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Sam had wildly exciting plans for New Year's Day: inventory.
Two baby showers and Christmas, as well as their own shopping, had left them with boxes stacked against the wall two deep, and it was starting to block the easy path to the kitchen. Since Hannah needed that easy path right now, he planned to spend the day figuring out what they had, moving everything into the guest room, making a list of what they still needed, and getting the thank-you notes started. The car seats could stay in their boxes by the door until they were needed—just like Hannah didn't want to call the baby by name until she got here, he didn't want to tempt Fate with car seats—and, if he was very lucky, this afternoon he could get started on assembling the crib, and maybe the changing table.
And then I can go buy another damn dresser just for all these fucking blankets. Clothes and diapers, he could understand, but how many blankets could a baby need? Even allowing for accidents? The stack was a foot high already. And that wasn't counting the two handmade quilts, three hand-knitted blankets, and the linens for the crib. They could let Pixie have half of these and the surprise still wouldn't want for warmth.
Most of these were brand new, too. That made sense for the handmade things, but otherwise.... You'd think in a family this size, somebody would have some hand-me-downs. Maybe they'd already been handed down, to cousins farther out on the family tree? Compared to her sisters, Hannah was getting a late start.
He was pondering lunch when the phone rang. Hannah, coming out of the bathroom—again—got to it first, so he went back to his lists.
Did they really need a rocking chair? Everybody else had one, even Marcy—but he knew for a fact that Marcy's was an heirloom, inherited from her namesake great-grandmother. Third and Anne's gift hadn't gotten here yet; what if it was a rocking chair? Did people actually give furniture without asking?
Sam rubbed his temples, wishing he had somebody he could take these questions to. Hannah's reactions were more unpredictable than usual, and the family— Most of them were still pretty much strangers to him. Sure, the in-laws volunteered a lot of information, but for the embarrassment or horror factor, not as actual useful advice. Dean—
Dean had never dealt with the madness that surrounded a birth. Dean and Marcy never dealt with children younger than two, and that meant they had no day-to-day experience with infants—and no advice to give him.
"No, Mama, we're not coming over."
Sam glanced up at Hannah. As always on holidays, there was a family dinner at Anne's today, but neither one of them felt like going. Hannah especially, because the traditional foods of a Southern New Year—greens and black-eyed peas—were not exactly her favorites, and that was when she wasn't almost full term and still tired from the second baby shower yesterday.
And the expression she had right now— That did not bode well.
"Because the mere thought of greens is making me—" She stopped, and swallowed hard.
Really, the hurling was supposed to go away.
In a movement as practiced as anything from his hunting days, Sam leapt up, snatched the trash can by the door, jumped over Pixie, and landed with the trash can held before his wife in the optimal position. She frantically waved him off. "I don't like greens when I'm not knocked up!" she shouted into the phone.
Sam sighed, and took the phone away from her. "Anne, we're not coming for dinner, okay? If you feel like you need to see us, you can come over. Don't bring greens. Bye."
He hung up and tossed the phone back at Hannah, who was staring at him wide-eyed, and maybe a little bit reverently. "She is going to kill you," Hannah said.
"Concern for my wife trumps politeness to my mother-in-law," he said, giving her a quick kiss, "and besides, she's not the one who has to clean it up."
"You're such a romantic."
"And you love me for it." He set down the trash can and went over to the counter. "Blue or green?"
Hannah lowered herself onto the couch. "Don't even say green right now."
There were piles of leftovers from the baby shower; he wasn't sure if the crowd had been larger than the first or if they'd just brought more food, but he and Hannah wouldn't have to cook for at least two more days. He snagged a cake square out of the box, being sure to get one with blue icing decorations, and took it over to her. "Here." Sugary foods tended to settle her stomach. It was weird, but he was not about to look that gift horse in the mouth. He just wished they'd known about it six months ago, back when she was still swearing that Reynolds women didn't get morning sickness.
She practically inhaled it—then leaned back, looking much less green around the gills. "Better," she said, and glared at her belly. "You're not supposed to have a sweet tooth yet, you spoiled brat."
"It could be worse. She could be craving—"
"Don't even say it, Winchester!"
He just grinned, and she hit him with a pillow. "So, you want the bad news?"
"It gets worse?"
He headed back towards the kitchen table, which had been serving as his desk all morning. Pixie had settled in on top of a stack of baby clothes; he picked her up and deposited her on the floor, to a disgruntled meow. "After a brief inventory—"
Hannah snorted. "Brief? Not with that stack of crap."
"No bottles. I think we have three of everything except bottles. We even have two baby monitors." He picked up those two boxes and set them in a new pile, away from use now and use later and wash first and return. He'd return one after he got online and did some comparing. "Not even one of those little filling kits for a breast pump."
"Courtney," she growled.
"Probably." Sam was still trying to figure out how to tackle that subject without getting kicked out again—he wasn't a total idiot—but a busybody sister could get away with a lot more than a concerned husband. He was frankly surprised there wasn't a breast pump somewhere in all this, despite Hannah's repeated—and loud—insistence that no force on Earth was going to make her breastfeed. Courtney was a Reynolds, too.
Or—just as likely—they'd been afraid that Hannah's party manners wouldn't hold up if she'd torn open gift wrap and found one. Pregnancy wouldn't stop her from throwing things, and there had been fragile old people present.
"That's why Mama's so keen on us being at dinner," she muttered. Her muttering wasn't as quiet these days as it used to be. "So they can nag me more. Just because some of us like the idea of painkillers instead of stupid breathing exercises."
"Hannah...."
"Not again," she groaned.
"No, it's not all that, it's just— I just think the Lamaze wouldn't be a bad idea, that's all."
"We've been through this!"
"Look, you don't have to use it if it's not right for you. But I think it would be good for you to know it. Just in case."
"I'm pretty sure that stopped being an option about five minutes after I told them we'd be using bottles. You know, when we were walking back to the car."
Sam counted to ten under his breath. Their first instructor had been a little...rabid...on the subject. Possibly a friend of Courtney's. "It's not like you did anything that actually warranted getting kicked out. We can ask around, find another class. Besides, these classes have things for fathers, too."
Hannah rolled her eyes. "Are you serious? You have six binders full of notes and Internet printouts, not counting whatever you bookmarked online, and a stack of baby books two feet high that you've actually read at least twice each. With fucking color-coded highlights and little flags, for fuck's sake. You have three maps of the hospital parking lots. There are practicing obstetricians who haven't done as much research as you."
"But—"
"It's not like you're going to be delivering the kid yourself, Sam!"
No, that wasn't the plan, but he was a Winchester. Things seldom if ever went according to plan.
"And even if the worst happens and you do," she went on brightly, "that's why Nick and David gave you the kit."
Oh, yes. The kit. David, Andy, and Nick's brilliant attempt at alleviating his fears that the worst might happen and he'd get stuck delivering the baby on the side of the road: a pink-and-blue plastic box full of emergency childbirth supplies, down to a little instructional pamphlet from David and an airplane bottle of Jack to settle the nerves. Yet another reminder of why he should stay away from his brothers-in-law.
Hannah and Dean both thought it was hilarious. Like risking his wife and child was funny.
He sighed—inwardly. Definitely inwardly. "You want something for lunch?" he asked instead.
"Not just yet. Put something out for the fuzzball, will you?"
"Sure. Think she wants some pickles?"
"Sam!"
"Yeah, yeah, feed the cat." Pixie got a small amount of wet food in her bowl, and then Sam put together lunch out of the leftovers—a pile of finger sandwiches, some pickles, some chips and dip, a large cup of non-alcoholic party punch. "Didn't anybody take any of this stuff home?"
"I made Kim take the mints and Jenn got all the peanuts. And I think Marcy snagged the mini-pies."
"Of course she did." He hesitated, because this probably wasn't any of his business, but.... "Was Marcy okay? She seemed a little out of it yesterday." She'd kept slipping out of the main party, and when both the half bath and the bathroom in their room were occupied, he'd gone to use the guest bath and found her there, looking like she was fighting off a panic attack.
"She doesn't like baby showers."
"Then why did she come?" Dean and Marcy had already given them their present—the car seat for the Impala, since Dean wasn't about to let just any old car seat into his car—and Marcy had come to the "work" baby shower before Christmas, so there was really no reason for her to make a second appearance at the "family" one. Nobody had expected Dean to show up yesterday, of course, even though just about every other male in the family had been there. The odds of getting Dean Winchester to a baby shower....
"Because she's an idiot. A stubborn idiot."
"Uh-huh. The pot called, by the way." He sat down beside Hannah. He couldn't reach the end table from here, and he didn't want to risk a spill, so he carefully floated the punch in the air where he could get it. "It wants its kettle back." She stuck her tongue out at him and stole a pickle off his plate. "Hey. I offered to bring you some."
"But it's more fun this way." She looked at his cup of punch where it balanced in mid-air. "The trash can, you can't manage, but you'll risk a full glass?"
"If I lose hold of this, I just wind up wet. If I'd missed with the trash can, I'd have to explain to Anne why you had a busted nose."
"As long as I don't get splashed." She leaned against him, flipping through stations while he applied himself to his food. "You're getting good. You could barely manage the light switches when you moved in."
"I did promise somebody that I'd learn control."
"There's that." She poked at the cup. "Are you going to be doing this with the surprise?"
"Stop that, and no. Anything that moves is about ten times harder to control, and if it moves on its own, it's worse. Kara can throw snakes across the yard. I can't even make them stop."
"Makes sense. Kara's been doing this since she was born. You didn't start till your twenties and stuffed it down for fifteen-odd years after that, and why in the name of all that's holy is there nothing but football on today?"
"It's New Year's."
"So? I don't want fucking greens and I don't want to watch fucking football, either. One station showing a decent movie would kill them?"
"Want me to put one in?" He offered her his last sandwich.
She accepted it. "Showoff."
"I meant the old-fashioned way."
She chuckled. "What're you gonna do now? More inventory?"
"I think I have most of it done." He tossed back the last of his punch. "I'll probably start a load of blankets to get them off the table, then start putting the crib together so we have a place to put them until I get that changing table thing put together. I get some of the bigger boxes emptied, we can pack up things we won't be using till summer and get them out of the way."
"Is there a lot of that?"
"About half the clothes we got are three months or bigger, or things like sundresses. I'll label everything in case the weather gets wacky or she grows fast."
"Of course you will. You're obsessing." Hannah yawned. "I should start the thank-you notes, I guess."
"They'll wait until I get everything finished. Why don't you curl up—"
She whacked him on the arm. "Not funny, Sam."
"You know what I mean. Watch a movie, munch on the rest of the cake, and relax. Maybe get a nap."
"I don't want a nap, I want to help. I'm bored."
That was just what he needed. A bored Hannah was as dangerous as—well, as a bored Dean. "No heavy lifting."
"Do I look like I can lift anything heavier than the damn cat?" she snapped.
"No, but I know you, and I don't want you lifting the cat, either." He pushed himself up. "Let me get that laundry started and I'll fix you a plate before I get to work."
"I can—"
"I know you can, Hannah. I'm saying you don't have to." That got him a smile—an actual smile, not a smirk or a grin, so rare in his wife.
God, she really was bored out of her mind.
Sam got the blankets in the wash—Pixie was not happy with that development—and dug the box with the crib out of the stack. It was against the wall, behind the car seats, so it took a little creative engineering to get to, but at least then he had a straight shot to the guest room. Which he should probably start calling the baby's room—
"Why are you taking it in there?" Hannah asked, her voice sounding strained.
Sam frowned and stopped in the doorway. "This is the baby's room, right? Where else am I supposed to put it?" Hannah was nibbling nervously at her lower lip. "Hannah, what is it?"
"I don't want her that far away."
"Far away?" he echoed. "It's the next room. We can still hear her. Without the monitor, even."
"But—" To Sam's surprise, tears welled up.
"Hannah?" He abandoned the crib at the door and went over. "What is it?" he asked gently, sitting down beside her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Hormones."
"Pull the other one," he said dryly. "Hormones haven't made you cry over nothing since August. All the other crying jags had reasons. Now talk to me."
"It's nothing—"
"Talk to me, or I'll solve the boredom issue by taking you to go eat greens and watch football at your mother's."
"It's stupid."
"Jesus Christ, you're worse than Dean used to be. Spit it out."
"Just— What if something comes after her, Sam?"
Sam blinked. That—wasn't what he was expecting. He should have, all things considered, but he hadn't. "Nothing can get in this place, you know that."
"No protection is perfect. In another room— You know what can happen."
God help him, he did. Every account they'd been able to find of the demon indicated it took only a few minutes for him to lay his claim. Yellow Eyes was gone, but Hell was hardly empty. And a poltergeist would take even less time to throw a helpless baby across the room. The wards were good, but nothing was foolproof.
"She needs her own room," he said finally, brushing Hannah's hair back from her face. "Not to mention, we need our own space." Hannah wasn't living up to the familial horror stories about libidos in late-term Reynolds women, but Sam wasn't willing to bet that Hannah would take the full eight weeks to recover, either.
"Eventually, sure, but now? She'll be tiny."
Sam eyed the stack of baby paraphernalia. The baby might be small, but all that stuff was going to require a hefty amount of space.
On the other hand, it wasn't like their room was exactly small—the bedrooms in this apartment were fairly large. It certainly wasn't cluttered; there wasn't any furniture in their room besides the bed, nightstands, a dresser, and an old armchair, and it still echoed. They could put the crib and changing table against the inside wall, move the chair, get one of the bookcases out of the guest room for supplies, and still have plenty of room in case Anne and Third were buying a rocking chair. And not everything in that stack of presents was something they'd need immediately, so it didn't all have to be at hand. The car seats wouldn't even be in the apartment once he installed them, and the stroller would never need to be in the bedroom.
The baby wouldn't even see her first birthday in this apartment, because the house would be finished by September or October at the absolute latest. She wasn't even going to remember living here, let alone be traumatized by sharing a room with her parents for the first six months or so.
Six months.
That night—the six-month birthday—would pass here, not safely at the house, with all the protections they'd designed into it. If the weather hadn't gotten so bad so early, the house would have been finished by then, but....
Every child claimed by the demon had slept in its own room, away from its parents.
That decided him.
Sam fetched the box of unassembled crib and carried it into their bedroom. "Come on," he said.
"Come on what?"
He came back to the living room. "You can supervise," he said, and helped her up off the couch. "I'll fix you a plate, and you can eat while I put the crib together and we get things set up. If you're really good, I'll let you put together the mobile."
"Really?"
He made himself shrug. "It's only a few months. It's not going to hurt anything. We'll use the other one for packing so we're not tripping over boxes, and when we get in the house, we'll set up the separate nursery there." Sam paused, and then added, "Maybe even a nice pink one."
"I can still hurt you, Winchester."