#mpreg sam

Sam’s at the gas station counter, looking at the caffiene pills and boner drugs behind the glass while Dean counts bills from his wallet. On the counter is a combination of sour strips, gingerale, and beefy jerky.

Dean watches Sam from the corner of his eye. Hair getting long, still a little pale from the morning, and a bite peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Two months old and superficially healed, but still an angry red. It’s too early to tell, but he imagines there’s a slight bump rounding the zip of Sammy’s jacket.

And Christ, isn’t that a trip. Standing in a gas station in the middle of nowhere with his knocked-up sixteen year old brother. Knocked up with a baby Dean put in him.

Dean agonized over it late at night, tried to hide it from Sam. They had another month or two - tops - before they had to come clean. Before Sam missed a heat and dad got suspicious. For once the man’s inability to see beyond anything more than the end of a gun or the bottom of a glass was a godsend.

Sam’s scent hadn’t changed right away. They hadn’t even known he was pregnant until three weeks ago. Kid had bled a little after the heat; just enough they thought they were safe from a broken condom. But then he’d started getting nauseous, had headaches, craved sour foods like a motherfucker.

One midnight gas station bathroom later and the damn test came up positive. Dean had wanted to puke, but couldn’t in front of Sam. Couldn’t show any sign of weakness.

Dean kept waiting. Through the miles and the motels; riding shotgun while Sam napped in the backseat. Waited for Sam to ask Dean to take him to a clinic. Or to disappear for a weekend and say he’d taken care of it.

It wasn’t right; wanting Sam to carry some fucked up incest baby and be a teenage mother. But the idea of the pregnancy ending in something other than a baby in his arms -family - made Dean squirm. (He’d follow Sam’s lead, he decided one night. Same as he would if he went out and knocked up some beta girl at a bar. But this was different.)

But Sam hadn’t brought it up. Didn’t seem bothered by it. Just nestled in next to Dean whenever dad’s back was turned for five minutes. Asked for gingerale and sour straws at gas stations.

Dean takes his change and hands the goods off to Sam. Outside the air is still summer-warm, with a hint of creeping chill settling in as the sun sets.

MOvement catches his eye as Sam shifts next to him. Soda in hand, bag of candy dangling from between his fingers, Sam subtly presses a hand to his stomach over the zipped up jacket.

“Do we have to tell him?” Sam asks quietly.

And Dean can just see it; broken bottles and yelling. Curses and punches. The disappointment and loathing from their dad that haunts his dreams. Knowing that he failed in his most basic duty: “take care of your brother”.