Work Text:
Sam stared at the red digits on his watch. Another minute passed and 5:34 am was now written in glaring lines, almost like a taunt.
Sam sighed and slowly sat up. He had to go to the bathroom anyway. The kids seemed to mistake his bladder for a trampoline.
He got out of bed quietly so as not to wake Dean. For days Dean had been disappearing into one of the back rooms of the bunker. When Sam looked for him, Dean would just say, "let me surprise you," and be gone again.
Slowly, Sam walked across the cold floor of the bunker. He was always too warm anyway, and anything that somewhat cooled his heated body was a relief.
The hallway lights shone day and night, like in a hospital. Or a psychiatric ward. Sam didn't understand why he suddenly thought of this comparison, but there were a lot of things he didn't understand at the moment. For example, why he could not be happy.
In a few weeks, a miracle would happen, he would become a father. And not only that, Dean was at his side. Wasn't he supposed to wake up every day with a smile? Instead, he was tired, his body ached, and something burned deep inside him. But he couldn't put it into words. Something was wrong, but what?
The bathroom he was currently using had a roomy shower, so he didn't have to heave his ponderous body anywhere. Sam flicked on the bathroom's bright lights. The mirror revealed in the artificial light what his body was already telling him. He looked exhausted. Pale, bags under his eyes, and his face was sunken.
Sam knew he had to eat more, if only for the sake of the puppies. But lately everything seemed to taste bland, or too salty. Dean was like he always was when Sam wasn't feeling well. He cooked, getting whatever Sam might like. Sam, we can open a salad bar soon with all the green stuff I'm hauling in.
And Sam was grateful, really grateful. He just couldn't show it. He could only hope that Dean sensed what he was feeling through their bond, as he was powerless to put it into words.
He turned the water on as cold as he could stand it, letting it run through his hair, feeling the goosebumps. He looked down at his naked body. His belly was so dominantly bulging. Sometimes it shook him because it felt so foreign. Dean couldn't get enough of stroking and rubbing his belly, whispering to the little ones. He might croon a Zeppelin song, or tell them to promise not to become vegetarians.
But Dean could get up and leave after that, or hide in that stupid room, but Sam is still there, still tired, and still roly-poly. Sam turned the water up a little higher, pressed his hands against the tiles, and felt the water running down his back.
Lately, Sam has been doing almost nothing but reading. It's the only thing that hasn't changed. He read about parenting, about births, read about wolf reserves and pack behavior. He wanted to be a good father. That has always been his goal. When I grow up I'm going to be a Dad, and I'm going to do everything differently. Those were his frequent thoughts as a kid, when he pulled the covers over his head in a strange motel.
He would often read for hours until Dean energetically intervened and physically removed him from the library.
"Sam, you really still don't know when enough is enough!" Dean scolded.
"Sorry I just want the best."
"You've said the same thing before. Remember? When you lectured me about which lube was the best, the most biodegradable, and the least irritating to the skin."
"And what was so wrong with that?"
"That it was in the middle of sex? Our first time? And I almost peed my pants in fear, and then you started babbling about eco-lubricant."
"You were nervous?"
"You bet I was."
"But you had enough experience..."
"Not with you, Sammy. You were special."
And now? Was he special? What could he offer his children? Showing them how to decapitate a vampire? How to cheat at billiards? Or how to paint a sigil that hopefully drives away all of the dangers of this world? Is that all he could do?
Sam turned off the water and walked heavily over to the towel rack. They didn't smell of air-dried laundry like the Kramers', where Sam, when he was ten, played with Alec Kramer day in and day out for four weeks. Everything in the house smelled so good. The clothes, the kitchen, even the living room smelled so clean. And not like mothballs and musty.
With the towel around his chest, Sam trotted back into the bedroom, only to find the bed empty.
The clock showed 6:20. Way too early for Dean, who probably just had to muster everything not to be grumpy, but willing to make Sam a smoothie.
If Sam had known beforehand that it would just take triplets to teach Dean about healthy eating....
Sam grabbed fresh underwear from the dresser and a pair of sweatpants.
Carefully, he sat down on the bed and began to get dressed. Guilt crept up inside him again. Should he take more pressure off Dean? Praise him more? Why did his throat constrict every time he thought about having a conversation with his brother?
Dean did everything for him, but Sam felt like a black hole that just sucked everything in and never gave anything back.
He pulled on a loose dark blue sweater and headed for the kitchen. The buzz of the blender could be heard. Metallica was playing quietly in the background. When Dean noticed him, Sam forced himself to smile.
"Hey princess, how are you feeling?"
Like I'm drowning in quicksand, Sam thought.
"Good," he said.
Sam took his smoothie and thanked Dean. As he drank, he felt Dean's gaze on him. Sam wanted to say something, just anything to lighten the mood, but his mind went blank. Dean continued to stare at him, and Sam couldn't take it anymore and looked back.
But in Dean's eyes there was no anger, no rejection. Only concern shimmered in his green gaze and Sam's guilt grew stronger. What was he supposed to do? He was trying to be cheerful, but he just couldn't.
"Sammy?" Dean's soft voice hit him like a bolt of lightning.
"Sorry," replied Sam, and it stood for so much he felt guilty for.
Dean rubbed his hands together nervously.
"I'd like to show you something."
He extended his hand to Sam and he took it. Without his smoothie, but with a grumble in the pit of his stomach, Sam walked with Dean to the room that Dean seemed to be purposely hiding from him. Probably tired of constantly enduring Sam's melancholy mood. Dean stopped in front of the door.
"I..." he stammered. The tips of his ears were red. Dean looked nervous, yet excited. "If you don't like it, say so, but I felt I had to do something."
Then Dean opened the door and Sam stepped into the room. It almost resembled a workshop. On the table were saws, files, paint cans, and brushes. It smelled of paint and wood.
When did Dean have time to get all this, and why didn't Sam notice? Because you're not aware of anything around you, whispered a nasty voice inside him.
Then Sam saw what Dean had built here in the last few days. A baby crib. Dark stone oak wood radiated strength and robustness.
"You can divide it into three parts, look." Pride swelled in Dean’s voice as he demonstrated the baby crib's features. "That way they can each sleep by themselves or romp together. I don't know how big the pups will be at first, but this way we can adjust the size."
Dean looked hopefully at Sam, who just gazed spellbound at Dean's work while Dean illustrated how to break down the crib into its various elements. Then his eyes fell on something silver. Sam moved closer to the crib, running his finger over the carved engravings. Each part of the crib was covered with small silver sigils. Carved into the wood were the symbols for defensive seals, protector runes, and spells.
"I... hope they are all right. I know you're better at this than I am, but I think I chose all of them correctly."
Sam just stared at the crib. He should say something, shouldn't he? How beautiful the crib was. How much trouble Dean must have gone to. How perfect it was. How perfect Dean was.
"Sam, please don't cry."
Sam only now noticed the hot tears sliding down his cheeks. He could hear the desperation in Dean's voice.
"Please talk to me. I don't know how to help you. Please, you don't have to take this all on yourself."
And Sam would have loved to say how weak he felt, that he wasn't burdening himself with anything, but just being a burden to Dean. But the words wouldn't come out of his throat.
"Sammy, please, I can tell that you have not been happy for days. And I believe you’re tired, that you feel powerless, but you don't know how strong you are. How much I admire what you do every day. If you don't like the crib, then..."
"I want to get out of here." Sam was startled at his own voice. He glanced at Dean, stopped stroking the wood, and dropped his arms beside his body.
"I don't want to live here anymore." Sam felt like he could breathe for the first time in weeks. Dean looked at him in confusion, but the dam was broken and the words bubbled out of Sam.
"I want our kids to live the way they're supposed to. As wolves and not as prisoners in concrete and artificial light. I want them to be among their own kind, not to feel like freaks who are different. I want to learn how to give them what they need. I want them to have a home that is warm and bright and smells like BBQ and popcorn. I want to move into the Turner pack with Nicole and Dave and I want us to be part of the pack. You, me, and the kids."
When there were no more words in him, Sam smiled. A real, honest smile.
Dean averted his gaze, to the crib, to the room, then back to Sam. Noticed the smile on his brother's face.
Dean smiled back.
"Okay, Sammy."
Three days later, the Winchester brothers closed the doors of the bunker and climbed into the Impala with the green cooler full of smoothies, a baby crib, and a trailer full of luggage and memories.
Destination: Lutsen, Minnesota. The Turner Pack .