And Miles to Go Before I Sleep 3/3
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.
Part 2
They’re out on the road again. Finally. The Impala is rumbling beneath Sam, almost purring, and Sam doesn’t miss the pat of affection Dean gives the dash every few hundred miles.
It feels good to be on the move again, even if Sam’s back and hips disagree vehemently. He’s sore all over all the time now, and they have to stop frequently just so Sam can get out and stretch some of the knots out of his muscles.
Dean’s leaning against the hood of his car, watching as Sam tries to figure out how to pop his back with his stomach as distended as it is. “How’s the baby?”
“Pretty quiet, actually. But the baby book Rose gave me before we left says that’s normal. It’s just too big now to move around anymore.” Sam pats his stomach reassuringly. “I think I’m going to explode soon, though.”
“Looks like it,” Dean agrees, smiling innocently when Sam tosses him a glare. “Just saying, Sammy. You look like you stuffed a beach ball down your shirt.”
Sam snorts. “Very funny. Jerk.”
Dean just shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Ready to go?”
Sam nods. Not like he’s going to get any more comfortable than he is right now, anyway. He starts to climb into the car but notices that there are empty water bottles and various wrappers in the floor well, and he picks them up, tossing them to the ground. Then he notices that there are little crumbs wedged in the crease of the seat, and he swipes it out, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he sees that there are more crumbs on the backseat.
It takes about a half hour before Sam actually gets in the car. It isn’t until he’s settled in and wondering why the engine hasn’t started yet that he realizes Dean’s been watching him. He flushes under Dean’s gaze. “What?”
Dean blinks at him, all wide, green eyes. “You’re nesting.”
Sam rolls his eyes, stretching out his legs as best he can. Christ, if someone stuck a label on his side, he could probably pass for a blimp. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just don’t want to sit in trash for the next hundred miles.”
Dean just watches him for a few more moments before starting the car, shaking his head. “I’ve gotta find you a place to have that baby.”
“What, you don’t want me to have it in the backseat, Dean?” Sam asks sweetly.
Dean balks at the idea, and Sam laughs.
Dean just rolls his eyes at him and leans over, flipping on the radio. There’s just static, even when Dean adjusts the tuner, and finally he says, “Hand me Master of Puppets.” He smiles at Sam’s incredulous look. “Gotta teach ‘em young, Sammy.”
Sam sighs, and starts rummaging beneath his seat and coming up with the tape when the crackling static suddenly becomes interlaced with a panicked voice. “...bringing to you live... martial law...”
Dean frowns, turning the dial a little more. The voice becomes clearer, though the words are still broken up with white noise.
“...hundreds dead... into possibly the thousands... declared on the city... from Marshall to Lake Lawning... bombs... will broadcast as long as possible...”
And then there’s not even static.
A freezing hand clamps over Sam’s chest, and he can’t breathe. “Dean--”
Dean snatches the forgotten tape from Sam’s hand, muttering, “Fuck, what I would do for a beer right now,” as he shoves it in the player, blaring the radio as loud as it will go.
*
The search takes about two weeks, with Dean eating through as much road as they can stand, scoping out different abandoned houses. It’s kind of like a cross-country house hunting, except that instead of arguing about the price of the house and what they’re willing to pay, they argue over whether or not it looks like it might be haunted despite what the EMF reader says.
Dean is being skittish, vetoing several houses on sight, and he’s beginning to piss Sam right the fuck off. The fact that Sam aches all the time has nothing to do with it. Really.
Sam is glaring out of the car window, his forehead pressed to the cool glass as he sulks about the last fight they had in which Dean had told him he was being bitchy. He was not being bitchy. He just wants to find a house and get this baby out of him already.
That’s when he spots it. Off in the distance, he sees a little red spot surrounded by a larger white spot, like a target. He squints his eyes, trying to get a better look at it before he realizes that it’s a house. “Dean.”
“What?” Dean mutters cautiously, like he’s getting ready for round two.
“Look.” Sam points to the place on the window. “It’s a house.”
Dean glances out Sam’s window. “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s there,” Sam assures him. “Just turn right.”
Dean nods, still looking skeptical but willing to trust Sam despite their recent arguing streak.
Sam smiles gratefully, drawing his knees up, letting the toe of his boot nudge Dean’s thigh. Dean’s hand loosely wraps around his ankle, and he rubs little circles into it with his thumb as they barrel toward the house.
*
It’s nice. Not nice like the house they’d left had been, not after Dean had gotten it all fixed up anyway, but. It’s still pretty nice.
There’s a little red well out front, which was the red Sam had noticed in the distance, and the house itself is the white. The house’s paint is peeling a little, but it’s only superficial, from years of weathering storms without anyone to maintain its appearance. There are a couple of shingles missing, and a few water stains on the ceiling suggest that it leaks when it rains, but even those things look like an easy fix. Dean confirms that there doesn’t appear to be any mold anywhere and that the foundation looks stable. The EMF reader doesn’t go off anywhere in the house, and neither of them get any weird feelings. It’s even got a gas stove in the kitchen, though the rest of the house isn’t furnished.
After a while, Sam’s back and ankles start hurting, so he sits against a wall, letting Dean scour the house for any imperfections. Dean spends another hour or so searching for something that he can nitpick at before he finally joins Sam, sliding down the wall to sit beside him.
Sam leans against his shoulder, closing his eyes. “Find anything?”
Dean reluctantly shakes his head. “No. I think we should probably clean it up a little before the baby comes, maybe dust or something, but. I think it’s okay. Not great though.”
Sam could just shake Dean sometimes. “Stop worrying. I like it. And by extension, so does the baby.”
Dean sighs tiredly, leaning his head against Sam’s. “Well, as long as the baby likes it.”
“It does.” Sam smiles and laces their fingers together, squeezing. “Definitely.”
*
They clean out the house--well, Dean cleans out the house and Sam supervises. Bending over to sweep and dust is kind of out of the question at this point.
So Sam just alternates between watching Dean and reading the book of baby names, calling out things that he likes.
“Brandon?”
“No.”
“Laura?”
“No.”
“Connor?”
“No.”
“Sophia?”
Dean snickers at that. Sam arches a brow at him, and Dean is suddenly very interested in running a towel over the fireplace’s mantle. He clears his throat. “No.”
Sam ignores him and wraps their quilt a little tighter around himself. It’s January, and even though they’re pretty far south, it’s still damn cold without heating. He wishes there was some firewood or something to put in the fireplace, but they hadn’t been able to find enough wood on the grounds surrounding the house to start a fire. “Are there any names you do like?”
Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it. Emma, maybe, if it’s a girl?”
Sam actually thinks about that for a moment, then flips to the page with the name Emma on it.
“Emma. Universal, whole, complete.” He smiles, folding the corner of the page to remember it. “Okay, so maybe Emma. Anything else? Maybe a boy’s name?”
“Hunter?”
Sam gives him a bland look. “I don’t think the baby will appreciate the irony.”
Dean huffs a laugh, then sneezes, the dust getting to him. He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I’ve never sneezed so much in my life, Christ.”
“Come take a break,” Sam suggests, patting beside him on the floor.
Dean looks a little conflicted, like he really wants to finish cleaning out the fireplace before he stops for the day, but he finally relents, taking a seat beside Sam.
Sam opens the quilt, letting Dean wrap himself in it as well.
Dean’s arm moves around Sam, rubbing at his shoulder. “You’re freezing, Sammy. I can feel your skin through your sweatshirt.”
“I’m fine.” He shifts to lean more firmly against Dean, setting the book on his knee so they can both see it. “I kind of like Alex.”
Dean shakes his head. “No. It’s. Just no.”
Sam looks at him, frowning, but he doesn’t press. “Okay. Um. How about Miles? It means soldier in Latin.”
“Thanks, genius, I know Latin too,” Dean says, then hums thoughtfully. “I like Miles.”
Sam folds the corner of the page down.
*
There’s a town called Stonedale about a hundred miles South from them, and Dean is supposed to be out getting them more food. They were running out quickly, and once the baby was born it wouldn’t be as easy to just go to town when they needed something.
They’d salted all the windows and doors, chalked some protective runes on the walls and wrapped Sam in as many sweatshirts as they could to keep him warm until Dean comes back.
But even with all the protection, Dean had been worried about leaving Sam alone. Sam had insisted that he was fine. He was a big boy, and the most eventful thing he would do while Dean was gone was read For Whom the Bell Tolls again.
Besides, they needed supplies, and that was the end of it.
Now, Sam kind of wishes he’d listened to Dean. Because there are bombs going off in the distance, far enough not to knock him off his feet but close enough to pop his ears and shake the house.
And, oh, yeah, he’s about to have a baby.
“Traitor,” he mutters to his belly, hunched over and trying to breathe evenly. Another contraction hits him, his hips and lower back aching, and he groans. “Come on, kid, you have to stay put. Just a little bit longer.”
Dean’s been gone for hours now, and the bombs had started soon after that.
But everything will be fine. Dean literally should be back any second. Sam had practically had to push him out the door in the first place.
Maybe he’d been hustled into a bomb shelter. Maybe he was having trouble getting through the town’s panicked traffic and roads that had been reduced to rubble by the bombs. Maybe he was trapped somewhere. Maybe he’d gotten hurt.
Christ, Sam really wishes cell phones still worked.
The contraction eases off of him after a few seconds, and he takes a deep breath, giving himself a minute or two to recuperate before standing up and continuing to pace through the house. It’s about the only thing that helps relieve the pressure building in his hips a little, but the contractions are getting more frequent, lasting longer, and the walking isn’t helping as much anymore.
He counts out the seconds, tries to block out the sound of another explosion in the background. When the next contraction hits, starting at the top of his stomach and radiating into his entire abdomen, it’s only been about ten minutes.
“Shit,” he gasps, gritting his teeth.
Breathe, he reminds himself. Just breathe.
*
An hour later, Dean still isn’t home.
He tries not to think about it, but he’s starting to hurt too much to keep distracting himself with walking. He resigns himself to curling up on the floor and counting the minutes between contractions instead.
The question of how he was going to do this keeps racing through his head--which is stupid, because he knows how. He’d read and re-read that book Rose had given him at least a dozen times. He knows how this works.
But there are still bombs going off every half hour or so, and without Dean there to help him get through this, it just feels fucking impossible. Impossible and terrifying and lonely and insane and a host of other words that fly through his mind every time a new contraction hits.
“Just a little longer,” he says to the baby, to his clenching muscles, to himself. “Just a little longer.”
*
Dean finally, finally bolts into the house like there’s fire at his heels. His face is streaked with grime, and his eyes are wide, white showing all around as he says, “Sam, Sammy, we have to go, we have to--”
He stops short on seeing Sam crumpled on the floor, unable to comprehend what’s happening in front of him. When everything clicks into place, he’s immediately at Sam’s side, dropping to his knees. “Damn it, Sam.”
“Dean,” Sam rasps, blindly reaching out for him. He feels strong hands slide under his arms, and Dean helps him sit up, letting Sam press back against him.
“It’s okay,” Dean says into his hair. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Sam nearly can’t breathe when his next contraction hits. It’s like he keeps getting punched in the gut and can’t do anything about it. “Shit, it hurts.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Sam. Shit, I’m sorry,” Dean keeps saying. “It’s gonna be okay. They’re dropping bombs on Stonedale. We need to get out of here.”
“Can’t,” Sam gasps, shaking, and Dean holds him a little tighter to steady him. Sam breathes when the contraction subsides, “Dean, get this baby out of me.”
Dean nods hesitantly. “Okay. All right.”
He gently moves out from behind Sam, leaning him up against the wall before he positions himself between Sam’s legs. He slides one hand beneath his hips.
“Lift up, Sam. That’s it,” he encourages, pulling Sam’s sweatpants down. They’re tacky, blood and birthing fluids staining them, but he folds them up anyway, tucking them under Sam’s lower back and relieving some of the pressure there.
Sam blearily opens his eyes, smiles weakly. “Ready?”
“Born ready.” Dean smooths a comforting hand over Sam’s thigh. “You?”
Sam huffs a laugh, wincing at the little extra pressure it puts on his abdomen. “Don’t have much of a choice at this point.”
Dean doesn’t even smile a little, just keeps stroking Sam’s thigh. “We’ve got this, Sam. Take a deep breath and push on the next contraction, okay? We’ll get this kid out, no problem.”
“Easy for you to say,” Sam mutters. His stomach tightens, and Sam grits his teeth, plants his feet and bears down.
“That’s right, that’s it,” Dean says, pushing against Sam’s calves to keep them up and in place. “Just like that, Sam, you’re doing great.”
*
“Just rest for a second.” Dean releases his grip on Sam’s legs, rubbing down them to help get the circulation in them going again. “You’re going to wear yourself out if you don’t.”
Sam is heaving for air, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat and other fluids. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, trying desperately to ignore the whistle of a bomb and the subsequent explosion that pops his ears. “I’m already worn out.”
Dean leans forward and presses a damp towel to Sam’s forehead, pushing away the hair that’s stuck to his face. “Yeah, Sam. I know.”
*
It’s dark outside, completely black. Sam started having contractions right after Dean had left, before noon. He’s been in labor for at least twelve hours at this point.
Sam is freezing. Dean wraps their quilt and several sweatshirts around him, but he’s still shivering.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Dean tells him, lifting some water to Sam’s lips and letting him drink. He flinches when another bomb drops.
“Don’t leave me,” Sam says, voice desperate and wrecked, almost unrecognizable. “Don’t go.”
Dean sets his jaw, putting the lip of the bottle of water to Sam’s mouth again. “I’m not going anywhere, Sammy.”
*
“You’re doing great, Sam,” Dean says for what’s probably the millionth time. “Just a little more.”
It’s been ‘just a little more’ for the last few hours. Sam is starting to get light-headed. The pain is the only thing keeping him from passing out. It’s too sharp, and it jars Sam back into his body every time it hits again.
“This isn’t working,” Dean says finally, moving from between Sam’s legs to hover over him, sliding the blanket and extra sweatshirts off of his shivering body. “I’m going to sit you up, okay?”
Sam’s eyes snap open, and he’s shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth. He’s in too much pain to move. He won’t be able to hold himself up. He’s too tired. No, no, don’t, no. “No, please, I can’t.”
“I’ve got you, Sam,” Dean says, sliding his arms up underneath Sam’s and grunting as he hauls Sam up, pinning Sam’s shoulders to the wall with his body weight.
Sam cries out painfully and shudders, sobs, “Dean.”
“I’ve got you,” he repeats against Sam’s ear. “Bend your knees and tuck your feet under yourself. I won’t let you fall.”
Sam uses all of his strength to draw his legs up. He feels something shift down inside of him, click into place, and he cries out at the sudden, massive amount of blunt pressure, dropping his forehead to Dean’s shoulder.
Dean shifts, putting his forearm across Sam’s chest and pushing all of his weight into it to keep Sam upright as he reaches down. “I can feel it, Sammy. Come on, come on. Push, Sam.”
Sam bears down as much as he can, grinding his teeth and groaning. He arches up into the pain, and then there’s a rush of pressure through his hips, a sudden gush of liquid on the floor.
Dean jerks forward, nearly letting Sam fall but catching him before he does, and he’s softly saying, “Gotcha,” and the room is filled with angry little wails.
Sam forces his eyes open, and he looks down between them. In the crook of Dean’s arm is a pink, squirming little body.
Dean slowly releases the pressure on his forearm, allowing Sam to gently slump to the floor. His arm newly freed, Dean reaches into his back pocket, flipping open his knife and cutting the umbilical chord before tying it off.
When he looks up at Sam, he’s smiling. “We have a son, Sammy.”
Sam manages a weak smile, nodding and closing his eyes. He’s still breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath and work through the dull ache that’s running through him.
There’s another explosion, and this time, it lights up the house. The baby screeches, and Dean shushes him, wrapping him in a sweatshirt before holding him out to Sam.
Sam forces his arms to raise, gently cradling his baby as he quiets down. He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to the baby’s damp, downy soft hair and murmuring, “Hi, Miles.”
Sam’s body is still cramping a little, still expelling afterbirth, but he’s exhausted, and without the sharper contractions to keep him conscious, he can feel himself slipping under. “Dean...”
Dean helps Sam readjust, moving him away from the mess on the floor and laying him down. “Don’t worry about anything, Sammy. I’ll take care of it.”
Sam nods, not really understanding what Dean means, but he lets it go and rests the baby against his chest as he falls into a dreamless sleep.
*
Sam wakes up with a start, then groans. His muscles are still aching, and having them suddenly clench up like that certainly isn’t helping.
“Morning.”
Sam sits up slowly, his cheek scratching against the dirt on Dean’s pants before he raises his head. “Where are we?”
“Hell if I know. I think somewhere in Illinois.”
A soft flutter of panic passes over Sam’s brain, and he groggily asks, “Where’s the baby?”
“Obviously I left him in Stonedale.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Relax, Sam, Miles is in the backseat. Couldn’t fit you both back there or I would have.”
“Oh,” is all Sam can manage, still groggy and working through a haze. He blinks hard a couple of times, but his vision keeps swimming. “Am I on something?”
“Yeah. After you passed out, you were still kind of moaning, so I stuck you with some morphine.” Dean nods toward the floor well, and Sam notices the open first aid kit next to his feet. “Do you need more?”
Sam starts to shake his head, then quickly stops, too dizzy. “Maybe some tylenol in a while, but I’m okay for now.” He wills his body to turn in his seat, twisting to look in the back.
Miles is sleeping peacefully in a car seat, wrapped in a baby blanket. A teddy bear they’d bought in Lawning is next to him, and he’s cuddling into it.
Sam’s face softens. “How’s he been?”
Dean smiles at that. “Taking to the road like a champ. He fell asleep once we were far enough from the bombings that he couldn’t hear it anymore. He only wakes up when he’s hungry.”
Sam laughs softly at that, careful not to put too much pressure on his stomach. The quiet noise makes Miles open his hazy green eyes and peer up at Sam.
“Hi, Miles,” Sam says, gingerly leaning over the seat to run the tips of his fingers of Miles’ soft pink cheek. “It’s nice to meet you, kiddo.”
The baby makes a soft whining sound, squirming.
“Guess that means it’s lunch time,” Dean says, pulling the car to the side of the road. He pops the trunk and starts getting the bottle ready while Sam pulls Miles out of his car seat.
“Hey, kiddo,” Sam says softly, smiling down at his son. “Hungry?”
Miles blinks at him, brow furrowed.
“The patented Sam Winchester researching squint,” Dean says over Sam’s shoulder, laughing. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”
Sam regards him blandly. “Ha ha, you’re so funny.” He adjusts Miles so that he’s cradling him, then sits on the ground and leans against the car before offering him the bottle.
Miles squirms a little, but when Sam puts the nipple to his mouth, he latches on and drinks greedily, closing his eyes. Sam snorts. “And there’s the patented Dean Winchester eating pie face.”
Dean pointedly ignores him, settling down beside them. He gingerly knocks his knee against Sam’s, and Sam crosses their ankles over one another.
“So,” he says after a quiet moment of watching his son eat, “dibs on the kid calling me Dad.”
Miles starts squirming again, and Sam unwraps him from his blanket, puts him to his chest and starts rubbing his back gently. “You don’t want to be Papa? After all the eighties have done for you?”
Dean shrugs. “Madonna is overrated anyway.”
“I think the eighties just rolled over in their grave.” Miles makes a sound that’s halfway between a cough and a burp, and Sam smiles, returning him to his former cradled position and covering him back up. When Miles scrunches his face and starts whining again, a higher pitch this time, Sam sighs. “Well, go to sleep if you’re tired.”
Sam draws him in closer, holds him a little tighter, and starts rocking him and patting his tummy until Miles closes his eyes. Sam keeps rocking him as he looks up at Dean. “You too, by the way.”
Dean stretches his legs and wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulder, his hand finding its way into Sam’s hair. “I’m okay. I want to tear up some more road before nightfall.”
There are purple smudges under Dean’s eyes, and his skin is sallow, like he hasn’t slept in days. Sam just drops his head to Dean’s shoulder, a knowing smile pulling at his lips when Dean rests his head on top, his breathing evening out quickly. “Night, Dean.”
He looks down at Miles and lightly squeezes his little body. “You ready to be a Winchester, kiddo?”
Miles yawns at him, squirming tiredly.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees with a small smile, “it wears me out to think about it too. Don’t worry though. Your dad and I will take good care of you.” He takes Miles’ tiny hand in his.
Miles clutches at Sam’s index finger, snuffling softly in his 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.
Part 2
They’re out on the road again. Finally. The Impala is rumbling beneath Sam, almost purring, and Sam doesn’t miss the pat of affection Dean gives the dash every few hundred miles.
It feels good to be on the move again, even if Sam’s back and hips disagree vehemently. He’s sore all over all the time now, and they have to stop frequently just so Sam can get out and stretch some of the knots out of his muscles.
Dean’s leaning against the hood of his car, watching as Sam tries to figure out how to pop his back with his stomach as distended as it is. “How’s the baby?”
“Pretty quiet, actually. But the baby book Rose gave me before we left says that’s normal. It’s just too big now to move around anymore.” Sam pats his stomach reassuringly. “I think I’m going to explode soon, though.”
“Looks like it,” Dean agrees, smiling innocently when Sam tosses him a glare. “Just saying, Sammy. You look like you stuffed a beach ball down your shirt.”
Sam snorts. “Very funny. Jerk.”
Dean just shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Ready to go?”
Sam nods. Not like he’s going to get any more comfortable than he is right now, anyway. He starts to climb into the car but notices that there are empty water bottles and various wrappers in the floor well, and he picks them up, tossing them to the ground. Then he notices that there are little crumbs wedged in the crease of the seat, and he swipes it out, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he sees that there are more crumbs on the backseat.
It takes about a half hour before Sam actually gets in the car. It isn’t until he’s settled in and wondering why the engine hasn’t started yet that he realizes Dean’s been watching him. He flushes under Dean’s gaze. “What?”
Dean blinks at him, all wide, green eyes. “You’re nesting.”
Sam rolls his eyes, stretching out his legs as best he can. Christ, if someone stuck a label on his side, he could probably pass for a blimp. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just don’t want to sit in trash for the next hundred miles.”
Dean just watches him for a few more moments before starting the car, shaking his head. “I’ve gotta find you a place to have that baby.”
“What, you don’t want me to have it in the backseat, Dean?” Sam asks sweetly.
Dean balks at the idea, and Sam laughs.
Dean just rolls his eyes at him and leans over, flipping on the radio. There’s just static, even when Dean adjusts the tuner, and finally he says, “Hand me Master of Puppets.” He smiles at Sam’s incredulous look. “Gotta teach ‘em young, Sammy.”
Sam sighs, and starts rummaging beneath his seat and coming up with the tape when the crackling static suddenly becomes interlaced with a panicked voice. “...bringing to you live... martial law...”
Dean frowns, turning the dial a little more. The voice becomes clearer, though the words are still broken up with white noise.
“...hundreds dead... into possibly the thousands... declared on the city... from Marshall to Lake Lawning... bombs... will broadcast as long as possible...”
And then there’s not even static.
A freezing hand clamps over Sam’s chest, and he can’t breathe. “Dean--”
Dean snatches the forgotten tape from Sam’s hand, muttering, “Fuck, what I would do for a beer right now,” as he shoves it in the player, blaring the radio as loud as it will go.
*
The search takes about two weeks, with Dean eating through as much road as they can stand, scoping out different abandoned houses. It’s kind of like a cross-country house hunting, except that instead of arguing about the price of the house and what they’re willing to pay, they argue over whether or not it looks like it might be haunted despite what the EMF reader says.
Dean is being skittish, vetoing several houses on sight, and he’s beginning to piss Sam right the fuck off. The fact that Sam aches all the time has nothing to do with it. Really.
Sam is glaring out of the car window, his forehead pressed to the cool glass as he sulks about the last fight they had in which Dean had told him he was being bitchy. He was not being bitchy. He just wants to find a house and get this baby out of him already.
That’s when he spots it. Off in the distance, he sees a little red spot surrounded by a larger white spot, like a target. He squints his eyes, trying to get a better look at it before he realizes that it’s a house. “Dean.”
“What?” Dean mutters cautiously, like he’s getting ready for round two.
“Look.” Sam points to the place on the window. “It’s a house.”
Dean glances out Sam’s window. “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s there,” Sam assures him. “Just turn right.”
Dean nods, still looking skeptical but willing to trust Sam despite their recent arguing streak.
Sam smiles gratefully, drawing his knees up, letting the toe of his boot nudge Dean’s thigh. Dean’s hand loosely wraps around his ankle, and he rubs little circles into it with his thumb as they barrel toward the house.
*
It’s nice. Not nice like the house they’d left had been, not after Dean had gotten it all fixed up anyway, but. It’s still pretty nice.
There’s a little red well out front, which was the red Sam had noticed in the distance, and the house itself is the white. The house’s paint is peeling a little, but it’s only superficial, from years of weathering storms without anyone to maintain its appearance. There are a couple of shingles missing, and a few water stains on the ceiling suggest that it leaks when it rains, but even those things look like an easy fix. Dean confirms that there doesn’t appear to be any mold anywhere and that the foundation looks stable. The EMF reader doesn’t go off anywhere in the house, and neither of them get any weird feelings. It’s even got a gas stove in the kitchen, though the rest of the house isn’t furnished.
After a while, Sam’s back and ankles start hurting, so he sits against a wall, letting Dean scour the house for any imperfections. Dean spends another hour or so searching for something that he can nitpick at before he finally joins Sam, sliding down the wall to sit beside him.
Sam leans against his shoulder, closing his eyes. “Find anything?”
Dean reluctantly shakes his head. “No. I think we should probably clean it up a little before the baby comes, maybe dust or something, but. I think it’s okay. Not great though.”
Sam could just shake Dean sometimes. “Stop worrying. I like it. And by extension, so does the baby.”
Dean sighs tiredly, leaning his head against Sam’s. “Well, as long as the baby likes it.”
“It does.” Sam smiles and laces their fingers together, squeezing. “Definitely.”
*
They clean out the house--well, Dean cleans out the house and Sam supervises. Bending over to sweep and dust is kind of out of the question at this point.
So Sam just alternates between watching Dean and reading the book of baby names, calling out things that he likes.
“Brandon?”
“No.”
“Laura?”
“No.”
“Connor?”
“No.”
“Sophia?”
Dean snickers at that. Sam arches a brow at him, and Dean is suddenly very interested in running a towel over the fireplace’s mantle. He clears his throat. “No.”
Sam ignores him and wraps their quilt a little tighter around himself. It’s January, and even though they’re pretty far south, it’s still damn cold without heating. He wishes there was some firewood or something to put in the fireplace, but they hadn’t been able to find enough wood on the grounds surrounding the house to start a fire. “Are there any names you do like?”
Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it. Emma, maybe, if it’s a girl?”
Sam actually thinks about that for a moment, then flips to the page with the name Emma on it.
“Emma. Universal, whole, complete.” He smiles, folding the corner of the page to remember it. “Okay, so maybe Emma. Anything else? Maybe a boy’s name?”
“Hunter?”
Sam gives him a bland look. “I don’t think the baby will appreciate the irony.”
Dean huffs a laugh, then sneezes, the dust getting to him. He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I’ve never sneezed so much in my life, Christ.”
“Come take a break,” Sam suggests, patting beside him on the floor.
Dean looks a little conflicted, like he really wants to finish cleaning out the fireplace before he stops for the day, but he finally relents, taking a seat beside Sam.
Sam opens the quilt, letting Dean wrap himself in it as well.
Dean’s arm moves around Sam, rubbing at his shoulder. “You’re freezing, Sammy. I can feel your skin through your sweatshirt.”
“I’m fine.” He shifts to lean more firmly against Dean, setting the book on his knee so they can both see it. “I kind of like Alex.”
Dean shakes his head. “No. It’s. Just no.”
Sam looks at him, frowning, but he doesn’t press. “Okay. Um. How about Miles? It means soldier in Latin.”
“Thanks, genius, I know Latin too,” Dean says, then hums thoughtfully. “I like Miles.”
Sam folds the corner of the page down.
*
There’s a town called Stonedale about a hundred miles South from them, and Dean is supposed to be out getting them more food. They were running out quickly, and once the baby was born it wouldn’t be as easy to just go to town when they needed something.
They’d salted all the windows and doors, chalked some protective runes on the walls and wrapped Sam in as many sweatshirts as they could to keep him warm until Dean comes back.
But even with all the protection, Dean had been worried about leaving Sam alone. Sam had insisted that he was fine. He was a big boy, and the most eventful thing he would do while Dean was gone was read For Whom the Bell Tolls again.
Besides, they needed supplies, and that was the end of it.
Now, Sam kind of wishes he’d listened to Dean. Because there are bombs going off in the distance, far enough not to knock him off his feet but close enough to pop his ears and shake the house.
And, oh, yeah, he’s about to have a baby.
“Traitor,” he mutters to his belly, hunched over and trying to breathe evenly. Another contraction hits him, his hips and lower back aching, and he groans. “Come on, kid, you have to stay put. Just a little bit longer.”
Dean’s been gone for hours now, and the bombs had started soon after that.
But everything will be fine. Dean literally should be back any second. Sam had practically had to push him out the door in the first place.
Maybe he’d been hustled into a bomb shelter. Maybe he was having trouble getting through the town’s panicked traffic and roads that had been reduced to rubble by the bombs. Maybe he was trapped somewhere. Maybe he’d gotten hurt.
Christ, Sam really wishes cell phones still worked.
The contraction eases off of him after a few seconds, and he takes a deep breath, giving himself a minute or two to recuperate before standing up and continuing to pace through the house. It’s about the only thing that helps relieve the pressure building in his hips a little, but the contractions are getting more frequent, lasting longer, and the walking isn’t helping as much anymore.
He counts out the seconds, tries to block out the sound of another explosion in the background. When the next contraction hits, starting at the top of his stomach and radiating into his entire abdomen, it’s only been about ten minutes.
“Shit,” he gasps, gritting his teeth.
Breathe, he reminds himself. Just breathe.
*
An hour later, Dean still isn’t home.
He tries not to think about it, but he’s starting to hurt too much to keep distracting himself with walking. He resigns himself to curling up on the floor and counting the minutes between contractions instead.
The question of how he was going to do this keeps racing through his head--which is stupid, because he knows how. He’d read and re-read that book Rose had given him at least a dozen times. He knows how this works.
But there are still bombs going off every half hour or so, and without Dean there to help him get through this, it just feels fucking impossible. Impossible and terrifying and lonely and insane and a host of other words that fly through his mind every time a new contraction hits.
“Just a little longer,” he says to the baby, to his clenching muscles, to himself. “Just a little longer.”
*
Dean finally, finally bolts into the house like there’s fire at his heels. His face is streaked with grime, and his eyes are wide, white showing all around as he says, “Sam, Sammy, we have to go, we have to--”
He stops short on seeing Sam crumpled on the floor, unable to comprehend what’s happening in front of him. When everything clicks into place, he’s immediately at Sam’s side, dropping to his knees. “Damn it, Sam.”
“Dean,” Sam rasps, blindly reaching out for him. He feels strong hands slide under his arms, and Dean helps him sit up, letting Sam press back against him.
“It’s okay,” Dean says into his hair. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Sam nearly can’t breathe when his next contraction hits. It’s like he keeps getting punched in the gut and can’t do anything about it. “Shit, it hurts.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Sam. Shit, I’m sorry,” Dean keeps saying. “It’s gonna be okay. They’re dropping bombs on Stonedale. We need to get out of here.”
“Can’t,” Sam gasps, shaking, and Dean holds him a little tighter to steady him. Sam breathes when the contraction subsides, “Dean, get this baby out of me.”
Dean nods hesitantly. “Okay. All right.”
He gently moves out from behind Sam, leaning him up against the wall before he positions himself between Sam’s legs. He slides one hand beneath his hips.
“Lift up, Sam. That’s it,” he encourages, pulling Sam’s sweatpants down. They’re tacky, blood and birthing fluids staining them, but he folds them up anyway, tucking them under Sam’s lower back and relieving some of the pressure there.
Sam blearily opens his eyes, smiles weakly. “Ready?”
“Born ready.” Dean smooths a comforting hand over Sam’s thigh. “You?”
Sam huffs a laugh, wincing at the little extra pressure it puts on his abdomen. “Don’t have much of a choice at this point.”
Dean doesn’t even smile a little, just keeps stroking Sam’s thigh. “We’ve got this, Sam. Take a deep breath and push on the next contraction, okay? We’ll get this kid out, no problem.”
“Easy for you to say,” Sam mutters. His stomach tightens, and Sam grits his teeth, plants his feet and bears down.
“That’s right, that’s it,” Dean says, pushing against Sam’s calves to keep them up and in place. “Just like that, Sam, you’re doing great.”
*
“Just rest for a second.” Dean releases his grip on Sam’s legs, rubbing down them to help get the circulation in them going again. “You’re going to wear yourself out if you don’t.”
Sam is heaving for air, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat and other fluids. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, trying desperately to ignore the whistle of a bomb and the subsequent explosion that pops his ears. “I’m already worn out.”
Dean leans forward and presses a damp towel to Sam’s forehead, pushing away the hair that’s stuck to his face. “Yeah, Sam. I know.”
*
It’s dark outside, completely black. Sam started having contractions right after Dean had left, before noon. He’s been in labor for at least twelve hours at this point.
Sam is freezing. Dean wraps their quilt and several sweatshirts around him, but he’s still shivering.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Dean tells him, lifting some water to Sam’s lips and letting him drink. He flinches when another bomb drops.
“Don’t leave me,” Sam says, voice desperate and wrecked, almost unrecognizable. “Don’t go.”
Dean sets his jaw, putting the lip of the bottle of water to Sam’s mouth again. “I’m not going anywhere, Sammy.”
*
“You’re doing great, Sam,” Dean says for what’s probably the millionth time. “Just a little more.”
It’s been ‘just a little more’ for the last few hours. Sam is starting to get light-headed. The pain is the only thing keeping him from passing out. It’s too sharp, and it jars Sam back into his body every time it hits again.
“This isn’t working,” Dean says finally, moving from between Sam’s legs to hover over him, sliding the blanket and extra sweatshirts off of his shivering body. “I’m going to sit you up, okay?”
Sam’s eyes snap open, and he’s shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth. He’s in too much pain to move. He won’t be able to hold himself up. He’s too tired. No, no, don’t, no. “No, please, I can’t.”
“I’ve got you, Sam,” Dean says, sliding his arms up underneath Sam’s and grunting as he hauls Sam up, pinning Sam’s shoulders to the wall with his body weight.
Sam cries out painfully and shudders, sobs, “Dean.”
“I’ve got you,” he repeats against Sam’s ear. “Bend your knees and tuck your feet under yourself. I won’t let you fall.”
Sam uses all of his strength to draw his legs up. He feels something shift down inside of him, click into place, and he cries out at the sudden, massive amount of blunt pressure, dropping his forehead to Dean’s shoulder.
Dean shifts, putting his forearm across Sam’s chest and pushing all of his weight into it to keep Sam upright as he reaches down. “I can feel it, Sammy. Come on, come on. Push, Sam.”
Sam bears down as much as he can, grinding his teeth and groaning. He arches up into the pain, and then there’s a rush of pressure through his hips, a sudden gush of liquid on the floor.
Dean jerks forward, nearly letting Sam fall but catching him before he does, and he’s softly saying, “Gotcha,” and the room is filled with angry little wails.
Sam forces his eyes open, and he looks down between them. In the crook of Dean’s arm is a pink, squirming little body.
Dean slowly releases the pressure on his forearm, allowing Sam to gently slump to the floor. His arm newly freed, Dean reaches into his back pocket, flipping open his knife and cutting the umbilical chord before tying it off.
When he looks up at Sam, he’s smiling. “We have a son, Sammy.”
Sam manages a weak smile, nodding and closing his eyes. He’s still breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath and work through the dull ache that’s running through him.
There’s another explosion, and this time, it lights up the house. The baby screeches, and Dean shushes him, wrapping him in a sweatshirt before holding him out to Sam.
Sam forces his arms to raise, gently cradling his baby as he quiets down. He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to the baby’s damp, downy soft hair and murmuring, “Hi, Miles.”
Sam’s body is still cramping a little, still expelling afterbirth, but he’s exhausted, and without the sharper contractions to keep him conscious, he can feel himself slipping under. “Dean...”
Dean helps Sam readjust, moving him away from the mess on the floor and laying him down. “Don’t worry about anything, Sammy. I’ll take care of it.”
Sam nods, not really understanding what Dean means, but he lets it go and rests the baby against his chest as he falls into a dreamless sleep.
*
Sam wakes up with a start, then groans. His muscles are still aching, and having them suddenly clench up like that certainly isn’t helping.
“Morning.”
Sam sits up slowly, his cheek scratching against the dirt on Dean’s pants before he raises his head. “Where are we?”
“Hell if I know. I think somewhere in Illinois.”
A soft flutter of panic passes over Sam’s brain, and he groggily asks, “Where’s the baby?”
“Obviously I left him in Stonedale.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Relax, Sam, Miles is in the backseat. Couldn’t fit you both back there or I would have.”
“Oh,” is all Sam can manage, still groggy and working through a haze. He blinks hard a couple of times, but his vision keeps swimming. “Am I on something?”
“Yeah. After you passed out, you were still kind of moaning, so I stuck you with some morphine.” Dean nods toward the floor well, and Sam notices the open first aid kit next to his feet. “Do you need more?”
Sam starts to shake his head, then quickly stops, too dizzy. “Maybe some tylenol in a while, but I’m okay for now.” He wills his body to turn in his seat, twisting to look in the back.
Miles is sleeping peacefully in a car seat, wrapped in a baby blanket. A teddy bear they’d bought in Lawning is next to him, and he’s cuddling into it.
Sam’s face softens. “How’s he been?”
Dean smiles at that. “Taking to the road like a champ. He fell asleep once we were far enough from the bombings that he couldn’t hear it anymore. He only wakes up when he’s hungry.”
Sam laughs softly at that, careful not to put too much pressure on his stomach. The quiet noise makes Miles open his hazy green eyes and peer up at Sam.
“Hi, Miles,” Sam says, gingerly leaning over the seat to run the tips of his fingers of Miles’ soft pink cheek. “It’s nice to meet you, kiddo.”
The baby makes a soft whining sound, squirming.
“Guess that means it’s lunch time,” Dean says, pulling the car to the side of the road. He pops the trunk and starts getting the bottle ready while Sam pulls Miles out of his car seat.
“Hey, kiddo,” Sam says softly, smiling down at his son. “Hungry?”
Miles blinks at him, brow furrowed.
“The patented Sam Winchester researching squint,” Dean says over Sam’s shoulder, laughing. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”
Sam regards him blandly. “Ha ha, you’re so funny.” He adjusts Miles so that he’s cradling him, then sits on the ground and leans against the car before offering him the bottle.
Miles squirms a little, but when Sam puts the nipple to his mouth, he latches on and drinks greedily, closing his eyes. Sam snorts. “And there’s the patented Dean Winchester eating pie face.”
Dean pointedly ignores him, settling down beside them. He gingerly knocks his knee against Sam’s, and Sam crosses their ankles over one another.
“So,” he says after a quiet moment of watching his son eat, “dibs on the kid calling me Dad.”
Miles starts squirming again, and Sam unwraps him from his blanket, puts him to his chest and starts rubbing his back gently. “You don’t want to be Papa? After all the eighties have done for you?”
Dean shrugs. “Madonna is overrated anyway.”
“I think the eighties just rolled over in their grave.” Miles makes a sound that’s halfway between a cough and a burp, and Sam smiles, returning him to his former cradled position and covering him back up. When Miles scrunches his face and starts whining again, a higher pitch this time, Sam sighs. “Well, go to sleep if you’re tired.”
Sam draws him in closer, holds him a little tighter, and starts rocking him and patting his tummy until Miles closes his eyes. Sam keeps rocking him as he looks up at Dean. “You too, by the way.”
Dean stretches his legs and wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulder, his hand finding its way into Sam’s hair. “I’m okay. I want to tear up some more road before nightfall.”
There are purple smudges under Dean’s eyes, and his skin is sallow, like he hasn’t slept in days. Sam just drops his head to Dean’s shoulder, a knowing smile pulling at his lips when Dean rests his head on top, his breathing evening out quickly. “Night, Dean.”
He looks down at Miles and lightly squeezes his little body. “You ready to be a Winchester, kiddo?”
Miles yawns at him, squirming tiredly.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees with a small smile, “it wears me out to think about it too. Don’t worry though. Your dad and I will take good care of you.” He takes Miles’ tiny hand in his.
Miles clutches at Sam’s index finger, snuffling softly in his sleep.