Chapter 1: Consulting Researcher
It all begins with a knock on your front door.
It’s a brief pattern. Rap, rap, rap-rap. That’s how you know it’s one of Garth’s contacts. But then again, you don’t get many visitors out here in this barely residential wooded area of Oklahoma. Sure, you have neighbors – but the closest paved road is at least a half mile away, so you don’t get much traffic. Even the local Jehovah’s Witnesses keep their distance.
Your cat alerts you to the danger with a loud chirp before fleeing upstairs into the safety of your bedroom.
When you answer the door, you’re not expecting the men you find standing on your porch.
You know who they are. Of course you do. They’re the damn Winchesters, for fuck’s sake – every hunter knows the legends. Garth must’ve sent them, you reason. But what in god’s name do they need from me?
You don’t say anything; you simply motion them inside and usher them toward your living room sofa, going to fetch three beers from the fridge before getting down to business.
You return to the living room, passing each of them a bottle as you take a seat. “So, what brings you two gentlemen to my neck of the woods? Pun intended.”
“Well, we went to Garth for some help on a case, and he sent us to you. I’m Dean, and this is Sam.”
“Yeah, I know who you are. So, what could the big bad Winchesters possibly need my help with?”
Sam looks a bit distracted by the shelves upon shelves of lore books lining the walls of your living room. Dean looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. When he doesn’t, Dean elbows him.
Sam clears his throat. “Right, sorry. Quite a collection you have here.”
“You’re welcome to peruse my library. Be forewarned: I don’t check books out to hunters, because they usually either get blood all over them or die before they get a chance to return them.”
“That seems reasonable. Anyway, yeah – so, we’ve got a hunt, and we don’t really know what we’re dealing with.”
“That’s kind of my area.”
“So, you hunt obscure monsters?” Dean asks.
“Not really, no. I’ve taken to calling myself a ‘consulting researcher.’”
Sam chimes in, “Oh, like—“
“No, not like Sherlock Holmes,” you cut in, to which Sam frowns. “I do the research. I have a lot of knowledge on mythology. Basically, I can identify any monster and tell you how to take care of it.”
“So,” Dean asks, “you’re not a hunter?”
“Oh, I am. I just prefer not to do fieldwork. I’ll leave that to the lumberjacks like yourselves. After all, what good is a hunter who has no idea what they’re doing? That’s where I come in.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Dean says.
“And I can handle myself in a tussle. I used to hunt with my uncle growing up. I’ve been able to reload a double-barrel shotgun in under ten seconds since I was about eight years old.”
“Nice,” Sam says. “What’s the most obscure mythological creature you’ve ever come across?”
“Hmm… Well, I saw a pugot once.”
“Yeah. Little headless fella, hangs out in trees, likes to steal women’s underwear.”
“And you killed it?”
“God, no. It was totally harmless.”
Dean nudges Sam and says, “Alright, that’s enough. You can fangirl later, dude. We have a monster in need of some ganking.”
“Right,” Sam says with a resolute nod. “So, think you could help us out?”
“Definitely,” you reply. “I’m probably the best one for the job. So, what’s the MO?”
With your help, the boys are able to take down the creature – which you discovered was a Tulpa disguised as a mythical shifter spirit from Zanzibar. All in all, you’ve saved their asses without breaking a sweat (or even leaving the comfort of your home, for that matter).
You get the victory phone call around dinnertime. Dean tries to articulate a twisted, reluctant ‘thank you,’ but you don’t push him.
The kindest, most heartfelt thing that he says during that phone call is: “Don’t go changing your phone number. We might need you again soon.”
And you couldn’t ask for anything better.
Later that night, as you’re catching up on whatever’s recorded on your DVR, there’s another knock at your front door.
This time, it’s just Sam. You open the door just in time to see the Impala peeling out onto the dirt road, roaring a hoarse, hearty goodbye. Sam is leaning with his hand pressed against the top ledge of the door frame, his other hand in his jean pocket as he stands there with crossed legs, looking perfectly cool and aloof. The fucker planned this.
He sees you standing there, clad in your pajamas and slippers, and you watch as something akin to regret crosses his angled, shadowed features. “Shit, sorry. It’s late, I shouldn’t’ve—“
“Oh, shut up. Come in,” you say, stepping aside. He steps inside, but just kind of stands there awkwardly. “Want a beer? Or something stronger, maybe? Ooh, I’ve got some Jack Daniel’s in the cupboard.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he says, tucking his hands in his pockets again – this time, looking more coy than cool.
“Two whiskey cokes it is. Make yourself at home,” you say as you make your way towards the kitchen liquor cabinet. “Don’t just stand there like a… like something that just stands in place. I dunno – a street sign, maybe?”
This elicits a laugh from him, which gives you a strangely strong sense of pride.
“Who’s this?” he asks from the other room.
“Probably Calypso, my calico cat,” you say from the kitchen. ‘There’s also Hera, the Russian Blue, but she doesn’t like hunters. I think she can smell the blood and anguish on them.”
When you return with two glasses of dark, cold liquid over ice, you’re surprised to find Sam over by your bookcases, scratching a pleased Hera on the head. He has that look on his face like he’s internally screaming, ‘I’ve been chosen,’ but he’s trying to play it cool on the outside.
As he openly peruses your stacks of books, he remarks, “I think I definitely already said this earlier, but you really do have quite the collection here.”
“You did say that, yeah,” you reply, handing him his glass.
“I’m beginning to think that that was an understatement.”
“I don’t have many things that I’m proud of – but I’m definitely proud of this. I’ve got bookshelves in every room of this house. I inherited some of them – but most of them, I earned myself. Either way, my books are my pride and joy, quite literally.”
Sam just kind of stands there taking it all in for a moment, and you twirl the glass anxiously in your hand.
“There are books here that could’ve saved my ass on many an occasion.”
“You’re ass looks fine to me,” you remark mid-sip, the words escaping your grasp before you’ve even had a chance to think about their consequences. You practically spit your drink back into your glass as Sam bursts out in chest-booming, knee-slapping laughter. You laugh at yourself too, mostly just to hide how mortified you feel.
Through his laughter, Sam quips, “Yeah, well yours isn’t so bad either.”
“So we’ve both looked at each other’s asses. Glad we’ve established that.”
As the laughter dies down a bit, he kind of just looks into your eyes, and for once in your sad little life, it’s not weird. It’s not an awkward, long-held stare between fumbling teenagers, nor is it the discomfort of some average joe coming on to you at a dive bar, nor is it full of reluctance, or dread, or embarrassment. For once, it’s the fire that you’ve always imagined it was supposed to be.
He takes the half-empty glass from your hand, gingerly placing both his and yours on the nearby coffee table. He looks into your eyes again for a long moment before wrapping one arm around your waist and cupping your cheek in his opposite hand. He draws you in, kissing you like it’s his last day on Earth.
It’s a generous kiss, lavish and warm. You don’t realize until he pulls away that you’ve been holding your breath. And he just looks into your eyes again, like he’s trying to communicate telepathically, but everything is being drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in your ears.
“Sam, did you just come here for a booty call?”
He smirks. “No, actually. I genuinely came by to take a look at your books and maybe chat a bit over drinks or something – at least, that’s what I told myself. I can’t say that I wasn’t hopeful.”
You smile. “We can ‘chat’ later,” you say, trailing a hand up over his (unfortunately) clothed chest. You lean in close enough to blow hot breath onto his neck, whispering in his ear, “but first…”
You don’t even have to finish your thought.
He grips your thighs and draws you up to wrap your legs around him, pushing you against the nearest bare wall – which, in this case, is across the room. He kisses you again, more primal this time, nipping and clashing tongues.
“I wanted this to be sexy – you know, with me carrying you to your bed,” he says breathlessly, kissing you lightly between pauses, “but I don’t know where your bedroom is.”
You genuinely laugh – that’s the sign of a perfect man, your best friend Heather once told you. She said, ‘Find yourself someone who can make you laugh when you’re otherwise too horny to think.’ You didn’t really know what she meant until this moment.
“Up the stairs. Second to last door on the right.”
He grins, obviously happy that you’re playing along. Before you can even process the move, he’s carried you up the stairs and has you pressed up against the inside of your bedroom door. You try to take his top off, but you’ve got very limited movement. So, once you’ve got his buttons mostly undone, he drops you onto the bed and divests himself of his flannel and undershirt.
You’re definitely salivating at the sight. “Christ, Sam.”
“How am I supposed to follow that?” you jest, gesturing to his perfectly sculpted torso. Even though you’re joking, there’s a very real sense of dread and unworthiness filling your gut at the moment.
He doesn’t argue; he simply tilts his head to the side then draws your top slowly up and over your head, kissing the exposed skin as he goes. He doesn’t flinch at your silvery stretchmarks, or your muffin top, or your scars, or the crease in your belly from sitting down. In fact, you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing through the thick fabric of his jeans. He looks at your bra like it’s an appetizer, quickly undoing the clasp and discarding it onto the floor before pulling down your pants. You can see that he’s trying to pace himself – to avoid his desire to dive straight to dessert.
He’s fluid in his movements, his mouth trailing down you like a river as it moves from kissing your lips, to pecking the sensitive skin of your collarbone, to lapping at and sucking your (even more sensitive) nipples, to leaving wet kisses down your stomach, then finally to nipping along the elastic edge of your underwear, teasing the waistband.
“May I?” he asks.
He slowly draws your underwear down past your knees, letting the evidence hang from your ankle like a white flag of surrender. How fitting, you think. You don’t think for much longer.
When he gets his mouth on you, you’re lost. And when he gets two of his long, manly-man masculine guy fingers up inside you, you can’t even remember what planet you’re on. The sounds that leave your lips as he unabashedly assaults your sweet spot are unlike any you’ve ever heard yourself make. It’s a lovely chorus of pleas to Sam and to Christ and to sweet, sweet fuck, layered with an ensemble accompaniment comprised solely of groans and whimpers. I’ll call it, ‘Pornographic Cries in D Major.’
“I’m g—I’m gonna…”
“That’s it, come for me,” he says, working you through a spectacular high. A guy hasn’t gotten you off this quickly in… well, ever.
He grins up at you, grinding himself down onto the bedspread, and you whine for him to remove his own pants. When he drags his jeans and underwear off in one fell swoop, you’re lost again.
And in that moment, you’re certain that by the end of the night, he’ll have made you forget your own name.
“Jesus, Sam. You’re huge.” It’s the kind of big that is certainly intimidating, but isn’t entirely insurmountable. You know by looking at him that he won’t literally split you in half, but it’ll sure as hell feel that way.
Fuck yes. I must be dreaming.
He leans over you, kissing you sweetly, almost innocently – contrasting the vulgar bobbing of his hard cock against your stomach.
“Say the word and I’ll stop.”
“God, please don’t,” you say, earning a smirk from Sam. “Just needed a moment to adjust my expectations to what clearly surpasses all of my hopes and dreams.”
He laughs this time, mouthing smiles on your neck as he asks, “How do you want it, sweetheart?”
“Give me everything you’ve got, Winchester.”
“Seriously, though,” he pauses, breaking his cool-dude exterior for a moment to give you a little sidebar. It’s very endearing. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”
I’d like you to, your dirty little mind supplies.
“You won’t, but thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Now, your cock, please, if you don’t mind…”
“Okay, eager. Condom?”
“Pill. Come on, Sam. Don’t make me ask twice.”
He laughs again, notching himself at your entrance as he holds himself up on his forearms over you. He pauses for a moment to look into your eyes again, probably attempting telepathy like he was earlier. You know that whatever he’s trying to say would probably make you blush.
He smashes his lips into yours, providing a sloppy, indulgent kiss to muffle both of your groans as he begins pushing into you, slowly easing further inside with small, shallow thrusts. It takes longer than you’re used to for him to fully sink in – and when he does finally get there, it feels like his cock is so far inside of you that it’s prodding at the bottom of your lungs, forcing you to take shorter breaths from the top of your chest. Like he’s taking up so much space that you have little room left to breathe.
“Oh my… fuck, Sam. So full. Holy shit – never… never felt—“
“Mmm… god, I know, sweetheart. You’re perfect. You feel so perfect.”
He leans up and presses a chaste kiss to your now-sweaty forehead before drawing his hips back and pushing forward. He sets up this rhythm – it feels tentative, almost. You wrap your legs around him, using your heels to emphasize that you want more.
“Come on, Sam. You won’t break me.”
He seems to take that as a personal challenge.
It’s like a light switch. He goes from slow and soft to fast and hard in the span of one ragged breath. He draws back and positively slams into you, forcing your headboard to smack against the wall. You’re thanking your lucky stars that you don’t have any neighbors living super close by.
“Like that, baby?”
“God, y-yeah, Sam. Hard. I want it.”
He starts grunting, a bead of sweat trailing down his brow and along the length of his nose.
But still, you want more. You want control.
“Flip over,” you say. “I wanna be on top.”
“Yes ma’am,” he replies, pulling out and flopping onto his back as you mount him like a prize stallion and sink down onto his length once more. You just hold him there for a moment, letting him fill you up unlike any man you’ve ever had before. You rock gently, letting him press into all of your most sensitive parts as you start groaning like a porn star again. This time, it’s mostly whimpers and an excess of profanities spewing from your tongue.
Then, he starts pushing his hips up against you – lodging himself even further into you, if that’s even possible. He sits up, one hand holding you tightly against him, chest to chest, the other wound into the hair at the back of your neck as you lavish in these indulgent not-quite-thrusts. You share breaths and grunts and whimpers with him, quickly building yourself up to another orgasm.
You begin properly riding him, then lean back and place your hands above his knees, and the angle is golden. He knows immediately that he’s got your g-spot held hostage here, so he starts thrusting up more and more as you slowly give yourself over to the sensations.
You start to cry out again, and Sam takes a hold of your hips as he guides you atop him. One hand drifts toward your lower stomach, and he moans this guttural sound. “Give me your hand,” he says. And you do. He guides it to where he was pressing down on your belly, where you can feel the length of his cock abusing your cervix. And the pressure from your hands pushes you even further. “That’s me filling you up, sweetheart. How’s that feel?”
“Oh my god, Sam, fuck…” you whine and groan and whimper; screw the chorus – you’re going to have to compose an entire opera with the sheer number of obscene sounds pouring from your lips. “I’m gonna… oh, fuck, Sam… ah, ah—“
The waves are overwhelming, and when it finally hits, the crest is massive. It rises and it stays that way, and you wonder if you’ll be stuck in this state of bliss forever. It’s like a knot pulling tighter and tighter – the more it pulls, the louder you scream. It feels like an eternity before the metaphorical rope finally snaps.
You’re not even really coming down from it before Sam loses his rhythm, squeezing his eyes shut tight and grunting, “Shit, shit – ah, oh god. Fuck, baby. Mmm—“
He honest to goodness shouts, then pulls and holds his hips flush against yours. You feel a thick warmth coat your insides, and it’s immensely satisfying. As his own climax crests, his shouts devolve into whimpers, sounding almost like those of an injured dog.
The two of you collapse with a heavy, satisfied sigh. You lie there, in twilight shadows cast by a table lamp and by moonlight, as you trail your fingers aimlessly across Sam’s chest. He has an arm wrapped around your shoulders, and he runs his fingers through your hair in a way that makes you want to sleep atop this glorious manbeast (like a dragon would lie upon her treasure) for the rest of your natural born life – and perhaps even after that.
You draw the covers up over your nude bodies, and Sam flashes you a look that says that he feels like he’s overstayed his welcome.
“Uh-uh. Don’t you dare, Winchester. Stay.”
You kiss him, trying to inject this bruising kiss with as much meaning as you can.
“If this was just a booty call, please keep me on speed dial,” you joke, and Sam laughs.
“Oh, I definitely will.”
You know the fleeting, ephemeral nature of hunter relationships. You just got your hands on this perfect specimen, and you know you’ll have to say goodbye come morning – but until then, you’ll operate under the assumption that Sam is here to stay and to keep your bed warm.
Chapter 2: Promises
When you see Sam off the following morning – his brother behind the wheel of the Impala waiting patiently in the driveway like a cool mom – it’s with a promise of ‘next time.’
And he makes good on that promise.
It starts with a phone call late one Thursday evening. You’re expecting him to ask you what you’re wearing or something, but he doesn’t. You just talk. He tells you about the hunt he’s working with Dean in Phoenix – how Dean left him to go hustle some drunken fools out of their hard-earned cash playing pool at the dive bar down the street. He tells you about how he’s supposed to be doing research, but he’s exhausted. He talks about how hot it is in Arizona.
Then, he asks you something you weren’t really expecting to hear.
“So, how was your day?”
He makes it sound as if this sort of phone call is something the two of you do all of the time.
“Um, it was alright, I guess.”
“I can’t believe I never asked you this, but do you work or anything?”
You laugh. “Yeah, actually. I work part-time as a vet tech at the local wildlife refuge.”
“Oh, wow – that’s so cool! So you treat owls and raccoons and stuff?”
“Among other things, yeah,” you reply. “I also give tours and teach school kids about ecology when they come on field trips. They all love feeding the deer.”
You can practically hear Sam’s smile on the other end. “That’s amazing.”
The phone calls continue – you get them at least once a week. You FaceTime occasionally, and while there’s never a flattering angle in which to present yourself, you love those calls because you get to see his gorgeous dimpled smile. It’s always him calling you, and never the other way around. He makes time to talk to you, wherever he may be.
He stops by out of the blue after a few weeks of those phone calls.
When you open the door, he hugs you immediately, the grocery bag hanging from his wrist just barely touching the back of your thighs. He hugs you as if you’ve been friends for years. He’s a hunter, you remind yourself. Hunters rarely get to have anything steady or constant in their lives. I can’t blame him for taking advantage of the opportunity.
“Hey, stranger,” you say, still surprised by his sudden appearance. “Didn’t realize you were coming by.”
“I was just in the area, so I figured…”
“How convenient,” you tease. He pauses, looking you in the eye and tacitly begging you not to call his bluff outright.
“Let me make you dinner,” he says, gesturing to the bag in his hand.
You smile. “Alright. Come in – I’ll get us some wine.” In response, he pulls a bottle out of his grocery bag. “Oh, you’re good.”
He greets the cats laying on top of each other on your couch before heading to the kitchen to get himself set up. You put on some music – something mellow and not too loud. It’s best to plan for awkward silences, in my case. You pour two glasses of wine, then hop up onto the counter to watch Sam work.
“So, what’d you do today?” he asks, obviously trying to distract you from whatever he’s making.
“I worked a shift this afternoon. Then, I came home, had a shower, slipped into my pajamas… and you conveniently showed up when my hair is half-dry and I’ve already taken my makeup off.”
He tilts his head to the side and says, “You look perfect.”
“That’s not what I meant,” you reply, flustered. Half of you wants to argue, and the other half reminds you that you were always taught to take a compliment, even if you don’t agree. “I wasn’t fishing, I—“
Then, he kisses you. It’s a peck – quick and chaste, but heady enough to shut you up.
He smirks, then continues, “What’d you do at work today?” Since that very first phone call, he likes to ask about the animals you took care of that day.
“Hmm. Well, I saw four separate bird species with conjunctivitis, which isn’t uncommon, but it was still noteworthy. Then, I saw an angry little groundhog with a wounded foot. Some poor, brave civilians brought him in when they saw that he couldn’t walk. Also, Hank the Hawk needed his nails trimmed, which was quite the ordeal.”
“How the hell do you even clip a hawk’s nails?”
“With great resolve, prayers to every god, and multiple pairs of hands.”
Sam laughs, whipping a dish towel up to drape it over his shoulder as he stirs something with a wooden spoon. And for a brief moment, it feels domestic – like you’ve come home from a long day at your nine-to-five to find your husband cooking dinner, and you’re telling him about your day at the office. Except he should be the one – nope, fuck gender roles.
Suddenly, you’re very aware of the fact that you’re wearing a sports bra and fuzzy socks. “Sam, do you mind if I go change into something a little… less comfortable?”
“For my sanity,” you deadpan.
“Sure. Food’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
You spend five of those ten minutes just staring into your closet.
What the hell am I meant to wear to a not-date at my own house with my not-boyfriend/not-friend-with-benefits?
I should definitely wear the one matching lingerie set that I have, just in case. Maybe he’s not here for that, but it’ll make me feel better. You rifle through your underwear drawer and find what you’re looking for – buried all the way toward the back of the drawer. That says a lot about the state of my sex life. Now what the hell am I actually going to wear?
You settle for a nice crop top (which shows just the slightest bit of cleavage) and a pair of high-waisted jeans that make your ass look beautiful. You ditch the fuzzy socks and glance in the mirror – and when you get a look at your makeup-free visage and your hair in its most natural state, you give up. No time to dally.
You head back into the kitchen just as Sam is plating the food.
“Sam, this smells amazing.” You set the kitchen table, complete with actual napkins (living on your own, you mostly just stick to paper towels) and two refilled glasses of red wine. You put a candle on the table just to be cheeky.
“Sit,” Sam says, setting the two plates of food down onto their respective place settings before taking a seat.
“Chef, what’ve you prepared for the judges panel this evening?” you joke.
He adopts a stuffy, posh voice when he replies, “Here we have a pan-seared steak, seasoned with faded-label spices that I found in your cupboard, accompanied by a red potato mash, as well as some fresh, in-season corn off the cob. I’ve paired the meal with a nice, cheap Cabernet Sauvignon, as per the suggestion of the clerk at the wine store.” You both laugh before Sam drops the act and continues, “That was me trying to make meat and potatoes sound as fancy as I could.”
“That’s all the chefs are really doing in those cooking competitions on TV.”
“Fair warning – I can cook a grand total of, like, five things. I mostly had no idea what I was doing.”
“I never would’ve noticed.” You cut off a piece of the steak and take a bite as Sam watches you with great anticipation. And it’s surprisingly good. You never would’ve guessed that a Monster Butcher like himself could also cook the game. “This is really good, for someone who had no idea what he was doing.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “And this corn is amazing.”
You make idle chatter over dinner, trying to look as dainty and attractive as possible while eating a very hearty, masculine meal. Chew with your mouth closed. Sip the wine; don’t gulp it. Don’t talk with your mouth full. Of course, idle chatter for the two of you is always about a hunt or that time one of you got shot or kidnapped by demons.
“Seriously? A vessel for Satan himself?”
“Yeah,” Sam admits. “Wasn’t pretty. Went to hell. Lost my soul. Came back. Found my grandfather. And my soul, eventually.”
“You have lived quite the cinematic life, Mr. Winchester.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, I know.” It sounds sad. Like he doesn’t want to live this way. No hunter really does. They’re always thrust into it – whether that be by family, by circumstance, or by a sense of moral obligation.
“I’m sure you’re tired of this question, but why don’t you get out?”
“I’ve tried that. It never ends well. The people closest to me get hurt. No, worse than hurt – they get dead, or worse.”
You don’t really want to know what’s worse than dead.
You take his hand and give him a soft smile, trying out this telepathy thing for yourself. After a moment, you let go, then clear the empty plates and drop them in the sink. Sam creeps up behind you unnoticed, then wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on the top of your head. The word ‘domestic’ rings through your head again.
You remember the music playing in the background and get an idea.
“Come with me,” you say, taking Sam’s hand and dragging him out into the living room.
Without needing an invitation, Sam wraps his arms back around you and sways with the music.
“We should do this more often,” you say, and he replies with a soft, somber smile. He probably can’t, you realize. Heroes don’t get to take time off.
You lean in, resting your forehead against his as you breathe each other’s air. You tease him with a nip to his bottom lip and he honest to goodness snarls before kissing you with the desperation of a man on death row. He starts roughly gripping at your clothes, and you reciprocate, dragging his shirt up and over his toned chest and discarding it onto the floor.
While you’re busy ogling him, he says, “You look really good in this, but I’m gonna have to take it off.” He smirks wickedly as he whips your shirt off, leaving you clad in your pretty bra, the sight of which causes Sam to raise his eyebrows.
“Sam,” you say, drawing his attention away from your breasts.
“Taking my jeans off is really not going to be sexy. They’re very tight. It’ll be about as seductive as skinning a potato.”
He smirks, sharing in your laughter as he quickly maneuvers you over to the couch. He sits you down, then sets to slowly removing your jeans. He unbuttons them, then pulls down the zipper with his teeth. He slips his hands under the denim fabric and starts guiding them down over your hips, kissing along your skin as it’s revealed to him.
I stand corrected.
Once he notices that you’re wearing matching underwear, he pauses in his ministrations and says, “Fuck, that is so hot. And really presumptuous of you…”
You shove his shoulder, and at the same time, he quickly pulls your jeans down the rest of the way – abandoning his slow, sensual movements in favor of ripping off the Band-Aid. Once your jeans have been tossed to the side, Sam sits back on his haunches and says, “I kind of just want to look at you.”
“That would be a rather disappointing end to what I anticipate will be a very fun night, wouldn’t you agree?” You’re not sure where this newfound confidence is coming from – just yesterday you were avoiding looking in the mirror while you got dressed. Maybe it’s coming from that fire burning in Sam’s eyes. You decide to stop questioning it.
“Before you remove the rest of my, um… clothing,” you start, crawling down to kneel in front of him on the floor. You kiss up the side of his neck and continue, “I would really like to suck your cock.”
The look on his face makes you think that he’s come in his pants. He grunts a startled sound as he squeezes his eyes shut and flares his nostrils. Your brain does a little victory dance.
Slowly, on shaky legs, Sam stands up, and you stay on your knees before him as you unbutton and remove his pants and underwear. You direct him to sit back on the couch as you begin teasing wet, open-mouthed kisses up from his knees to his thighs.
Without breaking eye contact, you do a theatrical job of licking up the length of his cock. You tongue the slit, spreading precome over the head as you flick your tongue over the sensitive skin. Sam clenches his jaw, breathing heavily in and out of his nose as he desperately tries to control his reactions.
“Nope – no holding back. I want to hear every single sound,” you say with a mischievous grin.
You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and smirk before finally sucking his length slowly into your mouth. He lets out a loud, deep groan as his eyes screw shut, his fingers moving instinctively to tangle themselves in your hair. You take him in as deeply as you can, taking care of whatever you can’t manage to fit in your mouth with your hand.
You start out sucking gently as you bob your head, fisting the base of his cock to set a steady rhythm. You wait until his panting grows more fevered before fondling his sack with your free hand and sucking harder up and down his length. He cries out, pulling you off of him before you can finish him off. He guides you up onto his lap, his hands still gripping your hair firmly, and he pulls your face to his. He presses your foreheads together, panting heavily and trying desperately to formulate words.
“Was that okay?” you ask.
He huffs a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “God, yeah. More than okay. I just don’t want to finish too early on.”
He guides your panties down over your thighs, and you toss them toward the ever-growing pile of clothing in the middle of your living room floor.
You smirk, taking him in hand again and stroking slowly. You straddle his hips and he focuses his attention on your movements, watching as you line him up at your entrance. You tease the tip of his cock with your wetness, sensing him quivering under your control.
“Is this what you want?” you ask. He nods enthusiastically. “Tell me.”
“God yes – please.”
You lean down to whisper in his ear, “You can be rough with me, Sammy. In fact, I highly encourage it.” He growls and you sit upright, stilling the movement of your hand. Slowly, you sink down onto his length, keeping eye contact as best as you can. “Oh, fuck,” you moan when Sam is fully sheathed in your heat. “I've been alone for far too long.”
“I know what you mean,” he says, his gaze fixed on the place where his length disappears into your body.
“You could've had anyone you wanted – christ, just look at you – and yet, you're here. With me.”
“I don't want just anyone,” he mutters, as his hands move up your sides to reach behind your back and unclasp your bra. He tosses the bra onto the aforementioned pile of discarded clothes, quickly moving back to cup your bare breasts.
“I just can't convince myself that this is actually happening.” You close your eyes and lift yourself up, only to slam back down onto him as you cry out in unison. He meets your thrusts in the steady rhythm that you set – a rhythm that indicates that you'd like to savor the experience and draw it out as long as possible. “Things like this don't happen to me.”
He pulls you down for a kiss and mouths at your jaw before mumbling in your ear, “Stop getting caught up in disbelief, telling yourself that you don't deserve it.” He runs his hands through your hair. “You'll miss out – trust me. Know when to turn off the brooding and the cynicism and just enjoy the moment while you can.” He caresses your breasts, lightly running his thumbs over your hardened nipples, making your whole body jerk.
You shiver and smile softly. “Thank you, Dumbledore.” You giggle as you lean down again to kiss him sweetly. It's funny how each kiss feels different, yet there are so few words in the English language that can describe how each and every one of them is unique. A particularly sharp thrust on Sam's part pulls you out of your thoughts, and you both grunt.
Sam grits, “I said, stop. You're thinking, and I'd rather have your – full – attention.” Sam punctuates the last two words with two more sharp thrusts, giving you no chance to recede back into your thoughts. He makes damn sure of it.
You plant your palms on his chest, leaning forward and unconsciously digging your nails into his skin. He groans, the roughness only serving to quicken his pace. Feeling bold, he moves his hands to grip the soft, fleshy globes of your ass, pulling you down harder to meet each thrust. You cry out something unintelligible, then dig your nails harder into his chest, dragging them down – deliberately now – to leave marks in his skin. Sam grunts and absently smacks your ass – just enough to make it sting, of course. You moan and bite down on your lip, hard. He's learning, slowly, each little thing that has the ability to set you off.
Like, for instance, he knows exactly the effect that his dirty talk has on you. He quickly flips you around so that you’re leaning against the back of the couch, facing away from him, just so that he can whisper into your ear as he goes straight back to pounding into you – this time, from behind.
“You like it rough, sweetheart? Is that it?”
You bite down harder on your lower lip, nearly breaking the skin, as you whimper and nod your head emphatically.
“I can’t hear you.”
You whine, “Yes, Sam.”
When he slaps your ass again, obscenities spill from your mouth in one gust of breath.
He grips your hips tighter as he continues slamming into you at this rough, fast pace, and you’re loving it. You can feel the tension building in your gut – you’re close. And Sam is too.
Among a flurry of gasps and whimpers and moans, Sam somehow articulates, “You gonna come for me, baby?”
Sam leans in, pressing his chest against your back as the rough thrusting becomes this equally hard, dirty grinding. He’s penetrating even deeper than he had before.
He feels your insides start to quiver, so he snakes one arm around you to rub your clit.
The position gives him the odd desire to bite your neck, and he does. He bites and sucks hard enough to leave saliva-coated indents. You stiffen and still at the pleasurable pain, letting out the softest, most wanton whimper, and the sound goes straight to Sam's cock.
The unexpected nip and the pressure on your clit sends you overboard. You pulse and tense in the midst of your orgasm, and with your muscles clenching so tightly around him, Sam can't hold back any longer. His rhythm loses its cadence and he follows you over the edge. With a few final impossibly deep thrusts, Sam stills, his hips grinding into you and holding that impossibly deep position as he comes. His mouth falls open and his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a shamelessly loud and guttural moan.
With a final shudder, you topple over together, and Sam arranges the two of you into some semblance of a cuddle position.
The two of you manage to make it to your bedroom, where Sam fucks you repeatedly into the wee hours of the morning. While being spooned by a large, sexy, heat-radiating hunk of a man, you can’t help falling asleep with a smile on your face.
He’s gone by the time that you wake up – no note, no surprise breakfast (that was a selfish wish in and of itself, but you were still hopeful). All you’re left with is a cold bed, dirty dishes in the sink, bruises on your hips, and a satisfying sort of ache – one which makes you glad that you don’t have to work today.
He texts you that afternoon.
1:03PM >> Sorry I had to bail so early. Got a text from Dean saying I had 6 hours to get home before he took off on a hunt without me.
1:07PM << It’s totally fine. Go save the world. Next time, I’ll make breakfast.
It pains you to send a text that sounds so indifferent and detached – of course you care that he left before saying goodbye, but he has more important things to worry about than your emotional attachment to him (which you shouldn’t be fostering in the first place).
Chapter 3: Options
A month passes before he drops in again – he gives you some warning this time, shooting you a text the day before saying that he can stay until Dean finishes up a hunt he’s working in Nebraska. He stays for four days – four blissful, glorious, almost domestic days. You call out sick from work to stay in with him and watch movies and talk. You spend the evenings tangled in your bedsheets, at the local diner, or over at the lake nearby, where the two of you sit and have a picnic under the stars.
It’s the life you dream of. And then, he takes off.
He calls two weeks later. It becomes a habit: a phone call every week or two, a visit every month or so.
Once when he drops in, three weeks since his last visit, he’s only there for about four hours – four hours of passionate, glorious, intimate love-making, before he has to leave again. When you see him off, there’s a heaviness in his eyes that tells you that he believes he’s walking to his own death. But you know from the Winchester legends that neither Sam nor Dean actually stay dead.
Regardless, you don’t hear from him for almost a month. After two weeks had passed, you’d given up hoping that he’d ever come back.
When he finally calls, he talks as if nothing has happened – as if no time has passed at all since his last visit. At a pause in the conversation, you break the pleasant trance.
“Sam, what happened? You haven’t called in ages.”
He sighs audibly on the other end of the line. You imagine that he’s doing that cute awkward thing where he rubs the back of his neck reflexively.
“I know, I’m sorry, I just—“
“No, Sam – I’m not upset or anything. I just need to know that you’re okay.”
He’s silent for six agonizingly long seconds.
“Yeah, um – well, I am, kind of. Not really. Things are never really okay here.”
And it’s in that moment that you realize what exactly you are to Sam: you’re his distraction from the harsh reality that he lives every day – but not so much so that he needs to hide his hunting life from you. To him, visiting you means a vacation from his world. At this realization, you feel slightly used – but more than anything, you feel sympathy. Understanding. You know exactly where he’s coming from.
“Tell me,” you say. “What’s going on? You don’t have to hide things from me.”
“I know. But I kind of want to. I don’t want to drag you into any of this.”
“I get it. I do. But maybe venting to someone else – someone besides your knucklehead brother or that oblivious angel you’ve told me so much about – will make you feel better.”
“Yeah, maybe. I guess.”
He tells you everything. Or, you imagine it’s everything. The way that the words spew out of him like vomit after a long night of heavy drinking makes you think that he needed to get all of the toxins (in his case, the unvoiced stress) out of his system. He tells you about his mom and Jack and the apocalypse world and Lucifer – his torturer – and the angels and everything else on his plate. You just listen. He vents for a good twenty-five minutes. He signals the end of his rant with a long, drawn-out exhale.
“Do you feel any better?”
“A bit, I think. I don’t know. I still have to find a way to save my family and another whole universe full of innocent bystanders.”
“I know, Sam.”
“I – I’m really sorry, but it might be a while before I get a chance to visit again.”
“I understand. I miss you, but there are bigger things to worry about right now. Promise you’ll let me know if there’s anything that I can help with?”
“Promise.” The word sounds half-hearted. “I was actually thinking of inviting you to move into the bunker with us before all of this shit started happening – we wouldn’t be a six-hour drive away from each other all of the time. That’d be nice. Maybe when it’s all over.”
“Yeah, maybe.” You don’t tell him that you’d hate to leave your house and job behind. You’d rather let him have this one hopeful, promising thought.
You hear Dean’s voice in the background. Sam says, “Hey, I gotta go. Dean’s back.”
“Yeah, okay. Look, I know you won’t have time, but try to shoot me a text whenever you can, just to let me know you’re alive.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” you say, reluctant to end the conversation. “Take care of yourself, Winchester. And tell Dean that I said hello.”
You don’t hear from him for several weeks. You get his text when you’re sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office.
12:27PM >> I’m alive, just so you know. How are you?
You think to yourself, well, I’m sick as a dog, but I can’t in good conscience add that to his list of things to worry about. You type out your reply and hit send just as you’re called back to see the doctor.
12:31PM << Everything’s good. I’m just glad to hear that you’re okay.
Most of what happens, from the time that you send that text to the moment that you collapse onto your bed at home, is a blur.
The doctor’s name was Dr. Patel, you think. She wasn’t your usual GP – because the appointment was so last-minute, they gave you whoever was on shift. Dr. Patel was short and quiet and had a kind face. You remember telling her that you were sent home sick from work that morning after throwing up onto an exam table, and that you needed a doctor’s note before you could return.
You’d told her about your stomach bug – about how you’ve been having trouble keeping anything down for almost a week, and how you’ve been sticking to the standard bland foods diet: bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast. You were getting headaches and feeling dizzy too, but you made sure that you were staying hydrated, because dehydration is really the only reason you’d go to the doctor for something as common as the stomach flu.
The resulting exchange is one of the only things you can recall clearly from the entirety of that three hour time period.
After a series of fruitless, mandatory questions, the doctor asked, “When was your last period?”
Dismissively, you replied, “I’m on the pill,” as if that answered her question.
“I see,” she said, placing her hands gently on her lap as she adopted the voice every patient fears hearing from their doctor. “Still, unless you take your contraceptive pill at the exact same moment every single day without fail, there’s still a four or five percent chance of conception.”
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
“Could it be the pill that’s making me feel sick?”
“Perhaps. When did you start taking this specific pill?”
“About six years ago.”
“It’s incredibly unlikely that you’d develop side effects now, after having taken it for this long.”
“Oh,” you said. The war raging in your head made it impossible to articulate anything else.
“So, can you tell me when your last period was?”
You hate that question. Trying to remember the exact date of the last time you needed a feminine hygiene product is like trying to remember what you had for breakfast three Mondays ago.
“N-not exactly. It was several weeks ago, I think.”
Dr. Patel just looked at you with her kind, warm eyes for several long seconds, as if she didn’t have a dozen other patients waiting for her in the waiting room.
She asked, “We can do a test for you here, if you’d like. I’ll need a urine sample.”
Reluctantly, you nodded your head.
And everything went blurry after that. You don’t even remember the drive home.
Now, as you lie on your bed staring vacantly up at the ceiling, your mind is racing while your body is limp.
“Pregnant,” she’d said.
Of course this would happen to me – of course this’d be among the four or five fucking percent of times that the pill doesn’t work.
You think about everything. You think about how often your life is threatened by supernatural forces. You think about what you said you’d name your first-born baby when you were seven years-old. You think about when you were sixteen and decided, after your closest living relative died in your arms, that you’d never have kids – that you’d never subject them to the grief that you’d felt in that very moment.
You think about the empty room in your house that’s currently being used for storage. You think about nine months’ worth of diet restrictions, then a lifetime of obligation. You think about the fact that you have no support system – that if you were to decide to terminate the pregnancy, you wouldn’t even have someone to drive you home from the clinic (there’s Heather – a fellow hunter and your closest friend – but she’s usually three states away and unreachable). You think about the hazards your job would pose to a pregnant woman. You think about having to explain hunting to a child.
You think about Sam. You think about calling him and getting his voicemail because he’s either dead, busy saving the world, or in danger. You think about not having the heart to tell him over text message. You think about how he’d be a great father. You think about keeping it from him – then, you think about him turning up out of the blue in two years to find that he has another whole human being to protect. You think about the conflicted expression you’d see on his face when you tell him. You think about the time Sam told you that all of the people he cares about, quote, “get dead – or worse.”
You feel something not unlike a bucket of cold water wash over you as you come back to reality. You finally register that you’re clutching a packet of papers folded in your hand as you sit up on your bed, feeling lightheaded. Among the papers, you find the doctor’s note that you requested for work, plus a generic print-out of the Options™ available to you during your… pregnancy. Your mind hesitates to even think the word ‘pregnant’ – it’s the first time you actually admit it to yourself. At the bottom of the page, handwritten in a doctor’s characteristic scrawl, are two phone numbers: one is for the OB that she recommends, and the other is for the nearest abortion clinic.
When you check your phone, you find an unread text from Sam from just over three hours ago.
12:38PM >> Good. I should be able to call soon, I hope. Miss you.
With great restraint, you manage to refrain from sending a reply.
That night, in the midst of your daze and existential panic, you do what you’re really only ever inclined to do in an emergency: you call your best friend Heather.
She doesn’t pick up, so you leave a scrambled, barely comprehensible voicemail.
She calls back about two minutes later, saying she’ll be over in an hour. She hangs up before you get a chance to ask how she could possibly be so close by.
Sure as hell, she turns up as promised. You compose yourself enough to open the door to let her in, but the moment the two of you make eye contact, you practically collapse into her arms.
“I-I… I think I really f-fucked u—oh, god.”
You feel both comforted and disturbed by how unfazed she is at the sight of your breakdown.
“It’s alright,” she coos, rubbing your back gently. “Come on, inside. Sit down. Tell me.”
The two of you settle onto your living room couch, Heather looking at you expectantly as you continue to snivel.
“So,” she begins seriously, “where’s the body?”
The question startles you enough that you actually stop wheezing for a moment.
“No, it’s – it’s not like that.”
“Then what the hell has you this worked up? You sound like you’ve just murdered someone.”
“No, I—okay, so… I’ve been secretly seeing – slash sleeping with – Sam Winchester,” you start.
“Wh—“ Stunned into silence. That’s a new one. It’s like you just told her that you’re secretly fuck buddies with Aidan Turner or something. “Jesus christ – when did that start?“
“Um, a few months ago, maybe?”
“And you never fucking told me?!” She whacks your upper arm. “What the hell, man?”
“I wanted to, but it’s probably just a friends-with-benefits kind of thing, I guess. I don’t know.”
“I’ve heard he’s been known to make women weep, but I’m guessing that’s not why you’re upset.”
Right. You’d almost forgotten.
“It’s not. I… oh fuck, Heather.” She just waits patiently for you to gather your nerve. “I–I’m pregnant.”
She’s silent for for too long; the only sound in the room is your heavy, erratic breathing and the errant sniffle as you try to get a hold of your rapidly-devolving mental state.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. It really is. It might not seem like it, but we can deal with this.”
A fresh flood of tears streams down your flushed face. “What the fuck am I gonna do?”
“How far along are you?”
“Eight or nine weeks, I think. Give or take.”
“There’s still time,” she says under her breath, probably more to herself than to you. “Have you told him?”
“No. I just found out. And he’s busy – he’s off saving the world. He can’t be worrying about me right now.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, my dear, but the second his DNA got involved, it became his problem too. It’s your body and all, but I think he has a right to know, at least.”
“I don’t want to distract him. And I can’t really. He’s probably stitching up a stab wound as we speak, and—“
“Do you know what you want to do yet?”
It’s a vague question, but you understand. She’s not asking what you want to do for breakfast.
You shake your head. “I’m scared, Heather. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’m really fucking scared.”
“You’d be an idiot if you weren’t scared,” she quips.
“I could screw this up so bad, Heather. I could ruin a life. And I can't live with that." After a long pause, you choke, "God, what if… what if it ends up being forced into the Life like I was?”
“Okay, so say you decide to get an abortion.” The taboo word feels piercing to your ears. “What happens months, or – or years from now, when you look back and wish you tried? What happens when you regret not taking this opportunity to change things? What then? Could you live with that?”
This serious tone is a stark contrast to her usual style. Usually, she backs you up like a big sister, and she does her best to make you laugh even when you feel like throwing yourself off of a bridge.
“I don't... I really don't know.”
“Then let me ask you this: would you be doing it because it's the easy way out?”
You can't manage a reply. All you can think to do is spew excuse after excuse after excuse, hoping that the accumulation of such petty matters will somehow justify your reasoning for wanting to back out.
“I can’t decide for you. This is your choice, and you know I’ll back you no matter what, but I think you know what’s right for you.” She sighs. “The life we live is a crazy, dangerous one, but look where you are: you’ve got a job and a stable home base, you’re not living out of your car like we did when we were eighteen, and you’ve got money and space and food and love to give. And you might not think so, but you’d make a good mom. You’ve kept me from doing stupid shit ever since we met – you practically raised me throughout my entire adult life.”
“You’re older than me.”
“Still,” she says. “Look, it doesn’t have to be the end for you. You know what I always say: you can take the girl from the hunt, but you can’t keep the emotionally-disturbed hunter from keeping salt by all accessible doors and windows.” You share a hearty laugh. Maybe I can do this. “No more hunting for you, in the meantime.”
“You say that as if I hunt often anyway. I don’t think I’ve actually taken a case for myself in months.”
She smiles softly at you. “Look, I’ll help in any way that I can, whatever you decide. But I really think that as soon as the Winchesters’ Big Bad of the Week is taken care of, you need to tell Sam.”
“Yeah. I want to – but he always initiates the conversations. I don’t really know how I’d go about telling him anyway.”
“I can’t help you there, kiddo,” she says, then pauses for a moment in contemplation. “What do you say I make us each a cup of chamomile tea and we watch something? You know – to get your mind off of things. I don’t think you’ve taken a single steady breath since I got here.
“I’d like that.”
Heather stays overnight and makes you breakfast the following morning, but she has to leave by noon.
“I don’t like leaving you here all alone,” she says as she prepares to leave. “You should give Garth or Bess a call. It’d be good for you to have some friends around right now.”
“Yeah, maybe. I go back to work tomorrow, so I’ll at least have that to distract me.”
She hesitates before asking, “Do you still think you want to keep it? You seemed relatively sure last night.”
“I might. I really don’t know.”
“It’s a big decision,” she says, placing a hand on your shoulder as she gives you a kiss on the cheek goodbye. “You found out yesterday. Take your time. But I want a text the moment you decide.”
“Sure. Bye, Heather. Thanks for being here.”
“I’d say always, but we both know what my life expectancy looks like.”
One evening, you find both of your cats glaring intently out of the front window. They’re not chittering or meowing like they do when they see a bird or a squirrel, so you investigate.
You peek outside and find a man standing beside your car in your driveway, looking for all the world like he’s concentrating on the world’s most difficult problem as he stares at your house. He looks disheveled in his unfastened tan trench coat, and you think to yourself, there’s no way that Garth sent this guy.
You step out onto your porch and the man looks startled, ducking behind your car to hide from your gaze.
“I saw you. The jig’s up.”
He reluctantly steps out from his hiding spot, looking apologetic as he very seriously replies, “I wasn’t ‘jigging.’ There’s no music. That would be preposterous.”
You honest to goodness laugh at this man, who very well could have ill-intentions, but you couldn’t care less. He looks thoroughly confused by your laughter.
“I don’t understand.” A look of realization washes over him a moment later and he remarks, “oh – that was an idiom, wasn’t it? Apologies. I’m not very adept with those.”
You pause for a moment to just look at him. “What do you want?” you ask.
“The, uh – the Winchesters sent me. I promised them that I’d check up on you every few days.”
“I am unsure,” he admits. “Sam made me swear. I don’t think he suspects that you’re in any immediate danger. It might just be sentiment.”
“And you just blindly follow their orders?”
“No. I defy them when necessary. They often let emotions cloud their judgement. But Sam was very adamant – it seemed very important to him.”
“You’re Castiel, right?” He nods. “Come in,” you say, opening your door. He looks very hesitant – like he was ordered not to interfere, and he’s overstepping. “If you’re going to check up on me, you can at least keep me company while you’re at it.”
Castiel looks like a fish out of water as he steps into your home.
You gesture towards the couch, “Sit. Would you like some tea?”
“No thank you. Besides, don’t hunters usually imbibe alcohol in these sorts of social situations?”
I can’t exactly tell him why I’m not drinking alcohol.
“Yeah, usually. I’m just not feeling it right now.”
“Oh, it’s because you’re pregnant, isn’t it?”
You freeze, the blood rapidly draining from your face. His words sound so casual, which only serves to twist the metaphorical knife in your abdomen.
“I, um…” he begins, realizing his misstep. “I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I?”
“H-How the fuck do you know that?”
He fold his hands and says, “I am an angel of the lord. I can sense the second life force.”
And in that moment, any lingering inclination to terminate the pregnancy disappears into thin air. It’s the notion that fundamentally, this is no longer just an idea – this is another whole “life force,” and the decision that you have to make is very real.
“I apologize. I did not mean to intrude.”
“It’s – it’s alright. You didn’t realize,” you say, smiling softly at him.
“So, I suppose that Sam—“ he freezes, his eyes widening as he sits up straight and flares his nostrils. Shit. “Oh. This is Sam’s child. And he doesn’t know.” It’s not a question. It doesn’t have to be.
“You can’t tell him, Castiel. Shit, please.”
“Why not? I would think he’d be happy to hear such news. He’s a very nurturing individual.”
“Maybe in another life, he’d be happy. But he’s a hunter. Hunters shouldn’t have kids. And he’s got so much on his plate right now.”
“When do you plan on telling him?”
“I don’t know. I thought I’d do it once the big fight is over – if he makes it out alive, that is.”
Castiel smiles sadly at you. “This is an unfortunate situation. I apologize.”
“He doesn’t have to find out, Cas. Not yet, at least. It’s for his safety.” He looks like he doesn’t entirely believe you. “You said it yourself – emotion will likely cloud Sam’s judgement. He needs to stay focused right now.”
“I suppose,” he says with a sigh. “I won’t tell him. That’s your right, not mine. But I still plan to check in every few days. I made a promise, after all.”
You smile. “Well, next time, you don’t have to hide in the bushes – you can just knock on the door. I don’t get visitors here very often, and I wouldn’t mind the company. Maybe you can give me updates on him every once in a while, too.”
“I’ll be seeing you, then.”
“Yeah. And Cas?”
“What is it?”
Chapter 4: Flutter
It’s been almost three whole months since you’ve last heard from Sam. You haven’t even gotten a single text message – if not for the updates you receive during Castiel’s frequent visits, you’d have assumed that he was dead by now.
Over the weeks, Cas has become a good friend to you. You always look forward to his visits – he usually only hangs out for a few minutes, but sometimes, he stays for a chat or a meal. It’s nice to be able to stay at least somewhat connected to Sam.
He’s also served as your sounding board and your counsel, at times. He’s there when you can’t figure out how to break the news to your boss, and when you start freaking out about not being ready, and when you struggle to pick out new furniture online. He meets Heather on the night that you find out the gender of your baby (spoiler alert: it’s a girl).
You’re exactly twenty-four weeks into your pregnancy when you get a FaceTime call from Sam.
Within the two brief seconds before you answer the call, your mind rushes through dozens of possibilities and eventualities. He’s out of the woods. The fight is over. He’s saying goodbye. He’s hurt. Oh god, why is he calling now, when I look like this?!
You started showing a couple of weeks ago – you’ll have to be mindful not to accidentally reveal your bump mid-call. That’d be bad. Your jolt of fear and excitement must’ve woken the baby as you feel the tell-tale fluttering in your belly.
You take a deep breath and hit answer.
He looks good. The room is bright, illuminating his wide grin and his shining eyes. From previous calls, you’re able to gather that he’s lying on his bed in the bunker. He has good news.
“Hey, stranger,” you say, unable to keep the tears from falling. Sam laughs and just looks at you for a moment, beaming.
“Don’t cry,” he says, his own lip quivering almost unnoticeably. “I’m okay. For now.”
You cover your mouth as you laugh, mostly out of relief. “You scared the living shit out of me, Sam!”
“I know – I’m sorry,” he says with a grimace. “I’m just really glad to see your face.”
The fluttering in your belly intensifies, and you wonder if she can hear his voice. Probably not, you realize. It’s probably just my excitement that’s getting her riled up. You rub your bump just out of view of the camera to soothe her.
“Is it over?” you ask.
He frowns. “No, it’s not. Not yet.” Your heart sinks and your elation begins to subside. “We’ve just narrowly escaped death at the hands of an archangel, and me and Dean brought a load of folks over from the other world to keep them safe until we can finish this fight, once and for all.”
You realize now why he’s calling. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see you again. Once again, he’s strolling confidently in the direction of his own death.
You can’t take it anymore. You don’t want him to die without knowing.
“Sam, I… I need to see you.”
“I know, sweetheart. I need to see you too.”
“No, I—“ Sad tears replace your joyful ones from minutes before. Asking him to come see me now would be selfish. “Just, come back to me in one piece, okay? I need you alive.”
Concern bleeds onto his face. “Are you okay?”
You sniffle and nod dismissively, saying, “Yeah, um – well, I’ll tell you everything once this is all over.” He gives you this look like it might never be over – like he doesn’t want to leave anything unresolved, because he might not make it out of this alive. “You come see me the moment you’re safe, okay?”
He nods. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly.
“Don’t make me cry again, Samuel. This call has been enough of an emotional rollercoaster already.”
“Well, I’m about to make it much worse,” he says with a smirk. “Look, I know we’ve known each other for less than a year, and I know we’re not mutually exclusive or anything – but I need you to know that I love you. I really do. And I needed to tell you, before I—well, I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”
“Oh, Sam,” you say, and sure as shit, more tears start to fall. You see one fall down Sam’s face, so you point at the screen and laugh, saying, “Yes! Vindication!”
The two of you laugh, and you just look at him for a long moment, wishing that you could tell him everything. If only he knew that what lies just beyond the reach of the camera would change his entire life.
“I love you too, Sam. It’s only you. It’s been you since that very first time.”
“If we get this right, I should be able to see you soon.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
He smiles sadly. “This is it. I can feel it.”
“I hope so, Sam.” You hear someone calling his name in the background, and the despondent look on his face is enough. “I get it,” you say. “It’s okay – go on. Save the world again. I’m not saying goodbye, though. I refuse.”
He smirks at your stubbornness. “Okay. Until next time, then?”
“Yeah. I love you, Sam.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. I really do.”
When you hang up the phone, you have to take a breather. Your heart is pounding and your belly is fluttering, and you just fall apart. You just cry for several long minutes.
The next time that Cas visits, three days after that fateful FaceTime call, he bears a mournful countenance. He stopped knocking a long time ago.
It’s not his usual time window – it’s still light outside when he arrives, which is highly irregular.
Your smile melts off of your face as you take in the look of defeat ingrained into his features.
“You’re scaring me, Cas.” He sighs heavily and shakes his head. “No,” you say, “I don’t want to hear it. Whatever it is.”
“I can’t… I’ve been left behind and someone is going to die, and there’s nothing that I can do to save them.”
You realize that he’s come more for his own benefit than for yours.
“What do you mean?” You sit him down on the couch and take both of his hands in your own as you await his news.
“Michael and Lucifer. They escaped the apocalypse world somehow, and Lucifer took Sam and Jack to some remote location, presumably to kill them in a poetic way, and Dean consented to being Michael’s vessel, and…”
“Isn’t Michael a bad guy?”
“That is an understatement.”
“So, you don’t know where they are? You can’t find them?”
“No. They’re warded or something. But I have a strong feeling that someone is dead, like I can feel it in my chest, and I don’t know what it means, and I can’t….” He huffs in frustration.
“Shh, slow down, Cas.” He has to close his eyes for a moment and steady his breathing. “Can I help at all?”
“Not in your state,” he remarks.
“Hey! Watch it, man,” you say, placing a hand over your belly. “I’m more than capable of kicking your ass – even in my state.”
He smirks, laughing something humorless and scared.
“I know, Cas.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to. This is how I’ve been feeling for months: helpless.”
“It’s very unpleasant.”
“Tell me about it.” He quirks an eyebrow at the phrase. “Rhetorical – nevermind. So, what are you gonna do?”
“I think I have to just wait for them at the bunker, in case they return with fatal injuries that need healing. Will you be okay here?”
“I know I keep saying this, but I should be the least of your worries, Cas.” He nods, getting up as he prepares to leave. “Oh, and Cas?”
“Could you possibly, um – when Sam gets back, can you make sure he comes to see me as soon as physically possible? Last time we spoke, I wasn’t really able to impress the urgency of the situation without giving too much away.”
You’re thankful that he doesn’t bother correcting you when you say ‘when Sam gets back.’
“Sure. I’ll do my best.”
“Stay safe, Cas. Godspeed.”
“I’m freaking the fuck out, Heather,” you say into the phone’s receiver.
“Oi, language, mommy,” she replies, her voice loud and static-y as if she has you on speaker phone.
“I’ve still got at least three months before I need to start watching my mouth,” you say. “Seriously, though. I’m really scared.”
“Look, I get it. But Cas said he’s doing what he can, right?”
“But, if things really are as bad as they seem, then you and the spawn need to keep your distance. Let the heroes do their thing.”
“But what if Sam gets killed?”
“Then he’ll get killed with or without your help.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“I know, but you know that I’m not gonna feed you lies just to placate you. The love of your life is in danger. It’s okay to be scared, sweetheart. Just think—“
You drown out her end of the phone call upon hearing a thundering banging coming from downstairs. “I gotta go, Heather.”
You race down the steps – as quickly as you can in your current condition – and find that the noise is coming from your front door.
On the other side, there’s a voice frantically calling your name.
It’s Sam’s voice.
Chapter 5: Family
Apologies for last chapter's cruel cliffhanger. So, without further ado – here you have it, my friends: the big reunion, complete with angst, fluff, and smut! There's still plenty of story left to go, so stay tuned – and be sure to leave a comment to let me know what you think!
You reach for the lock without thinking, but stop yourself before undoing the latch and opening the door.
I’m not ready to tell him. Fuck, I’m not ready! And it’s not like I can hide it from him now. Oh god, what do I do?
You leave the security chain on as you open the door to its maximum two inches, hiding your secret behind the safety of the door.
“Oh, thank god.” He smiles through his distress. “Are you okay? Cas said you’re hurt.”
Well, that’s one way to get him to come running.
“N-no. I’m okay,” you say meekly.
He pants, his chest going all huffy as he frowns at you. “Why aren’t you opening the door? What’s going on?”
“Is it over, Sam?”
He’s a bit thrown by the question. “Not exactly, but—“
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“What?” He’s incredibly confused. And rightfully so. “Why? Come on – open the door, sweetheart. I’ve missed you.”
You sigh, closing the door to remove the chain. Tears begin to fall before you even open the door.
And the moment you do, the world starts to move in slow motion.
You watch as he smiles this wide, childlike smile, which falters upon seeing your tear-stained cheeks. You watch as his gaze falls to take in your now gravid figure, and you flinch, waiting for the inevitable fallout.
You watch as his face contorts with confusion, then hurt, then calculation, then finally, realization. You watch as all color drains from his cheeks and he shifts where he stands, bunching his fists at his sides and clenching his jaw.
You open the door and usher him inside, closing the latch behind him as he begins pacing the living room. You take a seat on the couch to brace yourself for the coming onslaught.
In a low, gravelly tone, he asks, “What’s going on?”
Your reply comes out more resentful than you’d intended. “What does it look like?”
He halts mid-pace and huffs a bitter, almost sarcastic laugh.
You feel more tears start to well up. You stay silent, placing a hand defensively over your stomach and waiting for his reaction. You’re expecting anger or denial, mostly.
Tentatively, he asks, “Is it, um—“
“Of course, yeah.” You pause, keeping your eyes directed downward. You can’t possibly face his unbridled emotion right now.
“That’s – that’s not possible,” he mutters, swallowing thickly as he runs his fingers through his hair, looking down and shaking his head. “No, you said…”
“I know, I was on the pill. Apparently, it doesn’t always work, and—“
“But I FaceTimed you,” he grits, “and you were fine.”
Fine? As opposed to what – broken? Tarnished? Damaged?
“No, I—I just hid it from you, Sam.”
“God, why? Why didn’t you say something? You could’ve told me then, but…”
“No, I really couldn’t’ve. You had so much to worry about, and... and I didn’t want to add to what was already on your plate.”
He exhales a long, aggravated sigh, as if he’s struggling to hold back every counterargument in his arsenal. Quietly, he says, “You didn’t have the right to make that choice for me.”
He’s probably right. Fuck.
“I just… I didn’t want to – I don’t know – threaten what we had, I guess. I didn’t want to see you look disappointed or upset or whatever when I told you I was keeping it. I didn’t want you to think that I was stupid – I thought you’d be angry at me for putting another life in danger. God, please don’t be mad, Sam.”
“I—wait, mad? Why would I be mad?”
You finally look up at him and recognize the startled, flustered look on his stress-worn countenance.
You stutter, “B-because… well—“
“I mean, I’m a little annoyed that you didn’t feel the need to tell me, but—“ He freezes, realization dawning on him. “Hang on – I sent Cas to check on you, and…”
“Yeah, I know. I found him skulking around outside – he’s not very good at the whole ‘incognito’ thing – and I told him not to say anything. You’ve got enough to worry about as it is without adding this on top of it all,” you say, gesturing to your midsection.
“Wh—“ He pauses, shaking his head. “What could possibly be more important to me than this?”
You just give him this quizzical look, slowly rising to your feet (not nearly as gracefully as you’d like) and approaching him cautiously.
“So many things, Sam.” You place a hand on his cheek and smile sadly. “You save people every goddamn day. I’m just one person – I can’t be held responsible for putting one of history’s greatest monster hunters out of commission.” You stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, and he takes a long, unsteady breath. “We both know how this goes. You said it yourself: you’ve tried to get out of the Life, and it doesn’t end well. Hunting and babies don’t mix. I didn’t want to make you choose – not until the current war was over, at least.”
“It’s never really over, though – that’s the thing,” he says, taking your hand off of his cheek to grip it tightly. “Things are bad right now, sure – but they always are. Even when we take care of the Monster of the Week and things are less bad for a while, there’s always another crisis. It doesn’t end.”
“What are you trying to say, Sam?”
“I don’t really know,” he says, hesitantly wrapping an arm around you to rest against the small of your back. “I know what I said, but… but I’ve never had a reason like this to – to fight for.”
“You’re a hunter, Sam. You’ll always be one.”
“I know – and you’re right. But I… I want to figure this out with you. I need to,” he says, looking down at your belly as his hand hovers awkwardly.
You take his hand and place it exactly where it belongs, and the widest smile pulls at his cheeks as he laughs this uncomfortable but joyous laugh. You laugh too, letting the tears fall as you finally feel the gratifying closeness that you’ve been craving since the day you found out. You entwine your fingers with his, sandwiching his hand between your palm and your belly.
“God, this is really real, isn’t it?” he asks, his eyes wide as they stay fixed on your bump.
“It doesn’t feel like it, huh?” Suddenly, you feel a stirring in your belly followed by a sharp jab. “Ouch, kid,” you hiss, pressing a hand over the sore spot. “Those are my ribs, for god’s sake.” You direct your attention back to Sam and say, “I think she can hear you.”
“She?” His voice sounds small coming from a man of his size.
You nod with a smile. “Yeah – she. It’s a girl.”
He looks into your eyes for a long moment, his hand rubbing soft, comforting circles over your belly. Slowly, hesitantly, he inches toward you, giving you ample opportunity to back out before he kisses you soundly.
It’s hard and satisfying – it’s full of love and promise and something warm that you can’t quite place. You run the fingers of one hand through his hair, gripping at the back of his tee shirt with the other as you try to draw him in closer. You can tell that he’s hesitating – oh, right, you realize. I’m huge and breakable now.
You draw back quickly, slipping from his hold. “Shit, sorry,” you say, trying to gather yourself and silence your horny impulses. “That was probably… You don’t want that. Not with me – with this.”
“That’s – that’s not… Why wouldn’t I?”
“Look at me, Sam. I’m not exactly the same girl you left behind six months ago.” The words obviously sting. “I’m all… big and soft and fragile now. I wouldn’t want me either.”
“What? God, you have no idea.” He takes your hand and draws you close again. “That’s not it. Fuck, you’re beautiful. I’ve always thought so. Even—no, especially like this,” he says, planting a reassuring kiss on your lips. “I’ve missed you. I’ve been waiting to make love to you for so long—“
“Then do it, Sam.”
“I don’t…” He glances down at your belly nervously. “I don’t know how I can, or if we even should…”
You smirk. “It’s perfectly safe. You can’t exactly throw me around like you used to, but yeah. If you’re not comfortable with it, or if you’re repulsed by me, I totally understand…” You’re teasing now, but there’s a true feeling of self-doubt that lay beneath.
He smiles, taking you by the hand as he leads you up the stairs to your room – serving as a stark contrast to the number of times you’ve arrived there as a tangled ball of limbs and lips – where he slowly divests you both of your clothing, not batting an eye at the sight of your maternity jeans or your granny panties or your unshaven legs.
Once he has you naked, leaving himself clad only in his boxers, he directs you to sit up against the headboard as he begins kissing down your neck while his hands explore untouched expanses of skin. When his lips reach your breasts (which must now look alien to him, you realize), he looks up to take in your panting, rapidly-escalating state of arousal and anticipation and asks, “Can I touch? I know you must be sensitive.”
“Y-Yeah. Just be super gentle. It’s not gonna take a lot to get me going.”
He smiles and kisses you hard and deep, his touch feather-light as he cups your breasts in his hands. You moan obscenely as he draws his thumbs up and over your nipples ever-so-gently – just the soft touch goes straight to your core and you’re whining into Sam’s kisses.
You decide to reciprocate, moving your hand to grip Sam’s hard length through the fabric of his boxers. He grunts loudly, his mouth hanging open as you continue kissing and nipping at his stilled lips.
“I want to make you feel good,” he says. “What can I do?”
You smile contentedly, considering saying something dismissive about wanting whatever he wants to give, but decide against it. I’ve waited too long to play coy. This is going to be perfect.
“Your hands – I want your fingers, Sam. Fuck,” you say, drawing one of his hands away from your breast and moving it towards your core. This is probably an awkward angle for his arm, but he doesn’t protest. “I’ve been dreaming about them for months.”
He listens intently to your swift intake of breath as he slowly, gently inserts one finger. He watches your face for any signs of distress, finding only the pleasure creased into your furrowed, sweaty brow as you concentrate on the feeling.
“Another,” you say, much sooner than Sam would have anticipated. He hesitates, and you peek out of one eye to find him still staring at your face intently, now with a questioning look. “Please, Sam. I need more. I promise on all that is holy that I’m not going to break.”
He nods and inserts another finger, crooking the two up towards your sweet spot, making you see stars.
“Oh, fuck, Sam. Like that.” You throw your head back in ecstasy as you whine, dragging Sam’s face to yours to kiss him roughly. Your whimpers slowly begin increasing pitch, and you feel the beginning of your orgasm stirring inside. “Okay – okay, you can stop,” you say reluctantly, feeling bereft as Sam removes his fingers with a questioning look. “I’ve waited this long – I plan to come on your cock.”
“Mmm,” he groans. You crawl up onto your knees to divest him of his final remaining layer. He asks, “So, how are we supposed to do this?”
“However we’d like. I just can’t really be flat on my back, that’s all.” He looks conflicted and slightly lost, so you take it upon yourself to choose: you stack your pillows up at the head of your bed and lean back, effectively positioning yourself at an obtuse angle as you hold your arms out toward Sam.
He crawls up the bed, looking frightened yet turned on – much like a virgin would. He insinuates himself between your spread legs, resting his hands on the bed on either side of you as he asks, “Like this?”
He nods resolutely, leaning in and resting his forehead against yours as he notches the head of his cock at your entrance and takes a few deep breaths.
“I love you,” he says, before slowly pushing in.
It’s agonizingly slow. On one hand, his cock is taking its sweet time dragging itself over your most sensitive places – but on the other hand, you need more. You wrap your arms around him and grip his ass with both hands, trying to pull him against you (and into you) faster.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, and with the way his eyes are rolling back into his skull, you realize that he’s not being slow entirely for your sake – he’s also doing it to keep himself from coming. He ducks his head, looking down at where he’s still sinking into you. “How can you be so tight?”
You’d like to make a quip about the miraculous anatomy of a pregnant woman, but nothing funny comes to mind (ha, comes).
When he’s finally fully seated, he takes a moment to breathe before drawing back and pushing into you, setting a steady pace.
He places a reverent hand on your cheek, the other gripping the headboard tightly, as he maintains eye contact and continues thrusting.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Y-Yeah, but I need more. Can I be on top?”
He nods, pulling out of you and holding a hand out to help you up. It’s a nice gesture. You lay him back, shoving the extra pillows out of the way as you climb over him with very little grace. He holds his cock still for you as you find a good position and sink down onto him, quickly enough to make him inhale sharply in surprise.
“Hmm – much better,” you say, setting your own pace. Sam looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so you guide them to rest around your waist. You lean down and kiss him, hoping that he gets the message that he’s allowed to touch.
You keep your steady, satisfying pace for a while, letting the feelings wash over you. Slowly, you feel tension start to build in your core, cloaked with an unfamiliar but equally pleasurable sensation. Sam senses you nearing your peak when your movements begin to falter. He begins thrusting up into you, meeting you halfway, and the force of it causes you to whimper and whine breathless cries.
“Ah, oh god, Sam. I’m close. I’m—“
“That’s it – let it go, baby.”
Your own movements halt as you lose yourself to the sensations, your cries growing in volume as your orgasm crests. Sam grunts with the effort, trying to refrain from coming too.
It goes on for a long time. When the aftershocks have finally subsided, you find yourself panting and whimpering as you kneel astride Sam’s lap. He caresses your face with one hand, brushing your hair behind your ear to better see your expression as his other hand lightly rubs your hip and your belly. He waits patiently for you to return to yourself.
“You look like a goddess,” he says.
You blush. “Oh, stop it.”
“No, really. You’re fucking gorgeous.”
Before you can protest again, Sam pulls out of you and lays you down onto your side. His hands graze your skin with an unparalleled gentleness – it’s soft and sweet and kind and loving. He sidles up behind you, and you reach your hand up to pull his face to yours.
“I love you, Sam,” you say, and you kiss him deeply.
He smiles in response and trails kisses down your neck toward the back of your shoulder. He runs a hand over your hip and rests it on your stomach as he repositions himself behind you and slides his cock into you again.
The hand resting on your belly trails down to your thigh, where he pulls your leg up so that your foot is planted on the bed, allowing him to push in deeper. Both of you groan at the new angle, and Sam begins thrusting, his hand now moving back toward your sex so that his fingers can toy lazily with your clit.
You grunt with his every thrust, letting yourself feel him hit the deepest, most satisfying places inside you. You reach back to run your fingers through Sam’s hair as he kisses and nips at the back of your shoulder. There’s no urgency; this isn’t a means to an end – this is about closeness.
His thrusts are set at an indulgent, sensual grind, and within minutes, he has you on the edge again. His own movements speed up just the slightest bit, and the hot breath on the back of your neck signals that he’s getting close.
“I’m almost there, baby,” he grunts through gritted teeth. “God, you feel so good.”
“Come inside me, Sam.”
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, his fingers on your clit speeding up as your whimpers get louder and louder.
“Uhn… I love you, Sam, f—ah, o-oh god…”
“I love you too, baby,” he says, hissing as he feels you clench around him with your own orgasm. You go nearly silent with ecstasy, your mouth hanging agape and your toes curling as you grip the sheets.
That tightness is what throws Sam over the edge. He groans a loud ‘huhhhhhhn’ sound, attempting to silence it by latching his mouth onto your neck. The aftershocks of his climax seem more like their own separate earthquakes than a residual effect.
Once he’s come down from his high, he pulls out of you slowly and sinks back down onto his side. As much as you’d love to spoon right now, you need to see his face – so, with some difficulty, you roll over to face him. Through his breathless bliss, you smile at each other and share a chaste kiss.
“Was that okay?” you ask.
And he just laughs at you.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“I was afraid you’d be too, you know, uncomfortable or whatever.” He just shoots you this look that says, ‘seriously?’ “That wasn’t weird for you?”
“I mean, not gonna lie: it was, at first. It took a second for me to adjust, but once I realized that it was just you – granted, with a little extra… stuff going on – I knew what to do. This is still…” he says, trailing off as he places a hand gently onto your round belly, “…this is definitely still strange, and it’ll take some getting used to. I didn’t get to adjust to this gradually like you did,” he says with a laugh.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s still weird to me. Not just looking like this – which is so strange – but also, I can’t really picture myself as a parent.”
“I’ve always wanted to be,” he confesses. “I just never thought I’d get that chance.”
You pause, processing his response and trying to decide how to word your next question.
“What are we gonna do, Sam?”
Without a moment of thought, he replies, “Move into the bunker. It’s safe there – safer than it is here. You can bring Hera and Calypso.”
“And Dean would allow that?”
“Not a chance,” he replies. “But he’ll have to get over it. And he will, once he finds out that he’s gonna be an uncle. You should see him with kids – he’s surprisingly great with them.”
“I don’t know, Sam. I have a job here.” You try to find other excuses to stay, but it’s not like you have much tying you down. “My books are here.”
“I’m not saying that you need to get rid of this place. It’s your home, after all. But if you come with me, we can be together. There’s bound to be a wildlife refuge for you to work at near the bunker, if you decide that you want to go back to work. There’d be a built-in babysitter and a whole library full of exclusive Men of Letters books that you’ve never read before. You could be our live-in consulting researcher.” He pauses to brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “And you’d be living with family.”
“You’d really want that? To be a family?”
He smirks. “We’re already family, sweetheart,” he says, rubbing your belly.
“But you’d seriously want to do the whole parenting thing with me? Diapers and sleepless nights and all?”
“Yeah, I would. All of it.”
“Even now, with everything that’s going on?”
“Well, it’s not like we can reschedule.”
You laugh, and he kisses you on the forehead, scooting down the bed so that his face is level with your belly.
“Hey, kiddo,” he begins, his voice soft as he places a reverent hand on your bump. “I never thought I’d be doing this, but yeah – I’m your…” He has to pause to clear his throat; it sounds like he’s going to cry. “I’m your dad.” A tear rolls shamelessly down your own cheek, and you run your fingers through his hair soothingly as he continues. “And I know we haven’t gotten a chance to hang out much yet, but I’m gonna change that. Mommy’s not gonna be alone anymore,” he says, directing his words more so at you than at your child.
Suddenly, you feel the baby start to kick.
“Can you feel that?” you ask. He looks so sad when he shakes his head. “Here,” you say, taking his hands to place them over the spot where she just kicked. “Give her a second,” you say.
You know that Sam feels it by the look of sheer awe on his face.
He gasps. “Was that…?”
“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “I think she likes your voice.”
His eyes are wide and full of wonder. He continues speaking to your belly, saying, “I love you and your beautiful mommy so, so, so much, and I’m gonna take such good care of you – of both of you.” He kisses your belly where he felt her kick, and he lingers there for a moment to bask in the feeling. When he crawls back up the bed to kiss you, you take in the heartwarming sight of him with an unbreakable smile and red, watery eyes.
“Am I dreaming?” you ask, like an idiot.
And he just laughs, sniffling back his happy tears, “I thought maybe I died and went to Heaven.” You’re both feeling giddy – perhaps because of the promise of family. He asks, “Have you decided on a name yet?”
“Not really. I was hoping that she could be a Winchester.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”