For Sam, first of all.
Dean’s never going to forget it, that night in the middle of the street, Sam in his arms and some dude Dean’s never seen before high-tailing it in the opposite direction. Dean could swear his heart stopped when he reached around and felt the handle of that knife sticking out of Sam’s back. He pulled it out, because he was way too far gone to think straight, and he yelled Sam’s name, and he shook him more out of disbelief than hope.
Sam groaned about then.
“Sammy? Talk to me, man.”
Sam turned his face up, eyes shuttered in pain, and mumbled, “ ‘s’it silver?” While Dean was still staring at him, trying to process the words, Sam added, “The knife. Is it silver?”
Dean reached over and picked up the knife, bloodied and discarded. Not like he could tell if it was silver just by looking, but he could make a considered guess, based on the size of the wound in Sam’s back and the fact of Sam still breathing. “I don’t think so,” he said.
That was about the time Madison got there, Bobby huffing along behind. She elbowed in next to Dean and took Sam’s face in her hands and kissed him like Dean was pretty sure he’d never been kissed in his life, and Dean almost managed not to resent it.
If she and Sam hadn’t had that little accident in bed a few months back, if Sam weren’t a werewolf with the full werewolf immunities package, Dean was pretty sure he’d be dead.
For not leaving another dead girlfriend (or one-night stand, whatever, in Sam’s bizarre brain it’s apparently all the same) on his brother’s conscience.
There’d been a while there where Dean thought they were going to put her down – where he thought she was going to ask to be put down. Then she came up with this once-a-month solo cage match solution, and nobody had to kill her, and that light that had flickered in Sam’s eyes didn’t get snuffed out.
Not that Dean would ever go thinking in girly expressions like that.
For being, as it turns out, not too bad a hunter.
She learned her way around a shotgun and a revolver faster than Dean would have expected, but more to the point, she has what those corporate headhunters call people skills. Dean thought Sam was good, but put Madison on the interview and she’ll charm the truth out of any guy, will commiserate with any girl until she can’t help but confess all to sweet, sympathetic Madison.
Then she’ll follow Sam and Dean to the Roadhouse and put Sam under the table, because apparently legal secretaries drink a lot. Can’t blame ‘em, Dean supposes.
For making Dean an uncle-to-be.
Here’s the thing. You’ve got your brother and his werewolf girlfriend, and when they make the beast with two backs, it is apparently not a gentle beast, so to speak. Not that you ever, ever needed to know that about your brother, and not that he’d have ever told you except for this one biting incident this one time. Presto chango, now your brother’s werewolf girlfriend has a werewolf boyfriend.
Now you lock them both up when they hit their time of the month. (And don’t think Dean doesn’t say something to Sam to that effect every single time, because such opportunities are not to not be taken lightly.) Then you go hunt up some hentai to keep yourself occupied, and whatever werewolves get up to between dusk and dawn, as long as they don’t kill each other, is really spectacularly not your problem.
Which is to say that when Sam started losing that string-bean, starving college student figure, it wasn’t like there was an obvious conclusion for Dean or any of them to come to. Kid’s metabolism finally catching up to him; maybe Madison should get him to cut out the french fries. Sam bitching about outgrowing his pants was good for a laugh, after which he didn’t bitch about it anymore, at least not to Dean.
The recurring bouts of flu, it seemed safe to assume, were unrelated. Also the backaches; it’s not like Sam doesn’t get thrown around a lot by one evil critter or another.
Presumably there was some moodiness in there, too; not like Dean could tell the difference. Sam might as well be on the rag every day, as far as Dean’s ever been able to tell. The needing to piss every ten minutes was like Sam was ten all over again. Dean figures at least half the reason Dad parked them at Pastor Jim’s that summer was because of the size of Sam’s bladder.
There came a day, though, when all that extra weight Sam was carrying around started kicking. Then there was a week or so of general panic before the eventual conclusion was come to that the kid he was carrying was human or werewolf or some near-equivalent, and that it was Madison’s, and that this revealed more about werewolf reproductive habits than Dean’s pretty sure anyone wanted to know.
Now Madison babytalks to Sam’s stomach a lot, which is nauseating, and then she turns around and gives Dean a look that threatens to claw an eye out if he teases Sam about it. So Dean doesn’t, mostly. At least not in her hearing.
Picket-fence probably isn’t the word, but Sam and Madison are going to stick to the non-epic kind of evil for the sake of the kid. Bobby’s already working on playing some kind of deadbeat granddad, and Dean’s just waiting for this niece or nephew he’s going to corrupt. He has plans.
He’s trying to talk them into naming it Dean. No luck so far.