A Change of Constellation: Chapter Five
Chapter Five
As it turns out, pregnancy is a lot of nothing. For two weeks he doesn't even mention it. Sam doesn't say anything. Castiel doesn't show. And he doesn't feel any different.
So, Dean fixes cars and wrecks the ones that can't be saved. He keeps the stupid, faded piece of twine tied around his wrist meticulously clean. It doesn't do anything now but keep him on track when he sometimes feels like he's going to lose his mind.
"What's that about, anyway?" one of the regulars asks -- Donny, this thirty-something guy who knew Bobby and has a weird taste for buying shitty cars at estate sales. "You don't look to be the bracelet type."
Dean laughs under his breath and drops the hood of the Yugo. "Sobriety token," he says. "Whenever I feel myself slipping, I like to have a reminder."
Donny nods knowingly. "What's my damage?"
"It's a Yugo, Donny. I don't think there's anything but damage." While Donny chuckles about it, Dean writes out an estimate. Once the haggling is done and they've agreed on the work, Dean goes in for lunch. He's starving. He keeps expecting nausea -- every movie he's ever seen that featured a pregnant chick assured him he would be puking at every moment - but nothing. Instead he eats like he's twelve and heading into a growth spurt.
While his hot dogs heat up in the microwave, Sam walks in with his tablet. These days he always seems to have something in hand, some sort of research or yard work problem he's solving. "I've been thinking," he says as he sits, "that you're probably in your second trimester now."
The microwave squeals. Dean retrieves his hot dogs and takes three bites before he asks around a full mouth, "What?"
"I've been doing math."
Dean joins Sam and leans over to look at the tablet, which has some website up with a colorful picture of a baby floating in a bluish-purple sac. Dean makes a face. He nods, because he doesn't trust his voice.
"Obvious we can't know for sure, unless Cas can tell, but I'm going with 13 weeks, maybe 14 if you have the worst luck ever."
"Go for 14, then." Dean rotates the tablet so that the images are right-side up. "That's it?" He takes another bite of his hot dog and zooms in on the first photo. "Look at the head on that thing. Like it's not weird enough that I'm a dude with a uterus, it's a fucking alien."
"It's not an alien." Sam pulls the device back and holds it upright. "It'll have a normal head in no time. The whole thing is going to go really fast, Dean."
"If it lasts that long."
Sam leans back in the chair, setting the tablet face down on the table. "Is that how we're going to do this?"
"Do what?" Dean asks with his mouth full because if he doesn't keep eating, surely he's just going to keep jamming that foot right in.
"Every time we bring up the fact that you're currently pulling a Junior, are you going to bring up that it can go wrong at any minute?"
"What, do you want to pretend that it can't?"
Dean looks away first. He hates the way Sam does that -- look at him long enough and read every feeling right off him. And Dean knows it's happened again, because Sam says, "Look, it might. Reality might remember that you being pregnant is nuts, that this kid shouldn't exist -- but it exists today, alright? Right now, you're going to be a dad."
"And that doesn't strike you as totally fucked up?" Dean rubs his face. His stomach turns. "Maybe I should have asked Cas to end the thing's miserable little life instead."
"Why didn't you?"
"I already -- "
"You gave me a non-committal, bullshit answer. What went through your head when you decided to keep it?"
"It was going to die." Dean picks up the tablet again; he glances over the article. Size of a lemon. Heartbeats and thumb sucking. He smiles at the image, and tries to imagine that thing, in him. He can't, but it's a nice idea. "Look, I can't -- I don't want to talk about it."
"I just don't want to spend this whole time waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is happening. Let's just roll with it." Sam takes his device back. "In other domestic news, Jody recommended an accountant in town to keep the books in order. I'm meeting with her later this week."
"What? We don't -- "
"Legitimate business," Sam's smile could light up a city block; who would have guessed that something as simple as a legitimate business would please him that much? "I can't manage it on my own, especially not while running the phones and doing research. We decided to do this for real, and it's gotten busy enough that we need professional help."
Dean snorts. "Fine, fine; go get legitimate. I've got a car to dismantle." He leaves Sam mumbling to himself, and instead organizes his tools. He has some time -- no one is coming in for the busted up Corolla any time soon. He gives Castiel a call, turning it on speaker and setting it on his workbench.
"I'm at work, Dean."
Dean smiles. Castiel sounds all the right sorts of perturbed and business-like -- not nearly as human as he had the last time they met. "I was actually wondering if you wanted to stop by, let me know if this whole uterus thing is holding. It's been a couple weeks, and I just -- " Want to see you is out of the question. "I'd like to know that it's alright."
"Of course. I can be there this evening. Are you feeling well?"
"Totally normal."
"Good. I'll see to you later, Dean."
"Yeah." He hangs up the phone and sets in to work on the Corolla.
⊱⊰
That evening turns out to be much later in the night than Dean expected. He had dozed off -- promised Sam that he was just taking a quick cat nap before Castiel arrived. He wakes up to Castiel rubbing his back. The room is dark. "The hell? I thought you would be here earlier."
"I was distracted." Castiel smells of soap and smoke; he always smells the same now. He used to smell electric, like someone had just struck a match. Dean misses it. "Sam is asleep as well. Should I have waited?"
"It's fine." Dean rolls his shoulders and leans back into Castiel's touch. "Sam did a bunch of math. He's thinking we'll have this thing in February some time."
Castiel slides one hand around to Dean's stomach, his touch hot against Dean's skin. He's too close, but Dean doesn't want to move. It's a rare moment hidden from his real life, and he closes his eyes to relish it.
One of Castiel's knees presses into the small of Dean's back. "It's fine for now," he says. When Castiel pulls his hand away, Dean grips his wrist. "Dean."
"Everything is so fucking strange." Dean pulls, just slightly, and Castiel shifts to lay behind him. Dean focuses on inhaling, exhaling, existing. "Is it crazy that I'm excited? We're having a kid."
"For now."
"Sam doesn't want to talk like that. He wants to just drink in the moment. He probably wants this more than we do." Dean laughs, just a little bit, to diffuse his own welling feelings of panic and yearning.
"I assure you, he does not."
Dean rests his hand over Castiel's. "I have no idea what I'm going to do, but... I don't know, it's sort of nice. It's something that connects us."
"I cannot keep riding this line between intimacy and neglect." Castiel rests his forehead against the back of Dean's neck and sighs. "I wish you would look at me."
It would be so easy. Face Castiel -- let him into the place where he already exists in Dean's heart. Say to hell with the things he says in his head.
Instead, he tightens his hand over Castiel's and just breathes.
⊱⊰
Sam starts cooking breakfast regularly, which is good because Dean is starving all the time. Starving and pissed off. Nothing happens for the better part of two months, and then all of a sudden his body changes. He's sleeping like shit. His gut feels thick and bloated feeling -- in his nightmares it turns into full-on Hollywood Baby Bump.
Dean has always had vivid nightmares; being a pregnant freak made it worse.
So when he comes down the stairs, still wearing his pajama pants and aching from another shitty night's sleep, the last thing he expects to hear from Sam is, "Congrats on the halfway mark!"
"What, is there a fucking prize?" Dean lowers himself into a chair and stares dejectedly down at his gut. "What's the big deal?"
Sam sets a plate of eggs and sausage in front of him and returns with a cup of coffee and a prenatal vitamin. Dean doesn't even know if his system is wired up like it would matter, but he obediently swallows it for Sam's benefit.
Sam looks downright chipper -- Dean would think he was the one expecting a baby. "Well, if this were a normal pregnancy you would probably be finding out the sex. But look, you're already this far. It's all downhill. We're celebrating."
With a mouthful of sausage, Dean shakes his head. "Nope, not celebrating. There's nothing to celebrate here." It's not that he regrets the whole thing, necessarily, but he can't stop worrying.
Also, it's been weeks since he last saw Castiel. One minute they had been spooning. The next, it was morning and Dean was alone. Castiel just sends the occasional text now: I checked in last night, but you were asleep; all is well.
"We need a nursery."
Dean startles out of his thoughts. "We really don't."
Sam grins over his own breakfast. "Too bad. I ordered a crib and it is waiting for us at the nearest store. The yard is closed today. You and I are buying baby things."
"Isn't that bad luck or something?"
"You're a pregnant dude. I'm not thinking there's a whole lot of lore here."
Dean complains while he eats, and while he gets dressed -- he has to wear a bigger t-shirt and do this thing with a rubber band to close his jeans -- but he gives in.
They hop in the Impala and Sam leads the way to the most garish chain store Dean has ever seen. They walk in the door and it exudes baby. It's large and has the warehouse look of a chain store; everything seems to be either white, blue, pink, or yellow.
He's surrounded by couples. Pregnant women and screeching kids and a dude wearing a kid on his chest with what looks like a big scarf. "I'd rather be hunting a ghoul," Dean says under his breath.
"Tough," Sam says as he grabs a cart. He white-knuckles it around the handle. "It's not that hard. I have a list." He pulls the folded square of paper from his back pocket.
"A list?" Dean's eyes bug out at the sheer volume of stuff. "What the fuck, Sam! This thing is a mile long -- what the hell is a receiving blanket?"
Sam shrugs. "Maybe the baby is wearing it when you get it from the hospital."
"What, like a burrito at Chipotle?"
Sam gives Dean the cart and takes the lead. Thank god. He has no idea what half these things are supposed to be, and being here makes his anxiety worse. At least he can push a cart without fucking it up.
"We'll go simple today, but by the time the day is out, I want it to at least look like we're trying."
To anyone else Sam probably sounds determined, but Dean can make out the subtle anxiety in his voice. He tries to return a reassuring smile. "Hey, it's going to be fine. All downhill from here, right?"
Sam smiles. "Right."
They take it an aisle at a time. Sam buys bottles and a couple cans of formula. He ponders diapers like he used to read lore, and the things come in boxes nearly as big as the cart.
Dean doesn't miss that in addition to the boxes of 'newborn,' he adds a smaller bag marked 'premie.' It's not like Dean. He knows that born too early is their best case scenario.
They swing by the furniture department. Sam gets an associate to tell him where to go to find out about this crib. Dean balks when he sees the size of the box. "Can we even fit that in the back of the Impala?"
Sam shifts the box so that it's standing length-wise; he measures it against his body and nods. "Yeah, definitely. Though maybe we'll order the mattress online."
The associate laughs and helps Sam load it on the bottom of the cart. "Adopting?" she asks with a wide smile. "I love seeing expecting parents prepare."
Dean tries not to laugh.
Sam nods in earnest. "Halfway now."
"Exciting! Oh, it's goes so fast."
"Yes it does," Dean says, because its the sort of thing he's supposed to say. He'd rather say, No, it is the most drawn out thing ever. They part ways with happy smiles - "We're fine, we have a list -- thank you very much."
With the crib box perched precariously on the bottom of the cart, Sam insists on a couple more stops. He holds up a bag of blue and pink onesies, frowning at the weight suggestions and sizes. "Do you ever wonder if you're having a boy or girl?"
Dean shrugs and reaches for some white ones. He may not have learned a lot on the road, but he knows that bleach can get nastiest stains out of white. "Nah. It doesn't change anything."
"What, not even names?" Sam replaces the pink and blue packages, but tosses a yellow one in the cart.
"Haven't even considered it." Dean stares at the smallest socks he's ever seen, and is suddenly overcome with the urge to shut the whole thing down. There's no way he can ever be responsible for anything that small. "Besides, isn't that the sort of thing the parents discuss together?” His stomach churns at the idea. Parents. As in, the two of them together, raising a child. It doesn't seem very likely. “I haven't heard from Cas in weeks."
"Right." Sam looks equally spooked by the socks, but he puts them in the cart anyway. Staring over their haul, he clears his throat. "Let's do this."
When Sam checks out, he uses a bank card that has his real name on it: Samuel Winchester. Over a picture of trees and shit. The cashier waves cheerily at them as they head out to the parking lot. It's like everyone who works in a baby store has to be really happy about it all the time.
Dean doesn't say anything until they've reached the car and begun packing up their supplies. "When did that happen?" Dean asks as he watches Sam load the crib box into car. "And I can help."
"Nope," Sam grunts. "I've got it." With the crib (barely) in the backseat of the Impala, they load the rest of the bags and diaper boxes into the trunk. Dean misses his guns, and his haphazard assortment of knives. Knives and ammunition make sense. Premie diapers do not. "When did what happen?"
"Banks. We use a bank?" Dean inhales in the scent of leather when they climb in the car. Everything else is weird and impossible, but the Impala continues to smell like home.
Sam sighs, one of those long suffering, I cannot believe we're having this conversation noises. "I told you, like, three months ago. Your name is on it too."
Dean starts the car. "We have a joint bank account?"
"Yeah."
Chuckling, Dean pulls out of the parking lot. He can't wait until this stupid store full of stepford employees is a dot in the rear view mirror. "It's a little gay, Sam."
"Said the only guy in the car who has had sex with a man."
Dean tries to laugh -- he really does. Just like every day he tells himself that he should just get over it and call Castiel. He stumbles over a half-hearted snicker.
"What?" Sam asks.
Dean pulls onto the highway.
"Are you seriously going to sit there, pregnant, and get uptight about sex?"
Dean clears his throat. "I was a girl."
"No, you were renting out a girl-shaped body. Are you freaking out?"
"No, Sam, I am a beach of serenity in a sea of crazy -- of course I'm freaking out! I'm not..." Dean keeps his focus on the road, but it's hard. "Look, I'm not gay, okay? I was a girl, he was a guy, and we tried it out. And it was great. But now I can't."
"Won't."
"Don't tell me how I feel." The yard is fast approaching; Dean presses just a little harder on the gas. He's been trapped in the car with Sam for decades -- Sam is the best at forcing awkward emotional talks when there's no escape.
"Dean, I'm not saying that it's not a little unexpected. But being with Cas and being gay don't have to be the same thing. You don't have to run around declaring your pride."
The fence is visible on the horizon. If he can stave off the conversation for just a little bit longer, he can make it to sweet freedom. "Sounds like some new-age bullshit to me."
Sam smacks his arm and Dean just knows that he's rolling his eyes. "You're pregnant and trying to cling to a raft of normalcy. Let it go. Our life is different, but that doesn't make it normal."
⊱⊰
One of the unused rooms in Bobby's house has been a bright sort of beige for as long as Dean can remember, a weird contrast to the overbearing grey in the rest of the house. It's small, barely large enough for the double bed that Sam and Dean shared as kids. The color has faded with time.
They squish side-by-side on the bed, surveying the minute cracks in the ceiling and the scuffed floorboards. Sam has his hands folded behind his head, his feet up on the foot board. "Well?"
"You're right. It's perfect for a nursery."
With that, they get to work. First they dismantle the bed and slide the pieces down the hall, but Sam only lets Dean carry the small pieces. Dean finds himself wondering if the metal of the bed frame is pure enough to protect against ghosts.
"Go fold those clothes," Sam says from the other end of the hallway, grunting as he pushes another smaller dresser from Dean's room toward the nursery.
Dean settles into taking apart all the blankets and the sheets and the tiny clothes marked with a "P" under size. Why the hell did all this shit require so much packaging?
As it turns out, a receiving blanket is just a square of cotton. It would make a good make-shift bandage, if he was still on the road.
As Sam slides the dresser against one wall, he asks. "How do you think Bobby would react?"
"He'd lose it, probably." Dean moves the clothes and blankets, unfolded, in the dusty drawers. "He would call me every name in the book for not thinking -- well, you know." Fuck it -- they can wash it all later. "But, he would've dealt with it. Bobby dealt with everything."
"Yeah."
They tackle the crib together. The directions don't make sense, but thankfully the pieces are all clearly labeled. They've got three sides assembled when Dean finally asks, "What's with all the premature baby stuff you're trying to pretend you didn't buy?"
Sam looks up through the slats from the other side of the crib. For a second the emotions on his face shift like he's about to lie. But whatever the impulse is, it segues into resignation. He hasn't looked so tired since the last time they were on a hunt. "I've been talking to Cas."
"Really?" Dean tries not to be jealous. He's usually not a jealous guy, but lately he seems to lose track of his feelings. It's not that Sam and Castiel aren't friends, it's just that Dean always figured he had something special.
"Yeah. We've -- um, we think that you should probably stay with him for a while."
"Wait, you've been trying to move me out without even telling me?"
"Not like that." Sam looks away, which may as well yell guilty. "We were talking, at first, whether it would be better for him to come here. But he's in an urban area, so if anything goes wrong -- "
"For those of us not in the loop? Why the hell are we talking cohabitation?"
Sam finishes screwing in the piece of wood in hand. "Cas can't fly anymore. If something goes wrong, he can't get here."
"What the fuck are we doing all this for, if -- look, I told you. He told me. It probably won't last."
"But maybe it will. If you make it another month, the baby has a chance -- even just a small one. I just wanted to buy into hope for a day. So, you know, let's finish the crib. You'll have something to look forward to."
Sam smiles, but he's clearly bothered. Dean knew that Sam was keeping on top of this baby stuff, the same he always kept on the research and still keeps up with the other hunters, but for the first time he wonders how much of the worry he's been hiding.
Dean isn't sure if he wants to hit Sam, or maybe hug him. This whole thing is ridiculous, and the idea that it's only halfway done makes him sick.
So instead they finish the crib. And even as they do, Dean realizes that hope is too good to be true.
⊰ Chapter Four | Chapter Six ⊱