Stalk Watch 4/6
Stalk Watch
Summary: They have mac and cheese for dinner, which makes Dean think of old motel rooms and Dad away on hunts, a smaller version of himself cooking for a tiny version of Sam.
Chapter Four
They have mac and cheese for dinner, which makes Dean think of old motel rooms and Dad away on hunts, a smaller version of himself cooking for a tiny version of Sam. Dean's pretty sure Sam's thinking of it too. He's distracted when he sets his empty bowl down and settles back against the couch cushions, not even pretending to watch the TV. One of his hands rubs slow circles over his stomach, almost unconsciously, and Dean's kind of disturbed by how much the gesture reminds him of pregnant chicks he's seen, always touching their bumps. He tries to ignore it but it's bothering him for some reason, maybe because it seems kind of... loving.
“Do you realize you're doing that?” he asks finally.
“Hm?” Sam looks up from what had apparently been a state of deep thought - damn kid always thinks too much - and follows Dean's line of sight down to the hand on his stomach. “Oh, uh... it seems to make it stop moving so much. Like it puts it to sleep,” he says uncertainly.
“Weird,” Dean frowns, “Fucking witchcraft, man.”
Sam doesn't agree and lapse back into silence like Dean had hoped. Of course, Sam can't help but ask questions Dean doesn't know the answer to.
“What if it is a real baby? A real, human baby?” he asks through a curtain of hair. He's still rubbing those slow circles and maybe there's a hint of hope in his voice which makes Dean want to clench his teeth because he cannot deal with it if Sam is bonding with a monster. And even if a human baby could be considered one of the better outcomes, it still leaves the problem of how the thing will get out.
“It's not,” Dean says firmly. “It's just an intricate curse.”
“But what if it's not?” Sam presses. “What if there's actually something growing?”
Dean runs a flustered hand through his hair. Surely Sam doesn't want a baby? “If there is something growing in there, I really doubt that it's human.”
Sam jerks his hand away from his stomach, flinching hard, even though Dean knows that he's considered the possibility himself.
“Sorry,” Dean says, cringing. “I'm not trying to freak you out but... guys don't just get pregnant, Sammy. We need to think logically, the only real possibilities are a curse or a monster.”
“I guess,” Sam admits quietly. He bites his lip, twisting his hands together anxiously. “You don't think I could have been cursed with a real pregnancy?”
Dean doesn't but he mills it over for a while anyway because he gets the feeling that Sam doesn't want knee-jerk reactions from him. “It would take some serious magick to put a real baby in there. Where would it even grow? It's not like you have a uterus.” God, he hopes Sam doesn't have a uterus. “A curse makes the most sense. It grows too fast to be human and I've never heard of a monster that impregnates men. Someone's messing with you for some reason.”
“But what's the reason?” Sam asks. “I can't figure it out. Why would someone do this?”
And that is the million dollar question.
XXX
Sam is throwing up yet again when Dean wakes the next morning. He threw up last night as well, because of course Sam has the worlds suckiest morning sickness. Why the hell do they call it morning sickness anyway, when it's actually whenever-the-hell-it-wants sickness? It says so, in not so many words, on the websites Dean's been looking at. It also says it usually clears up after the first twelve weeks, and Sammy's way past that in cursed-pregnancy weeks, though Dean gathers that it's all the hormones that cause the nausea and at the rate the thing's growing all that shit's gotta be going crazy so no wonder Sam's so sick. But apparently some women are even hospitalized because of it so that gives Dean something else to worry about on top of everything.
The clock in the kitchen reads 6:32AM when Dean stumbles in to snag the ginger ale and crackers. Sam sounds horrific enough for Dean to forgo the coffee for now and head straight for the bathroom with his morning sickness cures.
“You all right in there, Sammy?” he asks as he nudges the door open with his foot, stopping dead in his tracks as he lays eyes on his brother. Sam was right about the process speeding up, horribly, horribly right. He's gained another two months overnight easy, his t-shirt hitched up almost to his chest, unable to contain the swelling, and Dean sees their time limit for fixing this shrink before his eyes. “Sonuvabitch.”
Sam's still retching fruitlessly, obscenely large stomach pressed against the toilet bowl as his body curls around it, spasms running up his too-visible spine with every heave. The bigger the bump grows, the more Sammy shrinks, like the thing is literally siphoning off his weight, stealing his nutrients. At a glance, Dean can see that his arms are skinnier, bones sharpening under deflating flesh. If this goes on much longer there'll be nothing left of Sam.
Dean sets the ginger ale and crackers down by the sink and wets a washcloth under the tap, crossing the small space to crouch beside Sam. “Hey, kiddo, it doesn't look like you've got any more to throw up. Just breathe through it, okay?”
Sam gags a few more times but between them he manages to take in some shaky breaths that seem to help a little. He's quivering from the strain, and it looks like staying upright is a task that's almost too much for him. He looks ready to pass out at any moment. Dean gently wipes the sweat and tears from his face and smooths his hair back, feeling inadequate and so incredibly out of his depth. Sam moans an exhausted, miserable sound. Dean winces in sympathy.
“It's okay, you're okay,” he babbles uselessly. He tries to get Sam to sit back and rest against the shower stall but Sam shakes his head and retches painfully again. Not even stomach acid is coming up now.
“Shit,” Dean mutters to himself, stretching across the room to retrieve the ginger ale and crackers from the sink. “It's okay. Here, drink some of this.” He opens the ginger ale and holds it out to Sam.
“Nuh-uh,” Sam chokes out. “Can't.”
“It'll help,” Dean insists. “Just sip it, a little bit at a time.”
Sam ignores him and the ginger ale, folding his arms over the rim of the toilet and resting his head on them, terrifyingly close to crying as he looks at his stomach.
“It's bigger,” he whispers despairingly.
“Yeah,” Dean replies, eyes automatically dropping to the bump. A ripple of movement has him fighting the urge to recoil, imagining teeth and claws, and a thrill of panic shivers up his back. “We're fixing this today though, don't worry.”
“Don't worry,” Sam echoes incredulously, and then he really does burst into tears, fuck.
Sam's too nauseous for crying though, it sets him off gagging again and he has to curl back over the toilet bowl, heaving violently enough that Dean's worried he might puke up a lung. He rubs Sam's back, feeling useless and stupid because he can't think of a single thing to say to make Sam feel better.
“Just breathe,” he rambles anyway, “You're okay, just breathe.”
“I hate this,” Sam mumbles, when he's managed to gain control of himself and is only gagging occasionally, taking the washcloth from Dean so he can wipe his face himself. Dean finally gets a good look at him and he doesn't like what he sees. Sam's face is ashen and starting to look gaunt, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark purple bags. His hair is sodden with sweat, which is at least kind of good because if it wasn't, it would be a sure sign that the kid's seriously dehydrated, but all up, he looks like utter crap. “I want my life back.”
“I know, kiddo,” Dean sympathizes as he helps Sam lean back against the shower stall and offers up the ginger ale again. “Now drink. You need to stop throwing up before you get seriously sick.”
Sam obeys this time, either feeling too sick or too tired or just too overwhelmed to protest. Dean sits with him on the floor as he takes tiny, careful sips and nibbles warily on a single cracker, until he starts to lose the sickly green tinge and stops swallowing convulsively every few seconds.
“Better?” Dean asks.
Sam nods slowly. “I think so.”
“You ready to move this party to the couch?” Or any room where the sour scent of vomit isn't likely to set the kid off again.
“'kay.”
Getting Sam up without jerking him around too much is damn near impossible but they manage it after two aborted attempts and one almost-puking incident. Sam's balance is shot, his legs close to buckling under the weight of his stomach as they stagger to the couch, and he doesn't argue when Dean makes him lie down, which tells Dean exactly how awful he's feeling.
Once Sam is settled, Dean finds a straw and replaces the half-drunk ginger ale with a cup of water. “Keep that down and I'll make you a fruit smoothie.”
Even with his eyes closed, Sam can bitch-face at him It's obvious that the kid just wants to sleep but Dean has to go out as soon as the shops open and he can't risk Sam getting any sicker than he already is.
“I'm serious, Sam. This whole morning sickness shit can be dangerous and I can't exactly take you to hospital.”
“I don't need a hospital,” Sam says wearily, opening his eyes.
“Not yet, but you will if you don't keep your fluids up.” Dean puts on his most serious face to drive the point home and Sam obediently takes a careful sip, just as Dean's cell phone starts to ring. Dean fishes it out of his jacket, draped over the arm of the couch, and looks at the caller ID. Dad.
“Hang on a sec,” he tells Sam as he heads for the kitchen for a little privacy to deal with this. “And drink that water.”
In the kitchen, he grabs the coffee pitcher and hits answer on his phone, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he sets up the coffee machine. “Hello?”
“Dean. Finished up yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“I need your help here. It looks like the werewolf I'm hunting is part of a pack.”
Crap. “I just need another couple of days.”
“You said you were hunting a ghost. How long does it take you to burn some bones?” Barely concealed frustration is leaking into Dad's voice now.
“It's attached itself to something,” Dean lies quickly. “I just need some time to figure out what.”
“You've had almost a week, Dean,” Dad says sternly, and yeah, if this was actually a ghost, he'd be done by now. He doesn't know what to say.
Dad sighs. Dean imagines him with his jaw clenched, breath hissing out between his teeth in exasperation. “Is it a girl?”
“What? No. There's no girl.” Unless you count Sammy. But seriously, does Dad really think he'd skip a hunt over a girl? Dad should know Dean would never leave him without back up unless he had a good reason - oh shit.
“It's Sam, isn't it.” Dad says. He's not asking. Of course he's figured it out. Dean flips a switch and coffee starts dribbling into the pitcher. Before he can think of something to say - and really, what can he say? Dad's caught him on a lie and there's no way he can talk his way out of this - Dad continues.
“Is he okay?”
“I'm working on it,” Dean says evasively.
“So no,” Dad surmises. “Are you in Palo Alto? I'll come meet you.”
“No, Dad, it's okay. I can handle this.”
There's a long silence on Dad's end and Dean realizes that he's just messed up again.
“He doesn't want me there,” Dad says flatly.
Damn it, he can't deal with this right now. “It's not like that,” Dean tries to explain but he can't think of any explanation that's not the truth or an accusation (“You told him to never come back.”) so he just leaves it hanging pathetically.
“Call me when you're finished,” Dad says eventually, just as flat. “We need to deal with the werewolves.”
“Yes, sir.”
There's a beat where Dean's sure Dad wants to say something, ask for details, or maybe repeat that age old order, “Look after Sammy”, but then it's over and Dean's left with the dial tone beeping in his ear, thinking about how much of a huge, gigantic mess this all is, starting from the moment Sammy announced he was leaving for Stanford and Dad threw that ultimatum at him, to now with the kid suffering on the couch while Dean tries, and fails, to mend hurt feelings and generally flounders around trying to figure out how to fix Sam. If those counter-curses don't work...
He shakes his head and sets his phone down on the bench. It'll work. It has to. He pours himself a coffee and makes sure he looks confident and together before heading back to the living room.
Sam's had maybe two sips of water in the time Dean's been on the phone, which is troubling because at this rate it'll take the kid all day to finish it, but at least he hasn't turned green again. He seems more asleep than awake now so Dean lets him doze while he drinks his coffee - it beats answering questions about who was on the phone - and doesn't wake him until after he's dressed and ready to go.
Sam mutters something incoherent as Dean gently shakes him awake, blinking up at him blearily through his tangled hair.
“I gotta go,” Dean says, “And you need to drink more water.”
“Mmkay.”
“Your phone's on the coffee table. Call me if there are any new developments, okay? Are you hearing me?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam pushes himself up a little to show how alert he is, which isn't very impressive seeing as he can hardly keep his eyes open.
“Do you need anything?”
Sam huffs out a sigh. “An abortion.”
“Good thing I've always been pro-choice. One magickal abortion coming up.”
Chapter Five