Stalk Watch 5/6
Stalk Watch
Summary: Dean crinkles his nose distastefully as he enters the New Age store and is hit by the powerful scent of incense burning unventilated, the glare of hundreds of multi-coloured trinkets and crystals overwhelming in the small space they're crammed into.
A/N: This is up much later than I originally intended but unfortunately, I've received some rather bad news health-wise and it's taking some getting used to. Only one more chapter after this and hopefully I'll manage to get it up soon.
Chapter Five
Dean crinkles his nose distastefully as he enters the New Age store and is hit by the powerful scent of incense burning unventilated, the glare of hundreds of multi-coloured trinkets and crystals overwhelming in the small space they're crammed into. He's always hated these places, either because of the ridiculous knick-knacks they pass off as powerful or because of the real stuff that gets mixed in, available to any idiot. Sure, he's glad that the place has the herbs they need for the counter-curses but he can't help wondering whether they'd need them at all if this shop didn't stock them in the first place.
He strides over to the display of little plastic bags, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“Back again?” a cheery voice asks over his shoulder as he's picking out some sandalwood. He turns to see the same college-aged girl who was working last time. Aside from the pentacle hanging from a chain around her neck, she doesn't seem the type to be working in a place like this. Dean always expects some old woman in floaty clothes, trying to look mystical. Erica, he remembers now.
“Uh, yeah, just picking up some stuff.”
Erica's eyes skim over his purchases and a frown forms between her eyebrows. “For your wife? I don't think you need those for fertility.”
Dean forces a smile and shrugs. “I just get what she asks for.”
Erica shakes her head, concern clear in her eyes. “Those are for curse-breaking. Unless she thinks there's dark magic stopping her from falling pregnant-”
“That's exactly what she thinks,” Dean jumps in, seeing a chance and taking it. “I think it's silly, to be honest, but if it will get her to stop stressing out, what harm can it do?”
He snags some candles and heads towards the counter, leaving her no choice but to follow. He just wants to get these herbs and go, the faster the better. He doesn't exactly mean to be rude but small talk with shop assistants isn't in his schedule.
Erica huffs a little sigh as she rounds the glass cabinets of crystals and jewelery that make up the service desk, irritated fingers flicking a stray lock of dark hair over her shoulder. “Look, most of the stuff here is harmless; all these pretty statues and dream-catchers. But you're messing with real magic with those herbs. Curses aren't just for story-books. Maybe your wife's being over-dramatic but maybe she's not. I'd keep that in mind if I were you.”
Dean pretends to nod thoughtfully, hopefully doing a good job of hiding his frustration at being schooled by someone who probably only knows a tiny fraction of what he knows. “Thanks for the advise.”
“No problem,” Erica says stiffly as she grudgingly bags his purchases. She hesitates before rolling her eyes at herself and grabs a scrap of paper and a pen. “I know you think this is ridiculous but just in case, this is my number. If you need any help with the curse-breaking, don't hesitate to call. I'm only working until midday.” She passes over the bag of herbs and candles, along with the piece of paper. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Dean says, stuffing the phone number into his wallet. “I'll let my wife know.”
XXX
Sam, for once obedient, is still on the couch when Dean returns and the glass of water is empty. He's half asleep but obviously too uncomfortable for any real rest, hands resting on the ever-growing bump. Dean is certain that it's bigger than when he left, Sam's face paler, cheekbones sharper, and he wonders whether the lack of movement is because of his orders or simply because Sam physically can't get up with all that extra something in his stomach, draining his energy.
“Did you get everything?” Sam asks, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Of course. Won't be long now and you'll be back to normal,” Dean says confidently, placing the bag down on the coffee table.
Sam laboriously pushes himself up onto his elbow, apparently as close to a sitting position as he can get without help, and even that drains more colour from his face. “What do you want me to do?”
“Rest,” Dean says shortly, shooting Sam a warning glance. “I've got candles to anoint and that's a one man job.”
“I can do something else then,” Sam tries to insist but there is no way Dean is letting the kid do anything while he looks like he's about to pass out.
“Seriously, Sam, I got this.” First though, he goes and refills Sam's glass of water. May as well hydrate him as much as possible while he can keep it down. He grabs another ginger ale too, in case Sam starts feeling nauseous again, and brings them back to the sitting room.
“Drink,” he orders, placing the items in front of Sam. “You do any more throwing up while I was gone?”
Sam shakes his head. “I feel better, I think. Not nauseous anyway, just tired and sore.”
“Well, that's an improvement, at least,” Dean notes. He sits down cross-legged on the floor and takes the candles out of his bag. Slipping his knife free of his ankle strap, he starts by carving banishing pentagrams into the wax.
“We haven't talked about the other possibility,” Sam says quietly.
Because Dean doesn't know what to do about that one.
“These spells won't get rid of a monster, Dean.”
“Lets look at this logically,” Dean says. “If you haven't gotten laid recently, there's basically no way something could have knocked you up.” Unless there's a creature that doesn't need sex to reproduce, or it's method of sex isn't the same as humans, or it somehow made Sam oblivious to the whole thing. Damn it, there are too many maybes and what ifs. One thing at a time.
“It's a spell. We just need to break it,” Dean says. “And if it's not, we'll figure that out next.”
He's already looked up how to perform a cesarean-section online, in the darkest hours of the night when he was sure Sam was asleep, and his imagination was running wild. Better safe than sorry and all that crap, not that he thinks performing a c-section in Sam's apartment without anesthetic or the proper training is safe...
Sam falls silent and Dean focuses on his task. It's tedious work and he needs all his concentration to makes sure his carvings are exact. It takes nearly ten minutes for each candle, carefully sliding the blade up and down, then mixing oils to anoint each one while muttering a blessing. Sam watches and sips his water, occasionally wincing and frowning down at his stomach, probably trying to convince whatever is in there to stop moving around so much through thought alone.
“Done,” Dean says finally, setting the last candle down. His fingers are slippery with oil and he's going to smell like a New Age store for days. This better be worth it. “You okay to move this?” He raps his knuckles on the coffee table; the easiest thing to move, just so Sam won't feel useless. “I'll push the couch back.”
“That whole 'no heavy lifting' thing is only for people who are actually pregnant,” Sam says as he hauls himself to his feet. Dean watches warily, but he only sways a little and doesn't look any closer to passing out or throwing up than he did while lying down.
“You might tear a muscle or something.” Dean rolls his eyes dismissively. “Just humour me.”
Sam shoots him a bitch-face but he does grab the table and drag it out of the way while Dean shoves back the couch, leaving them with a clear patch of carpet. It's small but it will fit Sam and that's all they need.
Dean goes and grabs some plates from the kitchen to place under the candles, and a big steel dish which he fills with coals, before bringing it all back to the sitting room and handing everything to Sam.
“You set this stuff up and I'll get the herbs ready,” he says, picking up the bag of herb packets and heading to the kitchen again.
He uses a food processor to grind the sandalwood, frankincense, myrrh, and Dragon's blood into a powder, which makes him smirk a little.
“Modern witchcraft,” he murmurs to himself, amused despite the seriousness of the situation. Thank God he doesn't have to waste time working with a mortar and pestle.
His smile drops when he encounters Sam again, however. The candles are lit, set in four corners to represent North, East, South and West, along with their corresponding elements. The bowl is set in the middle, the coals shining a brilliant red and sending an orange glow over Sam's face, which somehow makes him look more exhausted and frightened than Dean remembers him looking just a moment ago. He's kneeling on the floor before the bowl, stiff with tension, chewing anxiously on his lower lip as one hand clutches his swollen stomach.
“Ready?” Dean asks, the enormity (no pun intended) of the problem hitting him again.
Sam nods tightly. He takes a deep breath and holds his hand out for the herbs. His face twitches in slight amusement at the food processor bowl but it's only a flicker amongst the anxiety.
Dean feels his own nerves start to get the better on him, now that there's nothing for him to do but watch. Witchcraft creeps him out, even when it's necessary. He'd feel better if he could do the spell but of course it has to be Sam sending the bad mojo back where it came from. He stands outside the circle, torn between wanting to pace out his nervous energy and staying close to Sam. Sam wins, of course. Dean watches closely as his brother starts the spell, the Latin rolling off his tongue just as easily and fluently as it had when Dad would quiz him before he left for college. Sam always has been good at languages; Dean's not sure if it's because of his freaky-smart brain or the fact that he was basically raised speaking Latin but he doesn't even sound out of practice. Only once does he pause, frowning, to glance at his stomach, breath hitching a little before he quickly carries on, finishing the chant in a rush. He scoops up a handful of herbs and lets them scatter on the hot coals.
For an instant, a bright blue flames flares up from the bowl and Dean feels a relief tingle in his chest, but the unnatural light burns away quickly and there's no sudden change in Sam's physique.
Sam looks to him uncertainly and they both wait to see if maybe the spell's just off to a slow start but the seconds tick by and the only thing that happens is one of the candles coming free from the wax that held it to the plate. It topples slowly, spilling a stream of wax across the carpet. Dean quickly bends and squashes the flame between his fingertips before the apartment catches fire.
Sam deflates, dropping his head into his hands. “I am so screwed.”
“We'll try the other one,” Dean says, already heading for the books spread out on the discarded coffee table.
“Why didn't it work?” Sam says, maybe to himself because he's not looking at Dean. He's staring at the glowing coals, trying to figure out what went wrong. “It was supposed to work.”
“We just need to find the right spell,” Dean says reassuringly. Sam doesn't look reassured.
“But maybe it's not a curse,” he says miserably, running a frustrated hand down his face.
“We've already been through this, Sam. It has to be a curse.”
“We're running out of time,” Sam snaps, with another one of those winces that seem to be becoming a habit, one hand automatically moving to his stomach as his breath stutters and, with a sick rush of dread, Dean realizes what's happening.
“You're having contractions,” he gasps, unable to keep the horror from his voice.
Sam looks up at him sharply. “No, I'm not,” he denies, but his face is still lined with pain, making a lie of his words. “It's just moving weird or something. I'm not.”
“Sonuvabitch,” Dean swears, dropping an ancient book onto the coffee table with far less care than he should be taking. “When did they start?”
“They're not contractions!” Sam insists desperately. Dean can read him like an open book though and he can tell that Sam's been trying to convince himself that they're nothing for a while and now he's close to the point where he won't be able to deny it any longer.
Dean's mind is racing, frantically searching for all the information he read about labour, but all he's coming up with is a bunch of swear words and the phrase 'what do I do?' repeating over and over.
“Look, it stopped,” Sam says, pushing himself shakily to his feet. “It was just rolling over. I'm fine.”
“Contractions are supposed to stop, Sam!” Dean exclaims, feeling hysteria rise in his chest. He clutches at the arm of the couch and forces himself to take a couple of deep breaths. Panicking will not help, he tells himself firmly. He needs to stay level-headed for Sam's sake.
“Sammy,” he tries again, working to keep his voice calm and steady, “I really need you to be straight with me so I can deal with this. When did they start?”
Sam stares at him for a long moment before he appears to wilt, denial giving way to fear. He drops his gaze to the bump, straining against his t-shirt. “This morning, after you left.”
This morning? Dean can't stop the admonishment that springs to his lips. “Jesus, Sam, I told you to call me if anything happened!”
“Nothing happened,” Sam snaps defensively. “It just felt like cramps. I didn't even realize they might be something else until after you got back and they started getting worse. How the fuck am I supposed to know what contractions feel like?”
“Okay, okay.” Dean has to take another deep breath but it doesn't help in the slightest. He runs his hands through his hair in agitation. He's drawing a blank here. “Fuck, I don't know what to do, Sammy. Maybe we should call Dad.”
“No!” Sam looks almost more terrified at the suggestion than he is about the contractions, wide eyes immediately pleading with Dean, and he looks so young under all that hair, and so freaked out, and Dean has never been good at denying his brother anything.
“Okay, fine, we won't call Dad, but you have to do as I say,” Dean concedes, wondering whether he's always this much of an idiot or if it's just when Sam's around. “And right now you need to lie the fuck down and, I don't know, cross your legs or something.”
Sam looks at him incredulously. “Cross my legs? There is no way anything is getting out from between my legs, Dean!”
“Just lie down!” Dean snaps. “I'm setting up another spell.”
He grabs up the book he had dropped and starts flipping through pages, searching for their plan B spell, the one he got herbs for just in case the first one didn't work, which it didn't, and Sam's in freaking labour so this has to work.
Except... it makes no sense that the first one - and the ones Sam tried before calling him - didn't work. If this is a curse then it should have been broken. Which means it's probably not a curse. Which means it's probably a monster.
Chapter Six