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The longer Dean stares, the bigger he looks. He’s huge. There’s just no way around it. He’s got his shirt tucked up under his armpits, pants tugged below the girth of his belly, all the lights on, and he’s standing in front of his closet door mirror, glaring down his baby belly.
He’s barely 7 months, how is this happening. His eyes prickle and the urge to start crying is strong but he takes painfully deep breaths in order to prevent it.
He pokes at his belly button. It’s popped out and protruding, it shows through all of his shirts. Cas thinks it’s cute, but it’s just another thing Dean feels self-conscious about. Seriously, how is he so big already? He’s bigger than all those other frigging omega dads and moms at that stupid support group Cas made him go to. (Dean is never going to one of those again. Wild horses couldn’t drag him there. Never. Again.)
Letting out a shaky breath that’s probably a little more a precursor to tears than he’d like to admit, Dean turns away from the mirror. No use staring and fretting any more than he already has, besides his back is starting to ache. Yet another wonderful side effect of pregnancy. Backaches and sore feet and even his butt hurts too sometimes.
He’s just ready for this to be over already, and he’s still got two months to go.
Sometimes he just feels like he’s not even himself anymore. He can barely drive his car because of how achy and sore he gets from sitting down for long periods of time. If that’s not the problem he’s gotta pee every 5-10 minutes, and he absolutely hates going out in the omega maternity clothing. He can’t fit any of his pants or shirts anymore, so he spends most of his days in sweat pants and shirts (if he’s not having a heat flash, in which case he walks around in his underwear,) and he just misses being himself, okay?
Like leather jacket, car fixing, Impala driving, rock music loving Dean Winchester. He loves his baby so much... and being pregnant most of the time, just… not today.
Fuck, great, now he’s crying like a girl.
He can feel the pup kicking at his stomach from the inside. Almost like she wants him to stop bitching and moaning about her, but all it serves is to remind Dean of how terribly selfish he’s being right now.
This is probably why Castiel’s been begging him to talk to a ‘professional’ about his moods. But… Dean’s kind of always been this way. Sometimes he just gets really low and everything sucks and he’s near tears but can’t cry and he feels really, really lonely, even when he’s not technically alone.
Sometimes it lasts for a day, sometimes for a week, he isn’t always sure what triggers it, but after it’s over and he’s back to normal he just doesn’t see the point of talking to anyone about it. What can a shrink do to help anyway? Tell him he’s irrational? Yeah, he knows that. No need to pay money for a second opinion, thanks.
Dean winces and rubs a hand over his belly when he feels another kick. “Alright, alright. Stop kicking Daddy, sweetheart.” Dean wipes at his eyes and hefts himself upwards into a sitting position. He checks his watch, Cas should be home soon, which means Dean should probably get dinner ready or something.
He waddles to the kitchen with a hand on his lower back, trying to give his poor spine whatever support he can. Everything takes so much effort these days, especially bending over. Checking the bottom shelves of the fridge is an actual chore, but he does it anyway because that’s where the sandwich stuff is and he’s got a sudden hankering for salami.
Maybe he should just make sandwiches for dinner. He doesn’t particularly feel like making a mess of the kitchen he spent the entire morning scrubbing.
He contemplates his sandwich ingredients for a full 5 minutes before it’s all just too much and he scoops everything up, dumping it in the refrigerator. Eating just isn’t worth the effort right now, he’s too restless and uncomfortable, and he’d really rather go back to bed, maybe try to get some sleep.
Crawling back into their bed with Castiel’s pillow pressed to his chest makes him feel marginally better, and, with fierce determination, Dean manages to drift into a fitful nap.
He wakes to gentle shaking and Castiel’s hoarse voice whispering his name. Dean lets out a groan to tell him he’s awake, but doesn’t bother to move or open his eyes. What’s the point in getting out of bed really?
“Dean, it’s passed 7pm, did you have dinner?” Cas’ lips are right near his ear, his hand on Dean’s belly, rubbing softly, “Hey, wake up.” He touches a kiss to the side of Dean’s head, his ear, his cheek.
“Nooooo,” Dean moans pathetically, flapping a hand in Castiel’s general direction. He pats around until he finds the edge of their duvet, yanking it up and over his head. “M’not hungry.”
He is though. He can feel the stabbing pains and gas bubbles. This feeling is not foreign to him. In fact it’s almost comforting. And how fucking messed up is that?
Even closed his eyes begin to prickle, but there aren’t any tears. He’s past that point.
“Baby?”
Castiel sounds so forlorn. Dean hates himself just a little more for the pain he causes his husband whenever he gets like this. He pulls the blanket down enough to expose his head, “I can’t today, Cas, just… leave me alone for a while, okay?”
Dean doesn’t even want to be alone. And yet, somehow he can’t bear to be around anyone right now. He absolutely hates this part of feeling low the most.
Castiel’s eyes go wide and sad, “Dean, honey, I don’t think I should leave you alone right now,” he says, sweet as ever, caging Dean in beneath him, balancing above him on his elbows. He strokes his fingers through the hair above Dean’s ear. “Come eat dinner with me,” he coaxes, dipping his head to press a kiss to Dean’s lips. Just a soft touch, pulling away before Dean can respond.
Inexplicably, a lump blocks Dean’s throat, and it’s all he can do to keep his voice from breaking when he tries to talk. “I’m not hungry.” Lies.
Not one to be easily deterred, Cas keeps stroking and lightly kissing, “I hear you, but I want you to come have something to eat anyway, okay? Just a little bit, then we can have a bath before we go back to bed.”
Dean can’t bear to keep eye contact anymore. He looks away, concentrates on counting the threads sewn into the leather of his husband’s watch. “Cas, just- Not now okay?” Part of him wants Cas to persevere, to stay here with him and coax him from the bed, to force him into the light and out of this funk, but a deeper, darker part wants Cas to leave him be. To let him lie here and wallow and sink and hurt.
Shaking his head, Castiel lifts up off of Dean, pulling away the duvet entirely.
“What the hell?” Dean snaps, he tries to grab hold of it and pull it back up, but Cas isn’t having any of it.
He yanks it down and out of reach, standing at the foot of the bed, Cas fixes Dean with eyes full of determination. “Dean, I know you’re hurting, but you need to eat. Our little girl needs you to keep her healthy and alive which means that you have to take care of yourself. Come have dinner.”
He could yell. Start an argument with Cas, lock himself in the bathroom, cry himself to sleep in the bathtub, that’s how this goes sometimes, depending on how low he’s feeling. Today however he just screws his eyes shut and covers them with a hand, swallowing against the lump in his throat, breaths hitching and shaky.
Dean hates feeling this way. He’s spiraling out of control and completely losing it. Worst of all, he’s forcing Castiel to go through this again.
The bed dips beside Dean’s hips, hands smooth up his shoulders, pulling and lifting him into a sitting position. Castiel guides Dean’s head to his shoulder, arms circling around him. Dean scents his neck for comfort.
“Shhh,” Cas whispers into his hair, “You’re okay. It’s okay.” He rocks a little from side to side, cradling Dean in his arms.
It’s such an alpha thing to do that Dean can’t help but relax. He feels safe and warm and not miserable for the first time today.
“What brought this on, baby?” Cas asks, mouth against the skin of Dean’s neck, voice hushed.
Dean shakes his head.
Cas smoothes a hand down his back, “Okay, you’re okay. Let’s go to the kitchen, I’ll make you something to eat and we’ll talk about it, okay?”
Sniffling, Dean nods. He hasn’t shed very many tears, it’s not about crying when he gets like this. It’s about the gaping, aching hole in his chest, the weight on his heart. It hurts to be this way.
Castiel pulls away and stands, bringing Dean with him. He holds Dean’s hand on the way to the kitchen, sits him down at the breakfast bar, kisses his forehead.
They’re quiet outside of the sounds Cas makes while cooking eggs.
Dean folds his arms on the countertop and rests his chin atop them, watching as Castiel makes enough eggs for the both of them.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally.
Cas pauses in the act of scraping eggs onto a plate, “Dean-”
Dean cuts him off with a shake of his head. “I don’t know why I get like this,” he says, voice barely louder than a whisper. “But uh, you shouldn’t have to keep putting up with it.”
The pan Cas was holding drops onto the stove top with a clang, “Dean, stop it. I’m not ‘putting up’ with anything. I love you. All of you, I just wish you had an easier time loving yourself.”
This is a tired argument. They’ve been over this so many times.
“I know you do, but…” Dean clears his throat, “You were right. I should go see someone. Maybe. I want to try and, uhm, get better.” He keeps his gaze on his fingers, picks at his cuticles. “I uh, I love you too.” He chances a glance up at Castiel.
There are tears in his eyes, and it makes them bluer than ever, but Cas is obviously trying to reign in an overdramatic response because he only nods his head a few times before going back to serving their eggs.
Later on that night, Dean lies awake, fingers interlaced with Castiel’s over their pup. Cas’ thumb is stroking the skin around Dean’s belly button gently, and he presses a kiss to the side of Dean’s head, breathing in the scent of sweet and pregnant, with a quiet, “Thank you.” before he falls asleep.
And Dean knows whatever he endures in therapy will be worth it.