitiously pop a couple of folic acid supplements. You're worried about your nutrition. You're worried about the water quality. You have a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting, and all it does is make you feel horrifically guilty about all the things you're doing wrong-though you suspect you'd still feel inadequate even if you weren't currently living in an apocalyptic wasteland.
You've got a shift in the watchtower after dinner. You peer into the darkness: abandoned house, abandoned house, burned-out car by the side of the road. Possum. Abandoned house. You hear Ian climbing the ladder, but don't greet him. It's not like you expected him to go into social exile right along with you, but, well. You don't greet him.
Ian has the pocket of his hoodie stuffed full of something-he pulls out his cargo and offers it to you with dirty hands. "I harvested the beets."
They're a dark crimson. You know they'll be sweet. "My carrots came out rubbery," you say. "I can't grow anything."
Keep it to farming advice. That's safe. All the survivors are well-practiced at giving up the things they once hoped for.
"Nah, you'll be great," he says. "I know you will. Just got to get the hang of it." A pause. "Here," he says. "I want you to have them." You take the beets. He keeps unloading them from his sweatshirt until you're sitting there in your lawn chair with a lapful of them. "They're really nutritious," he says, and touches your knee, and you get it.
"Oh," you say, and you wish he'd go away because your throat's a bit tight. "Thank you."
Ian climbs back down the ladder. He stops with just his head poking out of the hole in the floorboards. "If things had been different."
"They aren't different," you say. You clutch a beet tightly.
"Ain't that the truth," he says, and climbs down. You hear his footsteps lead off into the darkness toward sleeping quarters.
Abandoned house, abandoned post office. Child's bicycle. An owl hoots. Eyes shine in the forest.
You've been keeping the number scribbled on a card in your pocket. It takes all the courage you have to actually dial it.
The phone rings twice, then you hear the click of the other line picking up. Silence hangs on the line like a dead man. You wait for an awkward moment.
"I want to try again," you blurt out. "It didn't work."
Silence.
"I took a test."
The silence gets louder.
"Actually, I took six."
Breath on the other end of the line. "Can you get here tonight?"
It's just a voice on the phone, but suddenly your nerves are clamoring to run, run, run. You were expecting Dean to pick up. "Oh Jes-I mean, oh G-I mean. Shit. Fuck. Oh. Sorry. I mean. This is-"
"I know who you are." The Antichrist sounds amused.
"I didn't think you'd answer your own phone." Sometimes your mouth keeps talking when you really wish it would shut up.
"I don't get a lot of calls," the Antichrist says, and really, if you didn't know better you could swear you hear a smile in his voice.
"Right. I guess you wouldn't."
"Tonight?"
"Right. Yes. I mean. I'll find a way."
"Ten," the Antichrist says, and hangs up.
You breathe. Sammy, you remind yourself. The Antichrist's brother calls him Sammy.
You can do this.
You hitch a ride in the back of a pickup truck, glancing nervously at the men up front. However they got their hands on the gas to fuel this thing, you don't want to know about it. They drop you at the edge of town-they won't go any closer to the Antichrist's compound.
One of them catches your wrist before they pull away, and you recoil skittishly, but he looks concerned. "You sure you wanna stop here, honey?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." You back away. He holds onto you.
"I got a daughter your age. I wouldn't want her anywhere near that hotel."
"I've been there before," you say.
The man's face darkens with understanding. "Whore," he says, and the truck sprays you with dust as they drive off.
The demons guarding the perimeter stand black-eyed and silent, letting you pass. Still, you feel like every step could bring you down on top of a landmine, trip the silent alarm, release the hounds.
You ring the buzzer in the hotel office and listen to several minutes of stomping and swearing before Dean appears. He looks surprised to see you. "What're-is everything okay?"
"I called," you say, suddenly nervous. "I talked to, uh. To the."
Dean leans against the counter. "You can just call him Sam, you know."
You're not sure you can. It's like at the end of high school when Mrs. Roach the calculus teacher told you to call her Marie. "I talked to your brother."
"Hmm," Dean says. "He failed to mention."
"I took a test," you say, and then attempt to unscramble your brain. "I mean. He said I could come." Dean arches an eyebrow. You look at him curiously, and then blush when you get it. "He said I could try again!"
"I'm sure he did," Dean says. "Just didn't mention it. That boy would forget his own name if I didn't keep reminding him of it. Come on up."
At the top of the stairs and down a long hallway, Dean raps at a door and sticks his head in. "She's here. Want her to wait outside?"
"Let her in," a voice says. "She can catch the ending."
Dean turns back to you. "We were kind of in the middle of something."
You follow Dean through the door and see a comfortable office, the air thick with book-smell. A heavy wooden desk. And an office chair with an Antichrist in it.
The Antichrist's belt is loose, pants open, shirt partially unbuttoned and rucked up to show tanned skin. He's running a hand up and down his erection at a leisurely pace, his head resting back against the chair. His hips lift. "Dean."
Dean sinks to his knees before the chair, broad shoulders pushing in between the Antichrist's legs. When he bends down to take the Antichrist's cock into his mouth, you back up until you hit the wall, shocked and a little frightened. You don't know why you're allowed to see this, to see the Consort degrading himself, showing his servitude. But you can't tear your eyes away, and as you watch closer you come to see it in a different light. Dean's eyes are shut, his face peaceful as he pleasures his brother. You're hit with a flash of vivid sense memory, from long-ago days when you thought ritual would save you: kneeling to take communion, shutting your eyes and sending your prayers up to the rafters, the smell of candles and the whispery sound of onionskin pages turning. Dean worships his brother, and when you turn your gaze to Sam's face you see the worship returned-ecstasy, transcendence.
Sam clutches at his brother's shoulder. "Now." Dean buries his face deeper into his brother's lap and Sam raises his voice. "No, Dean, now."
Dean pulls off with a slurp and a regretful look and glances over at you. "Your turn." You freeze, and he grows impatient. "Now or never, sweetheart."
You get your wits about you and hurry to the chair. Then Dean's moving out of the way and Sam's pulling you in by the waist. You settle your knees on either side of Sam; he pushes up your skirt, nudges aside your panties and pushes his cock up into you.
Too dry, too tight, too fast. You twitch in discomfort. Sam fucks into you once, twice, then Dean runs a hand through Sam's hair and Sam grips you tight as he comes inside of you. You breathe heavily for a moment.
Sam pats your rump and you scramble off of him, readjust your panties and feel the wet spot forming on them. You frown in frustration-you don't want his come trickling out of you, you need it staying put, doing its job.
Dean is fixing Sam's clothes, buttoning his buttons. He spares a glance for you. "You should stay here. Long as you need. Pick any room on this floor, stay off the third. The phones are all hooked up. You get hungry the demons'll do room service, just give the front desk a call."
You walk down the hallway a little gingerly, sore between the legs from the abrupt intrusion. You're not sure what that was, but it sure wasn't sex. You pick a room in the corner, with nice big windows, but you don't like what they look out on (empty roads, black clouds on the horizon, vultures circling something in the distance) so you leave the sheer curtains shut, obscuring the outside world.
The bed is soft, with clean sheets. A ventilation system hums, delivering air that doesn't have that faint tinge of smoke that you're used to from outside. You go over to the thermostat and change it by two degrees just because you can.
There's a room service menu. You're not sure it's relevant, local food supplies being what they are, but-you've never had room service. It was always considered an exorbitant waste in your family, like cable TV or getting appetizers with dinner.
You dial the front desk. "What can you make?"
"What do you want?"
You twirl the phone cord between your fingers. You wonder if the demons can cook. "Pancakes. With strawberries. And whipped cream."
When the food comes, you snatch it out of the demon's hands before shutting the door. You devour it and fall asleep, stretching your limbs to take up all the space in the bed.
Dean brings you a book called Taking Charge of Your Fertility. Its pages are lightly singed. "Amazon.com warehouse burned down in Wichita," he says with a shrug.
You read the book from cover to cover and then go to find Dean. "I need a few things."
A demon goes scavenging for you and comes back with grocery bags full of supplies.
You set up your own office in another room, chart your cycle and find your basal body temperature. You come up with a plan of attack.
It really shouldn't be this difficult, you think, to get knocked up.
Sam forgets you're there most of the time, so you get Dean to remind him. "If he has a moment." You're trying not to be intrusive. "Today would be a good day."
"Things are busy right now," Dean says.
"It's just I checked my cervical mucus and-"
Dean backs away with a look of alarm, gesturing you to stop, and you stifle a smile. "I'll let him know."
A pattern develops after that. You sleep long hours in your room, enjoying the clean bug-free bed. You read all the books that you can find. You call your family to let them know you're still alive. Sometimes you leave the hotel and run laps around it, but the silence is oppressive-whistling wind, the clatter of a can rolling over the pavement. You eat your leafy greens-take care of yourself, what was once a luxury now a responsibility. And whenever he's not with his brother or commanding his armies or doing mysterious things on the third floor, Sam comes to your room and fucks you.
Like today. Sam fucked you once this morning after breakfast-you were downstairs getting coffee from the hotel kitchen, and Sam, mussed and smelling like Dean, pressed you up against the wall, lifted you till you could wrap your legs around his waist, and fucked you. Dean stood by and sipped coffee. When Sam finished and let you down, you went to the big steel commercial refrigerator to get a glass of milk. Calcium is important, and all the dispassionate, unsatisfying sex makes you ravenous.
Now you're in your room reading a romance novel because you've already run through the rest of the hotel's library, and Sam pushes your door open. He never knocks. You don't think he means to be rude, it just doesn't occur to him-the whole Antichrist thing.
You're not wearing panties-you're never wearing panties these days-so you hitch your skirt up, clamber to the edge of the bed, and spread your legs. And you've been reading that damn book and you've already been fucked once today and you're shifting a little in anticipation as his cock plays around your entrance, and then Sam's sinking into you with an embarrassing wet squish.
And now you feel truly exposed, like you haven't been all the many times before. You feel like you're the one person laughing too loud when everyone's quiet, like the lone drunk at a sedate dinner party. Shamefully unrestrained. The sheets are cool against your flush-warmed cheek when you turn your face away, try to hide. The great thing about Sam, though, is that he really doesn't give a shit-he pumps into you steadily, comes deep inside you, zips back up, and leaves you there with a buzzing in your head and a stickiness between your legs.
You're determined not to lose any of Sam's come, so you prop your hips up on a pillow and settle in to stay that way for the next half hour. Give his swimmers some time to get where they need to go. You reach for your book but you're still warm, distracted. Your hand strays between your legs and you rock your palm against your clit.
Dean walks in on you like that, your hips tilted up and open, fingers a V around your clit, flush spreading across your chest. "Please. Please."
And Dean, solicitous Dean who still takes the time, whenever he can, to get you ready for Sam's cock, tease you into comfort even if the not-exactly-sex never leads to orgasm-Dean shoulders your legs wider apart and works the flat of his tongue against your pussy. He licks a broad stripe that makes you shiver, then without further ado sucks at your clit and doesn't let up until you have spots dancing in your vision. Your heel thuds against Dean's back, and when he pulls away your legs splay wide and shameless. Sweat cools on your brow, behind your knees.
"Thank you."
"You want to come downstairs? We ordered burritos." How Dean managed to get burritos delivered when there's no refrigeration or gasoline within a ten-mile radius, you have no idea.
"I've got to stay for a while." You gesture to the pillow under your hips. "Gravity."
Dean pats your leg and gives you a little smile as he leaves. "Y'know, I hear it helps if the woman comes."
"Yeah," you say. "I heard that, too."
"I'll see what we can do about that."
You pull your romance novel over to you, but its escapades suddenly seem stilted and tame.
You've never seen Sam and Dean's bedroom. You know which door it is, but that is not a space into which you are welcome. Sam's demons know the same rule applies to them - Lucifer could be standing outside with a grenade launcher, and they still wouldn't intrude on the Antichrist's inner sanctum.
Sometimes you think about Sam and Dean, what they're like when they're alone together. You imagine their bedroom, a haven of rest. Sleeping spooned together. Sam deep in dreams, far away from the world, not the Antichrist in that moment but a soft-haired boy with dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Dean caressing Sam's face, gently touching him into wakefulness, and smiling when he sees Sam's eyes.
Once you walk into Sam's office and find them kissing slowly over Sam's desk, intimate and soft and focused solely on each other, like the rest of the world has disappeared. This does not belong to you. This is not yours to see. You back out of the room and spend the rest of the evening quiet and pensive.
You get mangoes-mangoes-one day. How the demons got them you have no idea. You gorge yourself until you feel a sick, then you ask one of the demons to take one back to the survivors' encampment. Minutes later, you realize what a bad idea that was. You call the encampment's one working phone, an unreliable line that goes down in every storm. "Please don't kill the demon," you tell the guy who picks up. "He has something for Josh."
The demon comes back unharmed, but covered in smashed mango pulp. Josh calls half an hour later, voice cracking with fury. "I won't take the Antichrist's table scraps. And neither should you."
"I thought you understood," you say. Then in a flash of petulance, "You know I'm doing this for you."
"You're disgusting," Josh says, hangs up.
You try not to take it personally. You've been away a long time. You can only imagine what the other survivors are saying about you in your absence, what Josh has to listen to every day.
But then, Josh has never had to make this choice.
You don't call him after that. You'll see your family once the baby's safely on the way, once you've brought them all here to the security of the hotel walls. You curl up in bed and clasp your arms around your flat stomach and think please hurry.
There are other candidates, of course. Sam needs an heir and needs one now, needs to assert his bloodline in the current power struggle. There's a prophecy or something. To be honest, you're not entirely clear on the details.
But yeah. There are these other women. Some of them are younger than you, which makes you instantly despise them. Roiling messes of fertility they are, the kind who get knocked up from dry-humping their boyfriends. It ought to be so easy for you.
Dean makes the mistake of leaving one of these girls in the kitchen sipping a diet soda while he goes upstairs to talk to Sam.
"Do you, like, live here?" Sip.
You lean in like you're sharing a secret. "Yeah, but if I'm good I can leave the hotel next week."
"Huh?" Sip.
"Last month I was bad. I had to stay in the basement. But this month I've been really good and quiet like a mouse, so if I keep from screaming every night for the next week, I get to leave the hotel and walk around." You smile beatifically.
"The basement?" The girl has stopped sipping.
"Yeah. You aren't afraid of rats, are you? Here, let me get you another soda."
The girl holds the sweating can in her hand without drinking. "You scream?"
You shake your head furiously. "Oh, no, I've learned not to!" You stare into the middle distance. "Sometimes I cry at night, though. In my cell."
"Jesus." The can groans and crumples a little in the girl's grip.
"Don't worry," you say brightly. "Pain is just weakness leaving the body."
The girl's gone when Dean gets back, and you're calmly sipping her soda. He looks around like she might be hiding under the table, then back at you. "You Machiavellian little bitch," he says wonderingly. "Again?"
"You know," you say, "I don't think she was heir-producing material. You want someone a little tougher."
Dean's shaking his head in disbelief as he heads back upstairs. "Stop scaring 'em all away."
"He deserves the best, doesn't he?" you shout after him. And deep down, you know that Dean knows it's true. Sam's heir needs good stock, someone who doesn't flinch when the Antichrist fucks her too hard, who'll scare the shit out of the competition, who did it all for her family.
Sam needs you, he just doesn't know it yet.
You've been charting your cycle since you moved in. So when you wake up one day, grope for the thermometer at your bedside, and your temperature is up a full degree-well, you'll brook no argument.
Sam and Dean are in the office, bent over disintegrating leather-bound books on the table.
"Now," you say, planting yourself in front of them. "Let's go. Right now."
Sam looks mildly irritated, a sight that would once have had you running for the hills. Dean puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "This isn't a great time," Dean says.
"This is the time," you tell him. "Do I need to tell you about why?"
Dean is still a little queasy from the last time you launched into a lecture on the details of fertility. "No."
You shift from foot to foot, feeling your blood running hot. This is your chance, you know it. "Fine. You know what? Keep doing what you're doing."
You hike up your skirt and bend over the desk, cunt on display.
"Uh," Dean says.
You tap the books firmly with the flat of your hand. "I thought you had work to do. Didn't anyone ever teach you to multitask?"
"It's all right, Dean." A warm touch traces over your ass and down your thigh. "This is a part our mission, too. An important part. Spread your legs."
You spread them till you're uncomfortably exposed, and are rewarded by a big hand cupping possessively between your legs, long fingers warm against your cunt. You try not to squirm, try not to rub up against Sam's hand like an animal in heat.
Sam's cock slips in the wetness around your entrance before notching into place, and then his whole body is rocking against yours as he slams inside you. The force pushes a noise out of you, loud and hurt and satisfied, because you're so fucking full, and you'll have bruises on your hipbones from the edge of the desk and Sam's dick is in as far as it can go, bumping up against something painful inside you and it hurts, no one's ever gone that deep before. Your hands grope at the desk, fumbling for purchase, trying to brace yourself. But you can't take control; Sam's lifting your hips up, sliding easy in and out, not so deep now, and you let your upper body collapse against the desk.
As Sam fucks you, slow and controlled, it gets easier-space is opening up inside of you, letting him in deeper, taking his whole cock inside your body. Soon he's filling you all the way, cockhead nestled close up inside you where it needs to be.
You twist to look back and Dean's standing behind Sam, whispering in his ear. Dean takes Sam's hand and guides it between your legs, and their warm fingers, entangled, rub at your clit until your hands and feet are clenching, until you're shaking, overwhelmed. You twitch when you feel a touch where your body and Sam's are joined-Dean's other hand is playing with Sam's balls, massaging as Dean keeps up a steady stream of filth in Sam's ear: "You gonna give it to her, Sammy? See how much she wants it? She needs it." You moan and quiver around Sam. "She's all ripe, Sammy, you've just gotta fill her up with come. She's so greedy for it." Dean's fingers trace around where Sam's cock enters and enters and enters you. "Get it right up inside, all the way deep in there."
There's a wet warmth and you realize that Dean's knelt beneath your joined bodies, licking happily at your cunt and Sam's cock. When Sam lowers his head to bite the nape of your neck, you gasp, clench, and come.
You slowly loosen your grip on the desk as Sam lowers your hips back down. Dean climbs back to his feet, and Sam's cock goes soft inside you as he kisses Dean.
Dean buttons Sam's pants, fixes his tie. Musses his hair.
You lie there feeling like you should get up and leave, but you need to stay horizontal. You turn over on the desk and look up at them.
They look down at you. "Don't mind me. I'm just gonna … stay like this."
Sam and Dean kiss once more and go back to work at the books spread around you. You listen to the low rumble of their voices, tune out the words. You concentrate hard on what's going on inside you, as if you could feel Sam's seed catching, life sparking, if only you focused enough. Mostly you just feel sticky. And achy.
You catch Sam absentmindedly petting you as you lie there, stroking a hand over your flank. It's weird, but kind of nice. Somehow, despite a near-constant regimen of sex, you've grown rather touch-starved here.
You turn your attention to the book lying open next to your left shoulder. "Hey, wait a minute." The boys look at you with matching quizzical expressions. "This says Lucifer's an angel. That's true?"
Dean glances at Sam and seems to get a silent answer before responding. "Yeah. He is one." Dean pauses. "They're pretty much all bastards. Few exceptions."
They go back to their conversation, but your post-fuck bliss has turned thoughtful. You sit up gingerly when you think it's been long enough, and you sit down in Sam's desk chair and open a book. There's too much you don't know. You have work to do.
Your time passes in sex and research. Angels, demons, hierarchies. Prophecies. Heirs. How to protect a child from harm. Give it power. Make it strong and blessed.
You take your vitamins, keep your charts, read your books. Learn. Wait.
There are two pink lines. You stare at the stick, shake it. They're still there. You blink.
.
Sam and Dean are in the parking lot, watching the black-cloud sky.
"Two lines!"
Dean squints at the stick. "Oh. I'm sorry."
You're buzzing, bursting. You want to smack him upside the head. "That means I'm pregnant!"
Sam turns to stare. Dean looks like he doesn't quite understand. "You're-"
"Pregnant. I'm pregnant."
A second later and you're in the air, Dean's arms squeezing tight around your ribs. He sets you back on your feet and he's punching the air triumphantly, whooping. "Goddamn."
Sam's more subdued, happy little-boy smile. Dean's jumping on him, a bear hug, a smack on the cheek. Sam wraps a long arm around your shoulders, kisses the top of your head. "That's awesome."
Dean's victory dance continues as Sam's big hand spreads over your belly, and you slide your smaller one next to it.
If someone had told you a year ago that you'd be standing here like this, you'd have sent them away in a straitjacket. Funny how things shake out.
It's a little cold out. Traces of smoke are sharp in the air. The three of you climb to the roof of the hotel to watch the sun set, just so you'll have something to tell the kid one day. You decide to start remembering everything, from here on out. It was dark and cold and hungry, you'll say. And all the people were scared. That's what the world was like, before we fixed it for you.
Author: britomart_is
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/OFC, Sam/Dean/OFC
Words: 5100
Notes: Follows Centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare, I recommend that you read that first. Thanks to my rockstar beta obeetaybee for catching mistakes both obvious and small, and to dev_earl for nudging me along as I wrote.
Summary: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
Working plumbing is as distant a memory as walking alone at night and trusting strangers, so you take the test over a squat toilet, a pit dug in the dirt. You try to aim but pee on your hand.
Josh finds you crying in the latrine when you don't come in for dinner. He leans in the doorframe, face soft with concern and body rigid with awkwardness.
"Negative?"
You shove the test stick at him and he flinches away from it. "Grow up, Josh, it's only pee."
"It's my sister's pee," he says emphatically. "Maybe the test's a dud. Sat on the shelf for months before we cleared out the store."
You gesture at the other five tests lying on the ground beside you and sniffle miserably. You're honestly not sure what gets to you the most: the disappointed hopes symbolized by the single pink lines, or the fact that you had to take the tests alone, squatting in a filthy shack. "This isn't how I imagined it."
"What?"
You shrug, dig your toe in the dirt. "Having kids. Thought I'd-well." It sounds stupid now. "Y'know. Go to prenatal yoga and paint the nursery gender-neutral colors and buy Baby Mozart tapes."
"Hey," Josh says. "Hey, you still could. When this is all over-"
You push past him abruptly, let the door of the latrine bang behind you. "Don't be an idiot, Josh." You regret the harsh words almost instantly, because Josh is trying so hard to be understanding. This is the great difference between you and your brother: he still clings to the belief that someday, things will go back to normal. The Antichrist and Lucifer will hug it out, the fires where the East Coast used to be will burn down to cinders, and somehow the anarchic bands of human survivors will rebuild society-new and better, with renewable energy and assault weapon bans.
You don't think things ever were normal, because all those years when you were worried about grad school recommendations and antioxidants, apparently the world was full of demons and sigils and hex bags and a war that you never even saw coming.
"This is all his fault, you know," Josh grumbles. "If he hadn't come along-"
"We'd all be dead," you snap. But again, you're being too hard on the kid. Need to ease the tension. "You never did like my boyfriends. Worse than Dad. You gonna pull a shotgun on him?"
The corner of Josh's mouth twitches upward before he can solidify his stern expression. "That's not funny."
"Come on, let's go to dinner." You go to wipe your eyes and stop abruptly, then double over in laughter.
"What?" Josh sounds nervous. Probably thinks you've finally lost it. "What is it?" He grabs your shoulder.
You feel breakable, precarious, careening too quickly from gloom to hysteria. "I have pee on my hand."
Josh rolls his eyes, looking relieved. "So tell your boyfriend to get us some soap." He pushes you toward the house. "He's the Antichrist, can't he come up with a few Wet-Naps?"
You eat with your family in the corner of the mess tent. There was a time when you always ate with the other young people, laughed, played cards, flirted with Ian the vegetable-garden guy, avoided the advances of Neil the survivalist-in-a-bad-way. When you came back from your visit to the Antichrist's compound, you sat down at the kids' table with your bowl of don't-ask-what's-in-it chili just like normal, and then lost your appetite as the raucous conversation fell dead silent around you.
So, dinner with the family it is. Canned mushroom soup on Spam, Spam which you appreciate a whole lot more lately, ever since the meat in the supermarkets rotted without refrigeration and the animals escaped from the abandoned factory farms and went feral.
After you eat, you surreptitiously pop a couple of folic acid supplements. You're worried about your nutrition. You're worried about the water quality. You have a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting, and all it does is make you feel horrifically guilty about all the things you're doing wrong-though you suspect you'd still feel inadequate even if you weren't currently living in an apocalyptic wasteland.
You've got a shift in the watchtower after dinner. You peer into the darkness: abandoned house, abandoned house, burned-out car by the side of the road. Possum. Abandoned house. You hear Ian climbing the ladder, but don't greet him. It's not like you expected him to go into social exile right along with you, but, well. You don't greet him.
Ian has the pocket of his hoodie stuffed full of something-he pulls out his cargo and offers it to you with dirty hands. "I harvested the beets."
They're a dark crimson. You know they'll be sweet. "My carrots came out rubbery," you say. "I can't grow anything."
Keep it to farming advice. That's safe. All the survivors are well-practiced at giving up the things they once hoped for.
"Nah, you'll be great," he says. "I know you will. Just got to get the hang of it." A pause. "Here," he says. "I want you to have them." You take the beets. He keeps unloading them from his sweatshirt until you're sitting there in your lawn chair with a lapful of them. "They're really nutritious," he says, and touches your knee, and you get it.
"Oh," you say, and you wish he'd go away because your throat's a bit tight. "Thank you."
Ian climbs back down the ladder. He stops with just his head poking out of the hole in the floorboards. "If things had been different."
"They aren't different," you say. You clutch a beet tightly.
"Ain't that the truth," he says, and climbs down. You hear his footsteps lead off into the darkness toward sleeping quarters.
Abandoned house, abandoned post office. Child's bicycle. An owl hoots. Eyes shine in the forest.
You've been keeping the number scribbled on a card in your pocket. It takes all the courage you have to actually dial it.
The phone rings twice, then you hear the click of the other line picking up. Silence hangs on the line like a dead man. You wait for an awkward moment.
"I want to try again," you blurt out. "It didn't work."
Silence.
"I took a test."
The silence gets louder.
"Actually, I took six."
Breath on the other end of the line. "Can you get here tonight?"
It's just a voice on the phone, but suddenly your nerves are clamoring to run, run, run. You were expecting Dean to pick up. "Oh Jes-I mean, oh G-I mean. Shit. Fuck. Oh. Sorry. I mean. This is-"
"I know who you are." The Antichrist sounds amused.
"I didn't think you'd answer your own phone." Sometimes your mouth keeps talking when you really wish it would shut up.
"I don't get a lot of calls," the Antichrist says, and really, if you didn't know better you could swear you hear a smile in his voice.
"Right. I guess you wouldn't."
"Tonight?"
"Right. Yes. I mean. I'll find a way."
"Ten," the Antichrist says, and hangs up.
You breathe. Sammy, you remind yourself. The Antichrist's brother calls him Sammy.
You can do this.
You hitch a ride in the back of a pickup truck, glancing nervously at the men up front. However they got their hands on the gas to fuel this thing, you don't want to know about it. They drop you at the edge of town-they won't go any closer to the Antichrist's compound.
One of them catches your wrist before they pull away, and you recoil skittishly, but he looks concerned. "You sure you wanna stop here, honey?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." You back away. He holds onto you.
"I got a daughter your age. I wouldn't want her anywhere near that hotel."
"I've been there before," you say.
The man's face darkens with understanding. "Whore," he says, and the truck sprays you with dust as they drive off.
The demons guarding the perimeter stand black-eyed and silent, letting you pass. Still, you feel like every step could bring you down on top of a landmine, trip the silent alarm, release the hounds.
You ring the buzzer in the hotel office and listen to several minutes of stomping and swearing before Dean appears. He looks surprised to see you. "What're-is everything okay?"
"I called," you say, suddenly nervous. "I talked to, uh. To the."
Dean leans against the counter. "You can just call him Sam, you know."
You're not sure you can. It's like at the end of high school when Mrs. Roach the calculus teacher told you to call her Marie. "I talked to your brother."
"Hmm," Dean says. "He failed to mention."
"I took a test," you say, and then attempt to unscramble your brain. "I mean. He said I could come." Dean arches an eyebrow. You look at him curiously, and then blush when you get it. "He said I could try again!"
"I'm sure he did," Dean says. "Just didn't mention it. That boy would forget his own name if I didn't keep reminding him of it. Come on up."
At the top of the stairs and down a long hallway, Dean raps at a door and sticks his head in. "She's here. Want her to wait outside?"
"Let her in," a voice says. "She can catch the ending."
Dean turns back to you. "We were kind of in the middle of something."
You follow Dean through the door and see a comfortable office, the air thick with book-smell. A heavy wooden desk. And an office chair with an Antichrist in it.
The Antichrist's belt is loose, pants open, shirt partially unbuttoned and rucked up to show tanned skin. He's running a hand up and down his erection at a leisurely pace, his head resting back against the chair. His hips lift. "Dean."
Dean sinks to his knees before the chair, broad shoulders pushing in between the Antichrist's legs. When he bends down to take the Antichrist's cock into his mouth, you back up until you hit the wall, shocked and a little frightened. You don't know why you're allowed to see this, to see the Consort degrading himself, showing his servitude. But you can't tear your eyes away, and as you watch closer you come to see it in a different light. Dean's eyes are shut, his face peaceful as he pleasures his brother. You're hit with a flash of vivid sense memory, from long-ago days when you thought ritual would save you: kneeling to take communion, shutting your eyes and sending your prayers up to the rafters, the smell of candles and the whispery sound of onionskin pages turning. Dean worships his brother, and when you turn your gaze to Sam's face you see the worship returned-ecstasy, transcendence.
Sam clutches at his brother's shoulder. "Now." Dean buries his face deeper into his brother's lap and Sam raises his voice. "No, Dean, now."
Dean pulls off with a slurp and a regretful look and glances over at you. "Your turn." You freeze, and he grows impatient. "Now or never, sweetheart."
You get your wits about you and hurry to the chair. Then Dean's moving out of the way and Sam's pulling you in by the waist. You settle your knees on either side of Sam; he pushes up your skirt, nudges aside your panties and pushes his cock up into you.
Too dry, too tight, too fast. You twitch in discomfort. Sam fucks into you once, twice, then Dean runs a hand through Sam's hair and Sam grips you tight as he comes inside of you. You breathe heavily for a moment.
Sam pats your rump and you scramble off of him, readjust your panties and feel the wet spot forming on them. You frown in frustration-you don't want his come trickling out of you, you need it staying put, doing its job.
Dean is fixing Sam's clothes, buttoning his buttons. He spares a glance for you. "You should stay here. Long as you need. Pick any room on this floor, stay off the third. The phones are all hooked up. You get hungry the demons'll do room service, just give the front desk a call."
You walk down the hallway a little gingerly, sore between the legs from the abrupt intrusion. You're not sure what that was, but it sure wasn't sex. You pick a room in the corner, with nice big windows, but you don't like what they look out on (empty roads, black clouds on the horizon, vultures circling something in the distance) so you leave the sheer curtains shut, obscuring the outside world.
The bed is soft, with clean sheets. A ventilation system hums, delivering air that doesn't have that faint tinge of smoke that you're used to from outside. You go over to the thermostat and change it by two degrees just because you can.
There's a room service menu. You're not sure it's relevant, local food supplies being what they are, but-you've never had room service. It was always considered an exorbitant waste in your family, like cable TV or getting appetizers with dinner.
You dial the front desk. "What can you make?"
"What do you want?"
You twirl the phone cord between your fingers. You wonder if the demons can cook. "Pancakes. With strawberries. And whipped cream."
When the food comes, you snatch it out of the demon's hands before shutting the door. You devour it and fall asleep, stretching your limbs to take up all the space in the bed.
Dean brings you a book called Taking Charge of Your Fertility. Its pages are lightly singed. "Amazon.com warehouse burned down in Wichita," he says with a shrug.
You read the book from cover to cover and then go to find Dean. "I need a few things."
A demon goes scavenging for you and comes back with grocery bags full of supplies.
You set up your own office in another room, chart your cycle and find your basal body temperature. You come up with a plan of attack.
It really shouldn't be this difficult, you think, to get knocked up.
Sam forgets you're there most of the time, so you get Dean to remind him. "If he has a moment." You're trying not to be intrusive. "Today would be a good day."
"Things are busy right now," Dean says.
"It's just I checked my cervical mucus and-"
Dean backs away with a look of alarm, gesturing you to stop, and you stifle a smile. "I'll let him know."
A pattern develops after that. You sleep long hours in your room, enjoying the clean bug-free bed. You read all the books that you can find. You call your family to let them know you're still alive. Sometimes you leave the hotel and run laps around it, but the silence is oppressive-whistling wind, the clatter of a can rolling over the pavement. You eat your leafy greens-take care of yourself, what was once a luxury now a responsibility. And whenever he's not with his brother or commanding his armies or doing mysterious things on the third floor, Sam comes to your room and fucks you.
Like today. Sam fucked you once this morning after breakfast-you were downstairs getting coffee from the hotel kitchen, and Sam, mussed and smelling like Dean, pressed you up against the wall, lifted you till you could wrap your legs around his waist, and fucked you. Dean stood by and sipped coffee. When Sam finished and let you down, you went to the big steel commercial refrigerator to get a glass of milk. Calcium is important, and all the dispassionate, unsatisfying sex makes you ravenous.
Now you're in your room reading a romance novel because you've already run through the rest of the hotel's library, and Sam pushes your door open. He never knocks. You don't think he means to be rude, it just doesn't occur to him-the whole Antichrist thing.
You're not wearing panties-you're never wearing panties these days-so you hitch your skirt up, clamber to the edge of the bed, and spread your legs. And you've been reading that damn book and you've already been fucked once today and you're shifting a little in anticipation as his cock plays around your entrance, and then Sam's sinking into you with an embarrassing wet squish.
And now you feel truly exposed, like you haven't been all the many times before. You feel like you're the one person laughing too loud when everyone's quiet, like the lone drunk at a sedate dinner party. Shamefully unrestrained. The sheets are cool against your flush-warmed cheek when you turn your face away, try to hide. The great thing about Sam, though, is that he really doesn't give a shit-he pumps into you steadily, comes deep inside you, zips back up, and leaves you there with a buzzing in your head and a stickiness between your legs.
You're determined not to lose any of Sam's come, so you prop your hips up on a pillow and settle in to stay that way for the next half hour. Give his swimmers some time to get where they need to go. You reach for your book but you're still warm, distracted. Your hand strays between your legs and you rock your palm against your clit.
Dean walks in on you like that, your hips tilted up and open, fingers a V around your clit, flush spreading across your chest. "Please. Please."
And Dean, solicitous Dean who still takes the time, whenever he can, to get you ready for Sam's cock, tease you into comfort even if the not-exactly-sex never leads to orgasm-Dean shoulders your legs wider apart and works the flat of his tongue against your pussy. He licks a broad stripe that makes you shiver, then without further ado sucks at your clit and doesn't let up until you have spots dancing in your vision. Your heel thuds against Dean's back, and when he pulls away your legs splay wide and shameless. Sweat cools on your brow, behind your knees.
"Thank you."
"You want to come downstairs? We ordered burritos." How Dean managed to get burritos delivered when there's no refrigeration or gasoline within a ten-mile radius, you have no idea.
"I've got to stay for a while." You gesture to the pillow under your hips. "Gravity."
Dean pats your leg and gives you a little smile as he leaves. "Y'know, I hear it helps if the woman comes."
"Yeah," you say. "I heard that, too."
"I'll see what we can do about that."
You pull your romance novel over to you, but its escapades suddenly seem stilted and tame.
You've never seen Sam and Dean's bedroom. You know which door it is, but that is not a space into which you are welcome. Sam's demons know the same rule applies to them - Lucifer could be standing outside with a grenade launcher, and they still wouldn't intrude on the Antichrist's inner sanctum.
Sometimes you think about Sam and Dean, what they're like when they're alone together. You imagine their bedroom, a haven of rest. Sleeping spooned together. Sam deep in dreams, far away from the world, not the Antichrist in that moment but a soft-haired boy with dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Dean caressing Sam's face, gently touching him into wakefulness, and smiling when he sees Sam's eyes.
Once you walk into Sam's office and find them kissing slowly over Sam's desk, intimate and soft and focused solely on each other, like the rest of the world has disappeared. This does not belong to you. This is not yours to see. You back out of the room and spend the rest of the evening quiet and pensive.
You get mangoes-mangoes-one day. How the demons got them you have no idea. You gorge yourself until you feel a sick, then you ask one of the demons to take one back to the survivors' encampment. Minutes later, you realize what a bad idea that was. You call the encampment's one working phone, an unreliable line that goes down in every storm. "Please don't kill the demon," you tell the guy who picks up. "He has something for Josh."
The demon comes back unharmed, but covered in smashed mango pulp. Josh calls half an hour later, voice cracking with fury. "I won't take the Antichrist's table scraps. And neither should you."
"I thought you understood," you say. Then in a flash of petulance, "You know I'm doing this for you."
"You're disgusting," Josh says, hangs up.
You try not to take it personally. You've been away a long time. You can only imagine what the other survivors are saying about you in your absence, what Josh has to listen to every day.
But then, Josh has never had to make this choice.
You don't call him after that. You'll see your family once the baby's safely on the way, once you've brought them all here to the security of the hotel walls. You curl up in bed and clasp your arms around your flat stomach and think please hurry.
There are other candidates, of course. Sam needs an heir and needs one now, needs to assert his bloodline in the current power struggle. There's a prophecy or something. To be honest, you're not entirely clear on the details.
But yeah. There are these other women. Some of them are younger than you, which makes you instantly despise them. Roiling messes of fertility they are, the kind who get knocked up from dry-humping their boyfriends. It ought to be so easy for you.
Dean makes the mistake of leaving one of these girls in the kitchen sipping a diet soda while he goes upstairs to talk to Sam.
"Do you, like, live here?" Sip.
You lean in like you're sharing a secret. "Yeah, but if I'm good I can leave the hotel next week."
"Huh?" Sip.
"Last month I was bad. I had to stay in the basement. But this month I've been really good and quiet like a mouse, so if I keep from screaming every night for the next week, I get to leave the hotel and walk around." You smile beatifically.
"The basement?" The girl has stopped sipping.
"Yeah. You aren't afraid of rats, are you? Here, let me get you another soda."
The girl holds the sweating can in her hand without drinking. "You scream?"
You shake your head furiously. "Oh, no, I've learned not to!" You stare into the middle distance. "Sometimes I cry at night, though. In my cell."
"Jesus." The can groans and crumples a little in the girl's grip.
"Don't worry," you say brightly. "Pain is just weakness leaving the body."
The girl's gone when Dean gets back, and you're calmly sipping her soda. He looks around like she might be hiding under the table, then back at you. "You Machiavellian little bitch," he says wonderingly. "Again?"
"You know," you say, "I don't think she was heir-producing material. You want someone a little tougher."
Dean's shaking his head in disbelief as he heads back upstairs. "Stop scaring 'em all away."
"He deserves the best, doesn't he?" you shout after him. And deep down, you know that Dean knows it's true. Sam's heir needs good stock, someone who doesn't flinch when the Antichrist fucks her too hard, who'll scare the shit out of the competition, who did it all for her family.
Sam needs you, he just doesn't know it yet.
You've been charting your cycle since you moved in. So when you wake up one day, grope for the thermometer at your bedside, and your temperature is up a full degree-well, you'll brook no argument.
Sam and Dean are in the office, bent over disintegrating leather-bound books on the table.
"Now," you say, planting yourself in front of them. "Let's go. Right now."
Sam looks mildly irritated, a sight that would once have had you running for the hills. Dean puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "This isn't a great time," Dean says.
"This is the time," you tell him. "Do I need to tell you about why?"
Dean is still a little queasy from the last time you launched into a lecture on the details of fertility. "No."
You shift from foot to foot, feeling your blood running hot. This is your chance, you know it. "Fine. You know what? Keep doing what you're doing."
You hike up your skirt and bend over the desk, cunt on display.
"Uh," Dean says.
You tap the books firmly with the flat of your hand. "I thought you had work to do. Didn't anyone ever teach you to multitask?"
"It's all right, Dean." A warm touch traces over your ass and down your thigh. "This is a part our mission, too. An important part. Spread your legs."
You spread them till you're uncomfortably exposed, and are rewarded by a big hand cupping possessively between your legs, long fingers warm against your cunt. You try not to squirm, try not to rub up against Sam's hand like an animal in heat.
Sam's cock slips in the wetness around your entrance before notching into place, and then his whole body is rocking against yours as he slams inside you. The force pushes a noise out of you, loud and hurt and satisfied, because you're so fucking full, and you'll have bruises on your hipbones from the edge of the desk and Sam's dick is in as far as it can go, bumping up against something painful inside you and it hurts, no one's ever gone that deep before. Your hands grope at the desk, fumbling for purchase, trying to brace yourself. But you can't take control; Sam's lifting your hips up, sliding easy in and out, not so deep now, and you let your upper body collapse against the desk.
As Sam fucks you, slow and controlled, it gets easier-space is opening up inside of you, letting him in deeper, taking his whole cock inside your body. Soon he's filling you all the way, cockhead nestled close up inside you where it needs to be.
You twist to look back and Dean's standing behind Sam, whispering in his ear. Dean takes Sam's hand and guides it between your legs, and their warm fingers, entangled, rub at your clit until your hands and feet are clenching, until you're shaking, overwhelmed. You twitch when you feel a touch where your body and Sam's are joined-Dean's other hand is playing with Sam's balls, massaging as Dean keeps up a steady stream of filth in Sam's ear: "You gonna give it to her, Sammy? See how much she wants it? She needs it." You moan and quiver around Sam. "She's all ripe, Sammy, you've just gotta fill her up with come. She's so greedy for it." Dean's fingers trace around where Sam's cock enters and enters and enters you. "Get it right up inside, all the way deep in there."
There's a wet warmth and you realize that Dean's knelt beneath your joined bodies, licking happily at your cunt and Sam's cock. When Sam lowers his head to bite the nape of your neck, you gasp, clench, and come.
You slowly loosen your grip on the desk as Sam lowers your hips back down. Dean climbs back to his feet, and Sam's cock goes soft inside you as he kisses Dean.
Dean buttons Sam's pants, fixes his tie. Musses his hair.
You lie there feeling like you should get up and leave, but you need to stay horizontal. You turn over on the desk and look up at them.
They look down at you. "Don't mind me. I'm just gonna … stay like this."
Sam and Dean kiss once more and go back to work at the books spread around you. You listen to the low rumble of their voices, tune out the words. You concentrate hard on what's going on inside you, as if you could feel Sam's seed catching, life sparking, if only you focused enough. Mostly you just feel sticky. And achy.
You catch Sam absentmindedly petting you as you lie there, stroking a hand over your flank. It's weird, but kind of nice. Somehow, despite a near-constant regimen of sex, you've grown rather touch-starved here.
You turn your attention to the book lying open next to your left shoulder. "Hey, wait a minute." The boys look at you with matching quizzical expressions. "This says Lucifer's an angel. That's true?"
Dean glances at Sam and seems to get a silent answer before responding. "Yeah. He is one." Dean pauses. "They're pretty much all bastards. Few exceptions."
They go back to their conversation, but your post-fuck bliss has turned thoughtful. You sit up gingerly when you think it's been long enough, and you sit down in Sam's desk chair and open a book. There's too much you don't know. You have work to do.
Your time passes in sex and research. Angels, demons, hierarchies. Prophecies. Heirs. How to protect a child from harm. Give it power. Make it strong and blessed.
You take your vitamins, keep your charts, read your books. Learn. Wait.
There are two pink lines. You stare at the stick, shake it. They're still there. You blink.
.
Sam and Dean are in the parking lot, watching the black-cloud sky.
"Two lines!"
Dean squints at the stick. "Oh. I'm sorry."
You're buzzing, bursting. You want to smack him upside the head. "That means I'm pregnant!"
Sam turns to stare. Dean looks like he doesn't quite understand. "You're-"
"Pregnant. I'm pregnant."
A second later and you're in the air, Dean's arms squeezing tight around your ribs. He sets you back on your feet and he's punching the air triumphantly, whooping. "Goddamn."
Sam's more subdued, happy little-boy smile. Dean's jumping on him, a bear hug, a smack on the cheek. Sam wraps a long arm around your shoulders, kisses the top of your head. "That's awesome."
Dean's victory dance continues as Sam's big hand spreads over your belly, and you slide your smaller one next to it.
If someone had told you a year ago that you'd be standing here like this, you'd have sent them away in a straitjacket. Funny how things shake out.
It's a little cold out. Traces of smoke are sharp in the air. The three of you climb to the roof of the hotel to watch the sun set, just so you'll have something to tell the kid one day. You decide to start remembering everything, from here on out. It was dark and cold and hungry, you'll say. And all the people were scared. That's what the world was like, before we fixed it for you.