And Miles to Go Before I Sleep 1/3
Title: And Miles to Go Before I Sleep
Type: fandom, MPreg
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: ~15000
Rating: NC-17
Author’s Note: This was originally written for this prompt on spn_hardcore : In a post-apocalyptic world where half the population is scrounging to survive and the other half is trying to blow everybody up, Dean searches for a safe haven so that a heavily pregnant Sam can have their baby without them being in danger of getting blown up/attacked by bandits/etc. I'm imagining a world more 'Book of Eli' or 'Fallout' apocalyptic as opposed to actual capitalized Apocalyptic, but whatever suits the author! Basically I just want to see Sam giving birth in a rundown house of some sort with bombs going off in the distance!
Warnings: mpreg, war, graphic labor, incest
Summary: It’s over. The world is ending. Maybe not the way the angels and demons had wanted it to happen, but it’s happening. Little had they known that the humans would eventually get the job done all on their own, destroying everything in a third world war.
It’s over. The world is ending. Maybe not the way the angels and demons had wanted it to happen, but it’s happening. Little had they known that the humans would eventually get the job done all on their own, destroying everything in a third world war.
So maybe it’s not exactly fire and brimstone like the Bible said, like pretty much everyone used to think of when they talked about the world ending, but it’s the end just the same.
It’s weird, because for Sam and Dean, things don’t actually change much. It actually kind of reverts to the way things used to be before they got involved with the whole Second Holy War or whatever. They drive around in the Impala, bouncing around from place to place. They help people when they can, fight a losing battle against the monster of the week. There aren’t many motels to stay in anymore, so they often sleep in the Impala instead, curling up together in the back seat beneath a scratchy, thin blanket. They’ve done that before, though.
So it’s not that different.
But somehow it is at the same time.
There’s a lingering sadness in the air, tinged with the sour smell of sweat and fear, and it’s everywhere they go.
The only time Sam can stop thinking about that sadness is when he’s with Dean like he is now, when he’s being fucked into the backseat, Dean whispering a litany of filthy promises and sweet reassurances into Sam’s collarbones. It’s messy and rough, with none of the finesse that Dean always used to slather on his one night stands over the years. It’s how Sam knows that Dean feels the sadness too.
And maybe that’s what actually makes him feel better. Maybe he never really stops thinking about their situation now; maybe he just stops thinking that he’s alone in it. Sex is the only time Dean lets the sadness get to him, and Sam accepts it, internalizes it so Dean doesn’t have to think about it any other time.
Dean kisses him, their raw, chapped lips rubbing painfully against each other, and Dean mumbles senselessly into his mouth.
Sam moans, burying his hands in Dean’s hair, pulling him as close as he can because he feels Dean hurting in the way his fingers bruise Sam’s thighs, hears Dean’s sadness in the shuddering breath he takes as he comes, hot and sticky inside Sam.
“Come on, Sam,” Dean says, voice rough with sex as he wraps his hand around Sam’s dick and pulls, “Give it up for me, Sammy.”
“Dean, oh, fuck, Dean,” Sam manages as he feels heat coil tight in his belly and then release, writhing as he slicks them both with come.
Dean presses his forehead to Sam’s, closing his eyes and catching his breath. He reeks, they both do, and he’s covered in a thin layer of grime. A few dark smudges mark his face from when the Impala broke down last week and he’d toyed beneath it for hours until it roared back to life. Sam reaches up, wiping at one of the smudges. It feels sticky, and it doesn’t come off, just rubs a little further into Dean’s skin.
Dean opens his eyes, and they’re still blown; he’s still riding through the afterglow as he encircles Sam’s wrist, stops him from rubbing at the stains.
“You reek,” Sam says helpfully, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from betraying him with a smile.
Dean snorts.
“What, you think you smell like roses?” He peels himself off of Sam, using a shirt with too many holes in it to swipe the come off his stomach before tossing it at Sam’s face.
Sam jerks to keep the shirt from touching him but only manages to bump his head against the car door as well as getting a come-covered shirt to the face.
“Ow! What the hell, Dean? That thing is probably a petri dish for E. coli at this point. You’re gonna poison me.” He gingerly picks it up to wipe the come off his stomach before dropping it back on the floorboard.
“Whatever, science geek.” He nudges Sam’s shoulder. “Assume position. I’m tired.”
Sam wrinkles his nose. “Maybe I’m not tired, jerk.”
“Maybe you should get that way then, bitch,” Dean counters. “Don’t make me force you into it, Sam. I’ve been driving for a fucking long time, and I do not feel like manhandling your giant ass right now. But I will.”
Sam lifts his chin defiantly, and Dean sighs, uses his body weight to twist and turn Sam until they’re laying across the backseat, Dean spooned up behind him, their legs twisted and tangled together.
It’s just a ploy for normalcy, and they both know it. Sam’s tired too. He’s always tired anymore, even if he hasn’t been driving.
“Tomorrow we’ll see what we can do about finding something to take a bath in,” Dean says into the back of his neck. “Maybe a lake or something. Lift your head.”
Sam obeys, and Dean bends his elbow, letting him pillow his head against it before pulling the blanket over them.
“Get some sleep, Sam. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.”
Sam doesn’t say that it’s a long day everyday, just presses himself more firmly against the warm line of Dean’s body and closes his eyes.
*
“Sam. Come on, Sam.”
Sam groans, batting at the hand that’s prodding between his shoulder blades.
“It’s already past noon, lazy ass. Time to get up.”
“Is not,” Sam mutters. He blinks his eyes open, squinting at the bright light of the sun that’s filtering through the Impala’s windows. It’s high in the sky, indicating that it’s probably one o’clock or so. Sam scrubs his hand through his greasy hair. “Damn, sorry. I never sleep this late.”
Dean ignores him. “I found a river. Looks like we can get that bath you were moaning about yesterday now.”
Sam stretches and peels himself off the upholstery, throwing off the blanket. “Sounds good.”
They’re parked right next to the river, so Sam doesn’t bother putting his jeans back on. He does, however, pull both of their duffels from the trunk and gather up all their clothes. It’ll be nice to wear something clean for once.
Dean gives him an appraising look. “You bitched at me about taking a bath, and you’re gonna do laundry instead?”
“I didn’t say I needed a bath.” Sam smiles. “Besides, don’t you want to wear something that doesn’t have sweat stains?”
“No,” Dean retorts, eyebrow arched, “it’s more manly that way.”
Sam makes a face, snatching up the soap and tossing it at him. “Ugh, you’re gross. Go get in the water.”
Dean dodges the soap and canon balls into the water, shirt, blue jeans, boots and all. He comes back up with a gasp, teeth chattering. “Holy fuck, it’s cold.”
Sam laughs, lugging the laundry to the side of the river and beginning to systematically dip their clothes in the water and scrub at the stains in them with soap. “Serves you right.”
“Hm.” Dean dives underwater.
After a minute or so of him being beneath the surface, Sam frowns. He lays the pair of Dean’s jeans he’s been working on out to dry, carefully watching the dark water as he grabs a shirt that really should just be thrown out at this point, it’s got so many holes in it. But they don’t have the luxury of throwing it out, so they don’t.
“Dean, that’s not funny,” he calls out, hopefully loud enough to hear underwater.
After another minute, Sam lays down the shirt and smacks the water’s surface to get his attention. “Seriously, Dean. This isn’t funny. Dean?”
And then Dean surges up out of the water, like Sam knew he would God damn it, and grabs Sam around the middle, yanking him beneath the surface.
He comes back up sputtering, coughing up water, as Dean pulls himself up on the bank, laughing hysterically. “You should see your face, Sam.”
“You fucking suck,” Sam gasps, shivering. “That wasn’t funny.”
“It was hilarious.” Dean starts pulling off his clothes then, kicking his boots and socks off before yanking his shirt over his head. He’s lost weight, Sam thinks, noting the slight loss of muscle mass and the way he can see a shadow of Dean’s ribcage. Sam’s lost weight too. It kind of comes with the territory of not eating regularly while maintaining their activity level on hunts.
“Staring appreciatively is one thing, Sam. Bearing holes through me is another.”
Sam’s ears go hot, but he doesn’t look away, just looks up into Dean’s face. “Shut up. For someone who likes to get laid, you’re kind of a jerk.”
Dean shrugs, wiggling out of his jeans. “All part of my appeal.”
He canon balls in again, like he’s four years old or something, and Sam flails to get out of the way of the splash it causes.
Dean comes up with a shit-eating grin.
Sam deadpans. “Seriously, I’d start seeking your pleasuring services elsewhere if I were you.”
Dean rolls his eyes before swimming closer. “Aw, Sammy, don’t be like that. Besides, you know I only have eyes for you.”
“Gay,” Sam says blandly, moving out of Dean’s reach when he gets too close.
Dean dives again, and almost instantly, Sam feels fingers dig between his ribs. He squirms to get away and manages to half-drown them both before he can scramble back onto the river bank near their clothes.
Sam coughs up water. He’s actually starting to feel pretty nauseous. Probably swallowed too much river. “You’re going to kill us both, Dean.”
Dean swims to him, settling himself between where Sam’s legs are dangling in the water. “If not me, it’ll be the demons. Or the angels. Or, hell, probably a group of crazies.”
‘Crazies’, from what Sam understands, is Dean’s new term for the survivors of the series of plagues and wars that have reduced the world to its current state. Most people are some form of crazy now. PTSD, anxiety, depression, panic attacks. The result of lost and lonely people in a dying world.
Sam coughs again, trying to get up the water he can still feel in his throat.
“I’m not sure I prefer my brother drowning me to the group of crazies.” He reaches out and gently tugs at a lock of Dean’s hair. “You need a haircut.”
Dean snorts, moving back and ducking away from his hand. “I bet I could put your hair into a ponytail at this point. You’ll turn into a girl on me yet, Sammy.”
“So we both need haircuts, whatever.” He leans back on his hands, watching as Dean returns to his spot between Sam’s legs, apparently feeling safe from having his hair pulled or criticized. “Do we still have that pair of scissors in the first aid kit?”
Dean shakes his head. “They rusted out. But we could always use the knives.”
Sam makes a face at the idea but doesn’t say anything against it. His hair probably really could go into a short ponytail, and it’s driving him crazy, even with years of his bangs being in his face under his belt. “I’ll cut your hair tonight then.”
He reaches out again, slowly, so Dean knows he means no harm, and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair.
Dean leans into his touch. “Try not to slice my ear off. I don’t look like a crazy yet, but I don’t want to try for it.”
Sam scoffs. “That was one time, and it was a nick, you big baby. You’ve probably cut yourself shaving and bled worse than that.”
Dean looks like he’s about to say something else when something in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and his gaze snaps to it. He smiles grimly. “Well, speak of the Devil.”
He moves from between Sam’s thighs and grunts as he hoists himself up on the river bank.
Sam looks in the direction Dean had been and groans when he sees a dust cloud being kicked up in the distance. He gets up, dusting the backs of his thighs off before pulling on a still-damp pair of jeans. Dean’s already dressed when Sam looks at him again, his shirt sticking wetly to his body, and he’s half-disappeared into the trunk of the Impala, rummaging around. Sam busies himself with pulling out the hunting knife he keeps in his duffel and gathering up their clothes, stuffing them back in the bags.
By the time the beaten up old truck pulls up alongside them, Sam is zipping up their bags, his knife held loosely against his thigh.
A group of men clamber out of the truck, and one of them steps toward Sam. He’s older, maybe in his forties, but it’s hard to tell since most of his face is occupied by a scraggly, gray-streaked beard and equally scraggly, equally streaked hair. When he smiles his teeth are yellow, and when he talks he sounds like he’s coming off a week-long bender. “Hey, neighbor.”
Sam smiles in the charming, boyish way that’s gotten him out of more than one scrape. “Sorry, I’m not from around here. Can’t be your neighbor.”
The guy laughs. “Well, we’re from around everywhere, so everyone’s our neighbor. You got any extra rations in that pretty car of yours?”
Sam tries not to snort a laugh. In this world, there isn’t such a thing as ‘extra’. “No, I don’t. Sorry.”
“Really, now,” the guy says, and his little posse splays out behind him. Sam dimly remembers football players in the various high schools he’d attended who made that same formation before shoving him in a locker. “Because sharing is the neighborly thing to do, you know.”
Of course, he’d weighed about a hundred pounds less and been about a foot shorter back when the jocks were bullying him. Once he’d finally hit his growth spurt in his junior year, they’d stopped fucking with him. He stands up, taking full advantage of the six inches he has on the leader. As he straightens out, another wave of nausea hits him, but he pushes it down. He twists his wrist, letting his knife flash in the afternoon sunshine. “Like I said, I’m not your neighbor.”
The leader looks down at his knife and grins, reaching behind himself where a sheath must be hidden against his thigh because he did not just pull a fucking machete from his pants without slicing himself up all to hell. His cronies pull similar weapons from beneath their clothes, a couple of them with chains instead of long knives like the others. “Think you just brought a knife to a gunfight, son.”
And there’s the comforting kr-schck of the shotgun being locked and loaded. Apparently, the gang hadn’t seen Dean upon driving up, because they all startle, cringing away from the sound.
“Really?” Dean asks, sighting down at the leader from his spot behind the car. “Because it looks an awful lot like you’re the one without a gun. Neighbor.” He adds the last part with the same grim smile he’d had upon first climbing out of the river. “Drop the weapons. And since we’re such good neighbors, and you and your boys are so much better at sharing than me and mine, I’m sure you’re more than willing to give us some of your rations.”
The cronies drop their weapons quickly, but the leader hesitates before finally dropping his machete. “Get the supplies.”
His cronies obey, pulling cans and MREs from the back of the truck.
“What else do you have? First aid kit, scissors, anything like that?” Dean asks. The men shake their heads. Dean looks disappointed for a moment. Then his eyes light up. “Got a blanket?” When they nod, Dean jerks his head toward the Impala. “Switch with ‘em, Sam, then gather up the rest of it. If I see anyone doing anything funny, I’m blowing someone’s head off.”
Sam pulls their little wool blanket out of the Impala and trades it for a soft, thick quilt. It was obviously made by hand, and Sam sees the leader give him a pained look when he puts in the back of the Impala. He almost feels bad for him.
Almost. The guy did try to rob him, after all.
Sam gathers up the rest of the supplies, stuffing everything in the trunk. When he’s done, he stands beside Dean, who puts a hand to the back of his neck, squeezing reassuringly before passing him the shotgun. Dean pulls out a coil of tubing from the trunk and opens up his gas tank. “All right, boys, I’m gonna siphon some gas from you, and then you can be on your way. No hard feelings.”
One of the men makes a motion toward Dean as he approaches the truck, and Sam blows off one of the truck’s side-view mirrors. “Don’t move, dumbass.”
The guys gape at him but don’t move again until Dean’s done and back beside Sam. “I think we’re just about done here. Catch you guys later.”
The men grudgingly get back in the truck and drive off.
“Well, that was fun,” Sam mutters, setting the shotgun down. God, he’s tired.
“It was convenient, at least. Now we won’t have to look for a town to raid for a while,” Dean says, patting him on the back. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t want those douchebags to catch us with our pants down. Again.”
Sam nods, cracking a smile at Dean’s joke as he slides into the car. Dean closes the trunk and drops into the driver’s seat.
When the engine doesn’t immediately roar to life, Sam curiously looks over at Dean, catching him staring. Sam tries to smile again. “Like something you see?”
Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Are you okay?”
Sam blinks. “Um. Yeah. Why?”
Dean shrugs. “Because you keep looking like you’re not okay.”
Sam just gives him a you-worry-too-much look, and Dean looks away, turns the key in the ignition.
Sam curls up in his seat, leans against the sun-warmed window and drifts off to sleep.
*
Sam is not sick. He’s not. His stomach has just finally decided to rebel against the cans of meatless chili and syrup covered peaches that have been his major food source for the last year.
That’s what he tells Dean, anyway, on the night that he suddenly lurches up from the backseat of the car and throws open the door to wretch until bile lines the back of his throat.
He doesn’t tell Dean that he’s been getting sick for a few weeks now.
The smell of food is starting to trigger the nausea, and it’s hard to keep anything down when Sam forces himself to eat. He’s losing weight fast, faster than before, but he’s careful not to let Dean catch on. He pretends like he’s just not hungry to keep the questions about his food intake at bay, pretends like the idea of sex in the daytime is suddenly a terrible idea so Dean can’t clearly see Sam’s body.
It’s hard, but having Dean worry himself to death over something as silly as the stomach flu is ridiculous in Sam’s head, so he does what he has to do. That’s the Winchester motto, after all.
*
They’re having sex when his body betrays him in front of Dean a second time. The constant rocking motion sets him off, and he tries to get away in time, he really does, but he ends up puking on the floorboards before he can wrench the door open.
Dean jumps back, surprised. “What the fuck, Sam!”
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam hastily apologizes as he climbs out of the car and throws up again.
He sits beside the car, crossing his legs and touching his forehead to his knee, breathing slowly through his nose until the sick twisting of his stomach settles down.
Sam feels a hand rub over his back, and when he sits up, Dean is behind him, chest pressed to Sam’s back. Sam tilts his head back against Dean’s shoulder. “Sorry. Kind of a mood killer, huh?”
“The Master Chief of mood killers actually,” Dean replies against Sam’s ear. “I think we set a new record for how quick a boner could be killed.”
Sam laughs breathlessly, closing his eyes.
“We need to get you to a doctor,” Dean says quietly.
Sam shakes his head. “We can’t afford a doctor, Dean. And that’s if we can even find one in the first place.”
“Let me worry about that, Sammy.” He smooths a hand over Sam’s forehead, pushing back his hair. “You’ve been sick for a long time now.”
“Have not,” Sam protests weakly. He’s been very careful about hiding everything. There’s no way Dean could know that he’s been sick for a month now.
Dean runs his hands up Sam’s waist, and Sam shivers at that, cock stirring with slight interest even with the caustic smell of stomach acid in the air. His fingers fit in the deepened grooves of Sam’s ribs, then slide back down, thumbs pressing into the sharp points of his hipbones. And even though the touches have piqued his dick's interests, Sam knows they aren't intended to be sexual. Dean is feeling him out, seeking the spaces that have hollowed out on his body. Finally, Dean says, “We’re going to the doctor.”
Sam groans miserably but can’t find the strength to protest. Instead, he says, “Can we sleep out here tonight? I don’t think I can go back in there with that smell and not throw up again.”
“You’re not the only one,” Dean mutters, leaning back to grab their quilt and wrapping it around them both. “But if you’re not dead by morning, you’re cleaning that shit out of my car.”
Sam just laughs.
*
It takes them the better part of two weeks to find a town with a doctor in it. Or, well, she’s not really a doctor, according to the person who recommended her, the owner of the makeshift weaponry shop they’d visited at one point. Apparently she used to be a nurse in a hospital before the world started collapsing. Now, she takes care of the little settlement she resides in.
Her name is Jenna. She’s a little older than them, maybe mid to late thirties with short blonde hair, and when she smiles warmly at Sam, it reaches her eyes. It’s been a long time since Sam has seen anyone smile like that. It’s comforting to him, but he can tell that it makes Dean uneasy.
She works out of what looks to be her house, ushering them in after they ring her doorbell. She asks that they please wait on the couch while she attends to another one of her patients.
They wait probably half an hour before she reemerges from a back room, guiding a little girl to the front entry. She kneels down and gives her a quick hug. “You tell your mama to invite me over for dinner soon, and we’ll be all squared up, okay? You just make sure you take that medicine I gave you, and you’ll feel better in no time.”
The little girl grins and thanks her before leaving, clutching a small bottle to her chest.
Jenna smiles after her, then closes the door, turning back to them. “All right, boys, what seems to be the problem?”
“He’s sick,” Dean says, shifting a little closer to Sam so their shoulders are touching.
She motions with her hand for them to follow her into the back room she’d just come out of. It’s smaller than the living room, almost cramped with all three of them in it, though it’s a little less packed when Sam hops up on the bed doubling as an examination table.
Jenna picks up a notebook and pencil. “My name is Jenna. Yours?”
“Sam, and that’s Dean,” he says simply.
“Okay, Sam, what seems to be the problem?”
Sam glances at Dean, who’s just watching him steadily. “I keep throwing up.”
“Ah,” she says, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out what looks like a mixing bowl, handing it to him. “Try to aim for that if you feel like throwing up again, okay? I try to keep cross-contamination down as much as possible. How long and how frequently have you been having this symptom?”
He abjectly sets the bowl in his lap. “Almost two months now, just about every day.”
Dean purses his lips. It’s the only thing he does to indicate he even heard Sam, but it’s enough for him to know that he’s going to be bitched at later.
“Any other symptoms?”
He shakes his head. “Just nausea, I guess, but that comes with the territory.”
She writes everything down in her notebook, then pulls a first aid kit from the cabinet she’d gotten the bowl from. She withdraws a thermometer, swabbing it with alcohol before pressing it into his ear. It beeps. “Looks like you’ve got a low grade fever. Ninety nine. Probably not the flu, then. If you’re not experiencing any diarrhea, it’s probably not food poisoning of some sort.”
He shakes his head to confirm.
She sighs. “I suppose telling you that you’re malnourished and dehydrated would be like telling a parrot it’s a bird at this point.”
Sam nods, ducking his head. Dean looks suspiciously like he wants to shoot something.
She takes his wrist in her hand and presses her thumb to his pulse, looking up at the clock on the wall. “Blood pressure is high. Have you been having trouble sleeping lately?”
“He sleeps all the time,” Dean says.
Her eyes light up then. “Nauseous and exhausted, huh? Stay here a moment, please.”
She disappears from the room.
Sam bites his lip. “Dean--”
“Later, Sam. I’m not having this discussion right now.”
Sam sighs and leans back against the wall. He’s not looking forward to the talk they’re going to have. At all.
Jenna returns to the room with a machine in her hand. “I’d appreciate if the fact that I have one of these didn’t get out.” She hesitates. “It’s a rare commodity nowadays, and I’d really like to keep it.”
Sam nods. “What is it?”
She sets the machine down next to him and pats it gently. “A portable ultrasound.”
Sam suddenly goes cold. “What?”
She smiles gently. “Please calm down, Sam. I just want to get a look at your stomach, see what we’re dealing with. It might be nothing. But if it’s not nothing, I think you should know that. Lie down and lift your shirt, please.”
Sam nods, laying down on the bed and lifting his shirt to his chest.
Jenna wipes down the machine with alcohol, then does the same with Sam’s stomach before squirting some kind of jelly on his skin. She presses what looks like a metal handle on top of the jelly and flips the machine on. Immediately, the room is filled with the sound of a heartbeat.
Sam covers his face with his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” Dean asks, standing. “What’s wrong with him?”
Jenna picks up the machine emitting the sound, flipping on the screen. A black and white image pops up. She taps the middle, where a tiny white dot is. “You see that?”
Dean swallows and nods.
“That’s a fetus.”
Dean pales. “What?”
“A baby, Dean,” Sam grinds out. “I’m pregnant.”
“But,” Dean stammers, staring at that stupid white dot, “I thought. After the fallout, I thought everyone was infertile or something.”
Jenna shakes her head. “It’s much harder to conceive now. I’ve only seen one pregnancy since this mess started, and that was by a woman, but.” She flips the machine off. “It’s obviously possible.”
Sam is suddenly, incredibly tired, and a wave of nausea hits. It feels like the world is ending all over again, and he feels dizzy. His hands move to his stomach, and when he opens his eyes, the light from the ceiling fan is too bright. He feels disoriented and sick.
“Dean...”
Someone takes his hand, and he hears Dean’s voice saying, “Sam, Sammy, I’m here, what’s wrong, Sammy, stay with me.”
And then the world is black.
Part 2
Type: fandom, MPreg
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: ~15000
Rating: NC-17
Author’s Note: This was originally written for this prompt on spn_hardcore : In a post-apocalyptic world where half the population is scrounging to survive and the other half is trying to blow everybody up, Dean searches for a safe haven so that a heavily pregnant Sam can have their baby without them being in danger of getting blown up/attacked by bandits/etc. I'm imagining a world more 'Book of Eli' or 'Fallout' apocalyptic as opposed to actual capitalized Apocalyptic, but whatever suits the author! Basically I just want to see Sam giving birth in a rundown house of some sort with bombs going off in the distance!
Warnings: mpreg, war, graphic labor, incest
Summary: It’s over. The world is ending. Maybe not the way the angels and demons had wanted it to happen, but it’s happening. Little had they known that the humans would eventually get the job done all on their own, destroying everything in a third world war.
It’s over. The world is ending. Maybe not the way the angels and demons had wanted it to happen, but it’s happening. Little had they known that the humans would eventually get the job done all on their own, destroying everything in a third world war.
So maybe it’s not exactly fire and brimstone like the Bible said, like pretty much everyone used to think of when they talked about the world ending, but it’s the end just the same.
It’s weird, because for Sam and Dean, things don’t actually change much. It actually kind of reverts to the way things used to be before they got involved with the whole Second Holy War or whatever. They drive around in the Impala, bouncing around from place to place. They help people when they can, fight a losing battle against the monster of the week. There aren’t many motels to stay in anymore, so they often sleep in the Impala instead, curling up together in the back seat beneath a scratchy, thin blanket. They’ve done that before, though.
So it’s not that different.
But somehow it is at the same time.
There’s a lingering sadness in the air, tinged with the sour smell of sweat and fear, and it’s everywhere they go.
The only time Sam can stop thinking about that sadness is when he’s with Dean like he is now, when he’s being fucked into the backseat, Dean whispering a litany of filthy promises and sweet reassurances into Sam’s collarbones. It’s messy and rough, with none of the finesse that Dean always used to slather on his one night stands over the years. It’s how Sam knows that Dean feels the sadness too.
And maybe that’s what actually makes him feel better. Maybe he never really stops thinking about their situation now; maybe he just stops thinking that he’s alone in it. Sex is the only time Dean lets the sadness get to him, and Sam accepts it, internalizes it so Dean doesn’t have to think about it any other time.
Dean kisses him, their raw, chapped lips rubbing painfully against each other, and Dean mumbles senselessly into his mouth.
Sam moans, burying his hands in Dean’s hair, pulling him as close as he can because he feels Dean hurting in the way his fingers bruise Sam’s thighs, hears Dean’s sadness in the shuddering breath he takes as he comes, hot and sticky inside Sam.
“Come on, Sam,” Dean says, voice rough with sex as he wraps his hand around Sam’s dick and pulls, “Give it up for me, Sammy.”
“Dean, oh, fuck, Dean,” Sam manages as he feels heat coil tight in his belly and then release, writhing as he slicks them both with come.
Dean presses his forehead to Sam’s, closing his eyes and catching his breath. He reeks, they both do, and he’s covered in a thin layer of grime. A few dark smudges mark his face from when the Impala broke down last week and he’d toyed beneath it for hours until it roared back to life. Sam reaches up, wiping at one of the smudges. It feels sticky, and it doesn’t come off, just rubs a little further into Dean’s skin.
Dean opens his eyes, and they’re still blown; he’s still riding through the afterglow as he encircles Sam’s wrist, stops him from rubbing at the stains.
“You reek,” Sam says helpfully, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from betraying him with a smile.
Dean snorts.
“What, you think you smell like roses?” He peels himself off of Sam, using a shirt with too many holes in it to swipe the come off his stomach before tossing it at Sam’s face.
Sam jerks to keep the shirt from touching him but only manages to bump his head against the car door as well as getting a come-covered shirt to the face.
“Ow! What the hell, Dean? That thing is probably a petri dish for E. coli at this point. You’re gonna poison me.” He gingerly picks it up to wipe the come off his stomach before dropping it back on the floorboard.
“Whatever, science geek.” He nudges Sam’s shoulder. “Assume position. I’m tired.”
Sam wrinkles his nose. “Maybe I’m not tired, jerk.”
“Maybe you should get that way then, bitch,” Dean counters. “Don’t make me force you into it, Sam. I’ve been driving for a fucking long time, and I do not feel like manhandling your giant ass right now. But I will.”
Sam lifts his chin defiantly, and Dean sighs, uses his body weight to twist and turn Sam until they’re laying across the backseat, Dean spooned up behind him, their legs twisted and tangled together.
It’s just a ploy for normalcy, and they both know it. Sam’s tired too. He’s always tired anymore, even if he hasn’t been driving.
“Tomorrow we’ll see what we can do about finding something to take a bath in,” Dean says into the back of his neck. “Maybe a lake or something. Lift your head.”
Sam obeys, and Dean bends his elbow, letting him pillow his head against it before pulling the blanket over them.
“Get some sleep, Sam. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.”
Sam doesn’t say that it’s a long day everyday, just presses himself more firmly against the warm line of Dean’s body and closes his eyes.
*
“Sam. Come on, Sam.”
Sam groans, batting at the hand that’s prodding between his shoulder blades.
“It’s already past noon, lazy ass. Time to get up.”
“Is not,” Sam mutters. He blinks his eyes open, squinting at the bright light of the sun that’s filtering through the Impala’s windows. It’s high in the sky, indicating that it’s probably one o’clock or so. Sam scrubs his hand through his greasy hair. “Damn, sorry. I never sleep this late.”
Dean ignores him. “I found a river. Looks like we can get that bath you were moaning about yesterday now.”
Sam stretches and peels himself off the upholstery, throwing off the blanket. “Sounds good.”
They’re parked right next to the river, so Sam doesn’t bother putting his jeans back on. He does, however, pull both of their duffels from the trunk and gather up all their clothes. It’ll be nice to wear something clean for once.
Dean gives him an appraising look. “You bitched at me about taking a bath, and you’re gonna do laundry instead?”
“I didn’t say I needed a bath.” Sam smiles. “Besides, don’t you want to wear something that doesn’t have sweat stains?”
“No,” Dean retorts, eyebrow arched, “it’s more manly that way.”
Sam makes a face, snatching up the soap and tossing it at him. “Ugh, you’re gross. Go get in the water.”
Dean dodges the soap and canon balls into the water, shirt, blue jeans, boots and all. He comes back up with a gasp, teeth chattering. “Holy fuck, it’s cold.”
Sam laughs, lugging the laundry to the side of the river and beginning to systematically dip their clothes in the water and scrub at the stains in them with soap. “Serves you right.”
“Hm.” Dean dives underwater.
After a minute or so of him being beneath the surface, Sam frowns. He lays the pair of Dean’s jeans he’s been working on out to dry, carefully watching the dark water as he grabs a shirt that really should just be thrown out at this point, it’s got so many holes in it. But they don’t have the luxury of throwing it out, so they don’t.
“Dean, that’s not funny,” he calls out, hopefully loud enough to hear underwater.
After another minute, Sam lays down the shirt and smacks the water’s surface to get his attention. “Seriously, Dean. This isn’t funny. Dean?”
And then Dean surges up out of the water, like Sam knew he would God damn it, and grabs Sam around the middle, yanking him beneath the surface.
He comes back up sputtering, coughing up water, as Dean pulls himself up on the bank, laughing hysterically. “You should see your face, Sam.”
“You fucking suck,” Sam gasps, shivering. “That wasn’t funny.”
“It was hilarious.” Dean starts pulling off his clothes then, kicking his boots and socks off before yanking his shirt over his head. He’s lost weight, Sam thinks, noting the slight loss of muscle mass and the way he can see a shadow of Dean’s ribcage. Sam’s lost weight too. It kind of comes with the territory of not eating regularly while maintaining their activity level on hunts.
“Staring appreciatively is one thing, Sam. Bearing holes through me is another.”
Sam’s ears go hot, but he doesn’t look away, just looks up into Dean’s face. “Shut up. For someone who likes to get laid, you’re kind of a jerk.”
Dean shrugs, wiggling out of his jeans. “All part of my appeal.”
He canon balls in again, like he’s four years old or something, and Sam flails to get out of the way of the splash it causes.
Dean comes up with a shit-eating grin.
Sam deadpans. “Seriously, I’d start seeking your pleasuring services elsewhere if I were you.”
Dean rolls his eyes before swimming closer. “Aw, Sammy, don’t be like that. Besides, you know I only have eyes for you.”
“Gay,” Sam says blandly, moving out of Dean’s reach when he gets too close.
Dean dives again, and almost instantly, Sam feels fingers dig between his ribs. He squirms to get away and manages to half-drown them both before he can scramble back onto the river bank near their clothes.
Sam coughs up water. He’s actually starting to feel pretty nauseous. Probably swallowed too much river. “You’re going to kill us both, Dean.”
Dean swims to him, settling himself between where Sam’s legs are dangling in the water. “If not me, it’ll be the demons. Or the angels. Or, hell, probably a group of crazies.”
‘Crazies’, from what Sam understands, is Dean’s new term for the survivors of the series of plagues and wars that have reduced the world to its current state. Most people are some form of crazy now. PTSD, anxiety, depression, panic attacks. The result of lost and lonely people in a dying world.
Sam coughs again, trying to get up the water he can still feel in his throat.
“I’m not sure I prefer my brother drowning me to the group of crazies.” He reaches out and gently tugs at a lock of Dean’s hair. “You need a haircut.”
Dean snorts, moving back and ducking away from his hand. “I bet I could put your hair into a ponytail at this point. You’ll turn into a girl on me yet, Sammy.”
“So we both need haircuts, whatever.” He leans back on his hands, watching as Dean returns to his spot between Sam’s legs, apparently feeling safe from having his hair pulled or criticized. “Do we still have that pair of scissors in the first aid kit?”
Dean shakes his head. “They rusted out. But we could always use the knives.”
Sam makes a face at the idea but doesn’t say anything against it. His hair probably really could go into a short ponytail, and it’s driving him crazy, even with years of his bangs being in his face under his belt. “I’ll cut your hair tonight then.”
He reaches out again, slowly, so Dean knows he means no harm, and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair.
Dean leans into his touch. “Try not to slice my ear off. I don’t look like a crazy yet, but I don’t want to try for it.”
Sam scoffs. “That was one time, and it was a nick, you big baby. You’ve probably cut yourself shaving and bled worse than that.”
Dean looks like he’s about to say something else when something in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and his gaze snaps to it. He smiles grimly. “Well, speak of the Devil.”
He moves from between Sam’s thighs and grunts as he hoists himself up on the river bank.
Sam looks in the direction Dean had been and groans when he sees a dust cloud being kicked up in the distance. He gets up, dusting the backs of his thighs off before pulling on a still-damp pair of jeans. Dean’s already dressed when Sam looks at him again, his shirt sticking wetly to his body, and he’s half-disappeared into the trunk of the Impala, rummaging around. Sam busies himself with pulling out the hunting knife he keeps in his duffel and gathering up their clothes, stuffing them back in the bags.
By the time the beaten up old truck pulls up alongside them, Sam is zipping up their bags, his knife held loosely against his thigh.
A group of men clamber out of the truck, and one of them steps toward Sam. He’s older, maybe in his forties, but it’s hard to tell since most of his face is occupied by a scraggly, gray-streaked beard and equally scraggly, equally streaked hair. When he smiles his teeth are yellow, and when he talks he sounds like he’s coming off a week-long bender. “Hey, neighbor.”
Sam smiles in the charming, boyish way that’s gotten him out of more than one scrape. “Sorry, I’m not from around here. Can’t be your neighbor.”
The guy laughs. “Well, we’re from around everywhere, so everyone’s our neighbor. You got any extra rations in that pretty car of yours?”
Sam tries not to snort a laugh. In this world, there isn’t such a thing as ‘extra’. “No, I don’t. Sorry.”
“Really, now,” the guy says, and his little posse splays out behind him. Sam dimly remembers football players in the various high schools he’d attended who made that same formation before shoving him in a locker. “Because sharing is the neighborly thing to do, you know.”
Of course, he’d weighed about a hundred pounds less and been about a foot shorter back when the jocks were bullying him. Once he’d finally hit his growth spurt in his junior year, they’d stopped fucking with him. He stands up, taking full advantage of the six inches he has on the leader. As he straightens out, another wave of nausea hits him, but he pushes it down. He twists his wrist, letting his knife flash in the afternoon sunshine. “Like I said, I’m not your neighbor.”
The leader looks down at his knife and grins, reaching behind himself where a sheath must be hidden against his thigh because he did not just pull a fucking machete from his pants without slicing himself up all to hell. His cronies pull similar weapons from beneath their clothes, a couple of them with chains instead of long knives like the others. “Think you just brought a knife to a gunfight, son.”
And there’s the comforting kr-schck of the shotgun being locked and loaded. Apparently, the gang hadn’t seen Dean upon driving up, because they all startle, cringing away from the sound.
“Really?” Dean asks, sighting down at the leader from his spot behind the car. “Because it looks an awful lot like you’re the one without a gun. Neighbor.” He adds the last part with the same grim smile he’d had upon first climbing out of the river. “Drop the weapons. And since we’re such good neighbors, and you and your boys are so much better at sharing than me and mine, I’m sure you’re more than willing to give us some of your rations.”
The cronies drop their weapons quickly, but the leader hesitates before finally dropping his machete. “Get the supplies.”
His cronies obey, pulling cans and MREs from the back of the truck.
“What else do you have? First aid kit, scissors, anything like that?” Dean asks. The men shake their heads. Dean looks disappointed for a moment. Then his eyes light up. “Got a blanket?” When they nod, Dean jerks his head toward the Impala. “Switch with ‘em, Sam, then gather up the rest of it. If I see anyone doing anything funny, I’m blowing someone’s head off.”
Sam pulls their little wool blanket out of the Impala and trades it for a soft, thick quilt. It was obviously made by hand, and Sam sees the leader give him a pained look when he puts in the back of the Impala. He almost feels bad for him.
Almost. The guy did try to rob him, after all.
Sam gathers up the rest of the supplies, stuffing everything in the trunk. When he’s done, he stands beside Dean, who puts a hand to the back of his neck, squeezing reassuringly before passing him the shotgun. Dean pulls out a coil of tubing from the trunk and opens up his gas tank. “All right, boys, I’m gonna siphon some gas from you, and then you can be on your way. No hard feelings.”
One of the men makes a motion toward Dean as he approaches the truck, and Sam blows off one of the truck’s side-view mirrors. “Don’t move, dumbass.”
The guys gape at him but don’t move again until Dean’s done and back beside Sam. “I think we’re just about done here. Catch you guys later.”
The men grudgingly get back in the truck and drive off.
“Well, that was fun,” Sam mutters, setting the shotgun down. God, he’s tired.
“It was convenient, at least. Now we won’t have to look for a town to raid for a while,” Dean says, patting him on the back. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t want those douchebags to catch us with our pants down. Again.”
Sam nods, cracking a smile at Dean’s joke as he slides into the car. Dean closes the trunk and drops into the driver’s seat.
When the engine doesn’t immediately roar to life, Sam curiously looks over at Dean, catching him staring. Sam tries to smile again. “Like something you see?”
Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Are you okay?”
Sam blinks. “Um. Yeah. Why?”
Dean shrugs. “Because you keep looking like you’re not okay.”
Sam just gives him a you-worry-too-much look, and Dean looks away, turns the key in the ignition.
Sam curls up in his seat, leans against the sun-warmed window and drifts off to sleep.
*
Sam is not sick. He’s not. His stomach has just finally decided to rebel against the cans of meatless chili and syrup covered peaches that have been his major food source for the last year.
That’s what he tells Dean, anyway, on the night that he suddenly lurches up from the backseat of the car and throws open the door to wretch until bile lines the back of his throat.
He doesn’t tell Dean that he’s been getting sick for a few weeks now.
The smell of food is starting to trigger the nausea, and it’s hard to keep anything down when Sam forces himself to eat. He’s losing weight fast, faster than before, but he’s careful not to let Dean catch on. He pretends like he’s just not hungry to keep the questions about his food intake at bay, pretends like the idea of sex in the daytime is suddenly a terrible idea so Dean can’t clearly see Sam’s body.
It’s hard, but having Dean worry himself to death over something as silly as the stomach flu is ridiculous in Sam’s head, so he does what he has to do. That’s the Winchester motto, after all.
*
They’re having sex when his body betrays him in front of Dean a second time. The constant rocking motion sets him off, and he tries to get away in time, he really does, but he ends up puking on the floorboards before he can wrench the door open.
Dean jumps back, surprised. “What the fuck, Sam!”
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam hastily apologizes as he climbs out of the car and throws up again.
He sits beside the car, crossing his legs and touching his forehead to his knee, breathing slowly through his nose until the sick twisting of his stomach settles down.
Sam feels a hand rub over his back, and when he sits up, Dean is behind him, chest pressed to Sam’s back. Sam tilts his head back against Dean’s shoulder. “Sorry. Kind of a mood killer, huh?”
“The Master Chief of mood killers actually,” Dean replies against Sam’s ear. “I think we set a new record for how quick a boner could be killed.”
Sam laughs breathlessly, closing his eyes.
“We need to get you to a doctor,” Dean says quietly.
Sam shakes his head. “We can’t afford a doctor, Dean. And that’s if we can even find one in the first place.”
“Let me worry about that, Sammy.” He smooths a hand over Sam’s forehead, pushing back his hair. “You’ve been sick for a long time now.”
“Have not,” Sam protests weakly. He’s been very careful about hiding everything. There’s no way Dean could know that he’s been sick for a month now.
Dean runs his hands up Sam’s waist, and Sam shivers at that, cock stirring with slight interest even with the caustic smell of stomach acid in the air. His fingers fit in the deepened grooves of Sam’s ribs, then slide back down, thumbs pressing into the sharp points of his hipbones. And even though the touches have piqued his dick's interests, Sam knows they aren't intended to be sexual. Dean is feeling him out, seeking the spaces that have hollowed out on his body. Finally, Dean says, “We’re going to the doctor.”
Sam groans miserably but can’t find the strength to protest. Instead, he says, “Can we sleep out here tonight? I don’t think I can go back in there with that smell and not throw up again.”
“You’re not the only one,” Dean mutters, leaning back to grab their quilt and wrapping it around them both. “But if you’re not dead by morning, you’re cleaning that shit out of my car.”
Sam just laughs.
*
It takes them the better part of two weeks to find a town with a doctor in it. Or, well, she’s not really a doctor, according to the person who recommended her, the owner of the makeshift weaponry shop they’d visited at one point. Apparently she used to be a nurse in a hospital before the world started collapsing. Now, she takes care of the little settlement she resides in.
Her name is Jenna. She’s a little older than them, maybe mid to late thirties with short blonde hair, and when she smiles warmly at Sam, it reaches her eyes. It’s been a long time since Sam has seen anyone smile like that. It’s comforting to him, but he can tell that it makes Dean uneasy.
She works out of what looks to be her house, ushering them in after they ring her doorbell. She asks that they please wait on the couch while she attends to another one of her patients.
They wait probably half an hour before she reemerges from a back room, guiding a little girl to the front entry. She kneels down and gives her a quick hug. “You tell your mama to invite me over for dinner soon, and we’ll be all squared up, okay? You just make sure you take that medicine I gave you, and you’ll feel better in no time.”
The little girl grins and thanks her before leaving, clutching a small bottle to her chest.
Jenna smiles after her, then closes the door, turning back to them. “All right, boys, what seems to be the problem?”
“He’s sick,” Dean says, shifting a little closer to Sam so their shoulders are touching.
She motions with her hand for them to follow her into the back room she’d just come out of. It’s smaller than the living room, almost cramped with all three of them in it, though it’s a little less packed when Sam hops up on the bed doubling as an examination table.
Jenna picks up a notebook and pencil. “My name is Jenna. Yours?”
“Sam, and that’s Dean,” he says simply.
“Okay, Sam, what seems to be the problem?”
Sam glances at Dean, who’s just watching him steadily. “I keep throwing up.”
“Ah,” she says, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out what looks like a mixing bowl, handing it to him. “Try to aim for that if you feel like throwing up again, okay? I try to keep cross-contamination down as much as possible. How long and how frequently have you been having this symptom?”
He abjectly sets the bowl in his lap. “Almost two months now, just about every day.”
Dean purses his lips. It’s the only thing he does to indicate he even heard Sam, but it’s enough for him to know that he’s going to be bitched at later.
“Any other symptoms?”
He shakes his head. “Just nausea, I guess, but that comes with the territory.”
She writes everything down in her notebook, then pulls a first aid kit from the cabinet she’d gotten the bowl from. She withdraws a thermometer, swabbing it with alcohol before pressing it into his ear. It beeps. “Looks like you’ve got a low grade fever. Ninety nine. Probably not the flu, then. If you’re not experiencing any diarrhea, it’s probably not food poisoning of some sort.”
He shakes his head to confirm.
She sighs. “I suppose telling you that you’re malnourished and dehydrated would be like telling a parrot it’s a bird at this point.”
Sam nods, ducking his head. Dean looks suspiciously like he wants to shoot something.
She takes his wrist in her hand and presses her thumb to his pulse, looking up at the clock on the wall. “Blood pressure is high. Have you been having trouble sleeping lately?”
“He sleeps all the time,” Dean says.
Her eyes light up then. “Nauseous and exhausted, huh? Stay here a moment, please.”
She disappears from the room.
Sam bites his lip. “Dean--”
“Later, Sam. I’m not having this discussion right now.”
Sam sighs and leans back against the wall. He’s not looking forward to the talk they’re going to have. At all.
Jenna returns to the room with a machine in her hand. “I’d appreciate if the fact that I have one of these didn’t get out.” She hesitates. “It’s a rare commodity nowadays, and I’d really like to keep it.”
Sam nods. “What is it?”
She sets the machine down next to him and pats it gently. “A portable ultrasound.”
Sam suddenly goes cold. “What?”
She smiles gently. “Please calm down, Sam. I just want to get a look at your stomach, see what we’re dealing with. It might be nothing. But if it’s not nothing, I think you should know that. Lie down and lift your shirt, please.”
Sam nods, laying down on the bed and lifting his shirt to his chest.
Jenna wipes down the machine with alcohol, then does the same with Sam’s stomach before squirting some kind of jelly on his skin. She presses what looks like a metal handle on top of the jelly and flips the machine on. Immediately, the room is filled with the sound of a heartbeat.
Sam covers his face with his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” Dean asks, standing. “What’s wrong with him?”
Jenna picks up the machine emitting the sound, flipping on the screen. A black and white image pops up. She taps the middle, where a tiny white dot is. “You see that?”
Dean swallows and nods.
“That’s a fetus.”
Dean pales. “What?”
“A baby, Dean,” Sam grinds out. “I’m pregnant.”
“But,” Dean stammers, staring at that stupid white dot, “I thought. After the fallout, I thought everyone was infertile or something.”
Jenna shakes her head. “It’s much harder to conceive now. I’ve only seen one pregnancy since this mess started, and that was by a woman, but.” She flips the machine off. “It’s obviously possible.”
Sam is suddenly, incredibly tired, and a wave of nausea hits. It feels like the world is ending all over again, and he feels dizzy. His hands move to his stomach, and when he opens his eyes, the light from the ceiling fan is too bright. He feels disoriented and sick.
“Dean...”
Someone takes his hand, and he hears Dean’s voice saying, “Sam, Sammy, I’m here, what’s wrong, Sammy, stay with me.”
And then the world is black.
Part 2