Sunlight floods through the cracks in boarded up windows, rays of light that illuminate the dust motes in the air, trace along the old furniture, against the column of Dean’s neck. It’s a light kind of warmth that stirs him awake. His hair’s flat and sweaty, head and shoulders resting against the wall behind him.
“Time to wake up, Sammy,” Dean says, shifting in place a little on the floor, tugging his coat away from getting pinned under Sam’s ass. He’s got a sawed off shotgun in one hand, ready and prepared.
Sam’s slumped against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Dean. His head lolls back, dull thunk against the wall before he straightens. There’s a moment of disorientation before Sam fumbles a little, frowning as though he’s annoyed he can’t quite get from sleepy to coherent in three seconds or less.
“Dean,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You shouldn’t have let me fall asleep.”
“You were dead on your feet,” Dean accuses, legs spread wide as he leans forward, trying to peer through the cracks in the windows. “You’re not gonna be any useful without any sleep.”
Sam opens his mouth before clamping it shut, and Dean’s grateful, knowing what he’s going to say, knowing what he’s currently looking at.
“How you holding up?” Sam asks, and he nods at Dean, adding immediately like he isn’t asking about it, “Your shoulder good?”
“Just great,” Dean says. He tries to roll his shoulder automatically, wincing when the pain flares up, stupid move rewarded with a stupid pain. “Makes me ignore the thing doin’ the cha cha on my bladder for a minute.”
“We don’t know if it’s a thing,” Sam says, rubbing a palm over his face. He takes a deep breath and he’s gonna start on this long explanation, like always. “It could be human, or it—”
“Well, it ain’t comin’ out of my ass, Sam,” Dean says. He places the gun on the floor next to him, hands flexing like he’s not sure what to do with them.
They’re holed up in this empty house, bag of items, weapons, necessities all laid near them, salt at the doors and windows. Squatting’s never been a thing that Dean likes to do, because a good old motel’s got electricity, water, and a layout that they can pick up quickly. Old and creaky house’ll come with its share of problems, always unpredictable, locks and doors unreliable, not to mention sneezing his lungs out with all the fucking dust in the air.
A ton of fucking dust isn’t the problem; the problem’s right in front of Dean, in his swollen belly that’s going on nine months in little over a week since he was cursed.
Sam’s palm is spread wide over Dean’s shoulder, pushing underneath his coat, gingerly touching the bandages. Sam’s bangs stick to his temples, sweaty, as he clears his throat. “I’m going to take a look at it. See if it’s…”
He instructs Dean, not asking him. Doesn’t ask, Can I take a look? Can I touch it?, because they both know Dean’ll give him shit for it. Dean leans a little more to get a better view out the window, saying, “Go wild,” trying to keep his tone light.
The view through the windows doesn’t get any better when he leans, feeling off balance from his place on the floor. There’s little more than a yard that’s overgrown with weeds, warped branches and vines at the windows outside. The car’s parked a few yards down, hidden by a clutch of trees and bushes. Early morning and the property’s abandoned, no birds, no cars, nothing but a long stretch of road leading past the house. No covering for anybody, though that doesn’t mean the demons chasing them around won’t think twice about trying to get in, even if it’s daytime, even if there’s salt. They’ll try and find a way, so they can’t stay here very long. He needed just a few minutes of rest, but Sam was the one that took him here, like he can’t stand to see him groaning in the back seat, clammy and sweaty.
Sam’s hand is cold against Dean’s belly, fingertips pressing against his side, ribs, before they brush the tight skin and swollen stomach. His fingers flinch before they linger, cold touch that manages to send a flare of warmth through Dean. He grunts and tries to wriggle away from Sam’s hand, awkward and off-balance from the extra weight.
“You done?” Dean grits out, frowning. “Because I’m a grown man, not some horny teenager. Get off.”
“You’re blaming me for your hard-on,” Sam says flatly, corners of his mouth threatening to turn up into a grin. “Maybe it’s—”
“No. No ‘maybe’. No goddamn maybe. They still out there?” Dean asks abruptly, changing the subject. Better to keep his mind off the dull ache in his back, cramped up from hardly getting any sleep on the floor. It doesn’t help that Sam’s still got his hands lingering near the waistband of Dean’s unzipped jeans, right near his lower belly.
“It’s sunrise. They’ll wait until dark. We can head out soon. Get to Bobby’s before you—”
“I was going to say ‘take a swing at me’, but that also fits.” Sam moves in, closer, turning so he’s practically on top of Dean, and would probably straddle him if Dean’s fucking belly wasn’t in the way. “He should have the counter spell.”
“Awesome,” Dean says dryly, clears his throat. “Help me up.”
He has Sam grip him by the shoulder before Dean curses, wincing at the pain, Sam fumbling and muttering an apology as they both stand up. Sam doesn’t get all weird over him, just the same old grip, this concern like he’s analyzing the problem, still trying to find a way to solve it. Sam will figure it out, always does, but they’re not joking when they’re still aching from a fight, getting thrown around the night before by the demons that cursed Dean. He hit a wall pretty hard and that’s right around the time when the demons retreated, like they didn’t want to damage the merchandise Dean’s carrying. Doesn’t make a lick of sense if they’re trailing Sam and Dean for days on end, and as the curse works its way through Dean, makes him grow bigger, he’s close to going in there and yanking the thing out himself, if it’ll stop kicking him.
And if his belly would quit getting in the way, still, nudging Sam as they stand up, that would be freaking awesome.
Sam keeps his hand on Dean’s waist, raising his eyebrows. “You good?”
“Yeah. I’m great.” Dean nods, offering a grin, knowing it’s half-assed and not at all honest, but then Sam’s mouth is on Dean’s throat, teeth grazing the soft flesh of his neck and jaw. His hand slides along the curve of Dean’s belly towards his waistband, fingertips behind the edge of his boxers. His fingers slip in and press against the base of Dean’s cock, already straining in his jeans.
Dean’s mouth pinches tight before he exhales shakily. “Bitch.”
“Whatever works for you,” Sam says, voice rough and low, vibration against Dean’s jaw. He murmurs, “Let’s get to Bobby’s.”
“Sooner the better,” Dean says, eyes closing for a moment. Sam’s mouth is warm and wet against Dean’s skin, flick of his wrist and fingers against Dean’s dick that nearly has Dean’s legs buckle under the action. “Hey genius. We gonna walk outta here or you just gonna jack me off?”
“Dude, I keep on standing, my legs are gonna cramp up.”
Sam’s quiet as they head out and the walking’s a bitch. His body’s thrown into weird-ass, magical hormone overload and it comes with some pretty nasty side effects. It’s not like Dean means it, but he might be walking a little slower. He’s not used to this, hell, he shouldn’t have to be used to this, it’s a curse and the sooner they get the whammy reversed, the better because then it’ll be high time to forget everything.
Like how he really doesn’t mind Sam touching him, brush of Sam’s warm hand against Dean’s lower back, working out this knot’s that been pissing him off for the past day.
Dean’s too big to drive comfortably behind the wheel so Sam’s got the keys, about to open the driver’s side when Dean huffs—okay, maybe he’s a little out of breath, got some extra baggage strapped to his front and it’s throwing him off—and says, “Nice one, Sammy.”
“I wanted to start up the car first. Put on the heater.”
Dean shudders. “You used to read those pregnancy books for fun or something?”
Sam’s quick around the car, not showing off but it kind of pisses Dean off anyway.
Then Sam’s hand is there at the small of Dean’s back, fingers curling and pressing in. Dean relaxes back into the touch, opens his mouth when Sam’s breath whuffs against his lips and—
“Oh,” Sam says, breaking away and looking down. “Your stomach moves when it moves. That’s… good to know.”
Dean’s eyes widen, and he pulls back, moaning as he moves to settle into the passenger seat, trying to get comfortable. He rubs a hand over his face, saying, “Great, last thing I need is a fucking Alien kiddo keepin’ tabs on us.”
When Sam gets behind the wheel, his face scrunches up, like he can’t figure out whether to laugh or scowl, so instead he cranks up the radio and puts the car in reverse, pulling out of the spot. He keeps his eyes on the road as Dean leans over to turn the dial back and forth, trying to get a clear signal.
“It’s just a few more hours,” Sam says, taking a deep breath. “We’ll fix it.”
The music is tinny, fading into static. Dean settles back and leans his head against the headrest, closing his eyes for a moment. He opens them just a crack and watches Sam’s profile as he’s driving, the tautness to his mouth as he looks at the rearview mirror, pushing the pedal down a little harder.
Sunlight through the trees, and with Sam there, focused as anything, Dean’ll rest, keep low, if only for a little while. He thinks it’s a pretty good thank you to cover the weird day that lies ahead, and gets a slight kick inside. If it’s agreement or disagreement, Dean doesn’t want to know.
He braces an arm against the door and settles back, hearing Sam turn the dial so the music rises again, old, familiar rock music that lulls him to sleep.