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Adam would just like everyone to know that he did not freak out when he woke up next to a decidedly non-Jimmy-shaped Jimmy.
Because seriously, he didn't, and Jimmy is a fucking liar.
"No," Jimmy says firmly, trying to cover up as much as possible in a suddenly very ill-fitting dress shirt. "No. This is not happening. I'm a man."
"A man with breasts," Adam observes, because they're pretty hard not to observe, as they are not exactly un-fucking-noticeable. Also, because he's stupid from shock.
And apparently Jimmy's outraged bitchface has not lost an ounce of sting, even despite the softening of his features.
"Look," Adam says, glaring back, "it's not as if this is any fucking less strange for me, okay?"
They call Sam and Dean, because whenever anything goes wrong in either of their lives, odds are the Winchesters are somehow at fault.
"Adam?" Dean answers, sounding warily surprised.
"What the fuck did you do?" Adam replies, because he does not do politeness, not with anyone even tangentially connected with his father, not even his brothers, and absolutely not today, with Jimmy curled up on a kitchen chair, dressed in some of Adam's sweats, drinking cup after cup of coffee and grinding his teeth.
"What?"
"What the fuck did you do, Dean?" Adam growls. "Because Jimmy does not look like Jimmy anymore, and experience tells me that you assholes have something to do with it."
"Wait, what's wrong with Jimmy?" Dean asks, and fuck him for actually sounding concerned.
"Well, except for waking up suddenly female, he's just fine," he grits out.
"Oh," Dean says. "That's... Um, me and Sam can be there in a couple of hours, hang on."
They do some investigating, and a whole lot of tests, and all of it seems to unfortunately prove the two now very awkward Winchesters innocent of any involvement in the situation.
Adam and Jimmy are still not entirely convinced.
That night, it's awkward as fuck trying to sleep in the same bed. Jimmy is uncomfortable in his own skin, and Adam isn't sure what he's allowed to touch and not anymore.
(Adam won't admit it, but it kind of breaks his heart a little that when they finally settle into a position, it's with Jimmy's back to his chest, him holding without being held back).
Shopping for clothes and shoes is the most awful thing ever. Period.
Also, bras are the devil.
Two and a half weeks into the whole nightmare, Jimmy is still a woman, and his boss calls to inform him that he's fired for being sick too long without a doctor confirming illness.
Jimmy throws a chair out of the - luckily open - kitchen window, then sits down on one of the remaining three to go through the job listings in the morning paper.
The fourth week, Jimmy has his period, and Adam has the strangest, most surreal visit to the corner shop ever.
The sixth week, Jimmy manages to find a job where they don't look much further into the life of Jemma Nowak than Jimmy's shoddily faked papers.
They celebrate by getting really fucking drunk while watching reruns of Miami Vice.
"Seriously, what the fuck is up with this porn music?" Adam (doesn't giggle, no seriously he doesn't, shut up) laughs as Sonny Crockett inches along a wall, gun at the ready.
Jimmy rolls his eyes. "It's not porn music," he grumbles and takes another swig of whiskey. "And seriously, what do you know? You weren't even around for the eighties."
"Nope, I wasn't. Mmm, say, does that make you a cougar, then?" Adam (okay, fine) giggles against Jimmy's throat.
Jimmy, after letting that sink through the drunken haze that is his brain, decides that those are fighting words, and that such a stupid comment can only be met with the most vicious tickling in the history of drunken, giggly fights.
They wake up the next morning, half-dressed and hopelessly tangled on the couch.
Adam ignores the massive hangover he's sporting, in favor of reveling a bit in how one of Jimmy's arms is wrapped around the back of his neck, the other slung over his waist, and how their legs are entwined under the blanket they must have pulled over themselves at some point last night.
He's really missed Jimmy touching him.
He drifts back off to sleep, content.
So they figure they had sex. It's a reasonably enough conclusion, considering how Jimmy's panties (sensible classic brief style, because Jimmy might be driven to violence otherwise) have ended up hanging from their ceiling lamp fixture, and how Adam's boxers have made their way underneath a sofa cushion.
They both think it kinda sucks that they don't remember it.
That night, Adam manages to run down to the corner store, buy some condoms, and run back to the apartment in four minutes and thirty-eight seconds.
Life goes on.
Jimmy grows more and more comfortable in his own skin; finds a comfortable equilibrium in his existence as a man stuck in a woman's body. (Visiting the local LGBQT group's meetings help, even if he can't exactly tell them the entire story.)
Adam loses the tension headache he's been carrying around since that first morning; can finally relax as Jimmy eases back into their earlier closeness.
It's good.
Crazy, and a bit messed up, but good.
"Please, please tell me a pink plus sign means 'congratulations, not pregnant,'" Jimmy begs, hunched over on the toilet seat with his face in his hands.
Adam really wishes he could.
They don't really talk about it.
Adam tries, once, but Jimmy shoots him down with extreme fucking prejudice, and Adam can't honestly say that he has any idea of what to say when and if the discussion takes place.
He knows he's being a coward, but he waits for Jimmy to come to him.
It's been eight days since they threw six positive pregnancy tests into the trash when Adam comes home from a late shift at the hospital to find Jimmy crying on the couch.
He's never seen Jimmy cry, not ever, and he opens and closes his mouth soundlessly as his brain tries to make sense of the situation and formulate a response.
"I went to the women's clinic," Jimmy says, voice wet and shaking, wrapping himself tighter in the blanket covering him.
Adam thinks he's going to pass out, has to grab the door frame to keep from falling.
"I got all the way up in the stirrups," Jimmy continues, laughing awfully as he wipes furiously at his face. "But I couldn't go through with it. I just- I thought of Claire, and-" A wretched sounding sob tears its way out of his throat, and he curls into himself, face twisting. "Shit."
And yeah, no, this isn't right. Not at all.
It's not right that Jimmy is crying like he did something wrong, like he's weak, when his admission lets Adam breathe again, makes something warm and hopeful unfold in his chest.
So he drops his stuff right on the floor, doesn't care about the crashing, shattering noises of a grocery bag hitting a wooden doorstep, and closes the distance to the couch so he can wrap his arms around Jimmy, hold him close and whisper reassurances and promises and relief into his hair.
"So, we're pregnant," Adam says, flat on his back on the bed and staring at the ceiling.
"We're pregnant," Jimmy agrees, right next to him.
"I could probably swing it so we could get an appointment with Doctor Batna at the hospital's women's clinic. She's supposed to be really good, and she likes me enough that she might squeeze us into her calendar."
"Have you already asked her?" Jimmy asks, neutral in that way Adam can never read.
Adam shrugs, a bit awkwardly. "I might have asked her, hypothetically, if she would have time to take on my - also hypothetically - pregnant transsexual life partner as a patient."
"So you wanted... this. You wanted it from the start."
"I... Yeah. Yeah, I kinda did. But you didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't want you knowing that I wanted it to influence your decision, because if you didn't want it-"
Jimmy shuts him up by rolling over and kissing him. "You're really goddamn stupid sometimes."
Adam smiles. "I know."
Morning sickness sucks.
Cravings suck.
Mood swings suck.
Swollen feet suck.
Back pain sucks.
Having to pee all the time sucks.
Ob-gyn appointments really fucking suck.
The first time the baby kicks, though, is kind of amazing.
"Stop poking the baby," Jimmy grumbles tiredly, trying to swat Adam's hands away.
"I'm not poking the baby," Adam says absentmindedly, hands splayed on Jimmy's belly. "I'm just saying 'hi,'" he continues, pushing down a bit with one thumb, and smiling like he's never been so ecstatic in his life when the baby kicks back at him. "She's going to be a soccer player," he laughs.
Jimmy is too enthralled by how happy Adam looks to comment.
At some point, they inform Sam and Dean of current events.
The Winchesters show up four hours later, with Castiel in tow, for what Jimmy suspects is some sort of impromptu baby shower.
Sam spends most of the time not staring at Jimmy's belly, and jumping at any chance to get the hell out of the living room to go fetch something to make Jimmy more comfortable.
Dean sets to assembling the crib he brought along as a gift, occasionally awkwardly communicating with Adam in monosyllables and grunts, then carves and draws protective sigils all over the thing.
Castiel just stares at Jimmy in enraptured awe, like his achey, swollen self is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. It's really kind of creepy.
(Adam and Jimmy's opinion hasn't changed; it's still probably all the Winchesters' fault.)
"We haven't even talked about names," Jimmy points out one evening, looking up from his book to where Adam is... Where Adam is fucking knitting, and yeah, this is officially the weirdest thing in Jimmy's life. "Are you seriously knitting?"
"I was thinking Kate," Adam replies. "And shut up; my mom taught me this."
And that stops Jimmy from going any further with his mockery, because he's been there for the nightmares, and the tears, and the anguished, whispered account of how Kate Milligan screamed as the ghouls ate her alive.
"Kate is a good name. Kate Novak-Milligan. I like it," he says instead, watching Adam put down a green- and pink-striped bootie, and getting to work on another one. "But what if we're having a boy?"
"We're having a girl," Adam says, so certain, and Jimmy doesn't argue.
"Fuck," Jimmy says eloquently as he opens his eyes.
"Wha...?" Adam responds, eyes blinking blearily open.
"I think we might need a new mattress," Jimmy explains. "Also, my water just broke."
It takes a couple of seconds for Adam to catch up with the meaning of the words. "Fuck."
Jimmy had liked Doctor Laila Batna just fine before today.
Now, he's kind of sure she's evil.
(And frankly, he's starting to suspect Adam, too.)
Spinal analgesia, however, is truly a sign of the universe's fundamentally merciful nature.
Kate Novak-Milligan is born on the Monday of May 21st, healthy and exceedingly loud.
"She's lovely," someone says beside him, sounding absolutely ecstatically gleeful, but Adam can't be bothered to tear his eyes from his daughter on the other side of the glass to face them.
"Yeah, she is," he replies, smiles as Kate crinkles her nose in her sleep.
"It's such a beautiful thing, when two people who love each other are able to start a family," the person sighs happily. "It's my favorite part of the job, being able to help bring that about."
Adam hmms politely, watches Kate adorably try to flail her little baby arms.
"And Kate's a really good name," the person says adoringly. "It stands for purity."
And yeah, that works, Adam thinks as he watches her, and the stranger leaves without making a single sound.