Stalk Watch 1/6
Stalk Watch
Summary: Dean is in full-blown panic mode by the time he finishes the four hour drive to Palo Alto. Sam hasn't answered any of his dozen phone calls with anything other than one cryptic text message. Quit calling. You won't believe it 'til you see it.
A/N: Ah... so this is weird. Never thought I'd write a fic like this but well, I put my own spin on it and here it is. No Wincest or slash at all. Just like the rest of my stories, there is nothing but brotherly love here.
Chapter One
Dean is in full-blown panic mode by the time he finishes the four hour drive to Palo Alto. Sam hasn't answered any of his dozen phone calls with anything other than one cryptic text message.
Quit calling. You won't believe it 'til you see it.
Add that to the first message - Need your help. Don't tell Dad. Please come? - and yeah, no one can scare the shit out of him like Sammy, even after six months away at his fancy college. Or maybe especially after six months away at his fancy college. Or probably just because it's Sam.
And of course the elevators broken in the kid's apartment building so he has to drag himself up six flights of stairs, which must count as cruel and unusual punishment seeing as he hasn't even had any coffee yet because Sam's text message got him out of bed and he didn't want to waste even five minutes to get some takeaway because no one, no one, can get into trouble like Sam can, and in his line of business, five minutes can make a hell of a difference.
So Dean's kind of pissed off when his frantic knocking on Sam's door is answered by a decidedly un-frantic Sam in sleep sweats and a huge hoodie, looking tired and vaguely nauseous but not as if he's in any imminent danger. But Dean kind of likes the kid so he decides to give Sam a chance to explain before he launches into a rant about how wrong it is to freak him out so badly that he doesn't even make time for coffee.
“Dean,” Sam says, his shoulders slumping in relief even as he looks past Dean into the hallway, like some paranoid recluse checking for intruders.
“Dad's not with me,” Dean says, in case that's what Sam's worried about but Sam just nods distractedly and motions Dean forward, shutting and locking the door the moment he's inside. He leans back against it as if to block it further.
“Um... hi,” he says.
“You got someone after you?” Dean asks, because come on, Sam, he didn't drive four hours to make small talk. They haven't said a word to each other since Sam left for Stanford so this must be important.
“What?” Sam looks startled. “No, not- well, maybe. I don't really know what's, um... shit.”
And suddenly Sam bolts past him, tripping over books and a stray shoe as he stumbles into what Dean assumes is the bathroom because a second later he hears Sam start retching.
Okay, well, Dean has no idea what's going on but he does know how to handle a sick Sammy, assuming it hasn't changed much in the last six months. He's starting to calm down now, because it doesn't look like anything's broken or bleeding and there aren't any monsters that he can see. That's good but it doesn't explain why Sam called him out here.
He follows Sam's path to the bathroom and finds the kid on his knees, worshiping the porcelain god. Dean crouches down behind him and slips a hand under Sam's bangs, holding them off his face and checking for fever at the same time. Sam is cool though, trembling slightly as he leans into Dean's touch the way he always has. It feels good, like maybe they can salvage whatever relationship they have left.
“So, what, you texted me 'cause you're sick?” Dean asks when the kid's finished and leaning against the shower stall, sweaty and shivery and playing with the zip of his hoodie without making eye contact. “'cause, ya know, you could have just said so. I would've come.”
He really would have. Even after what happened, after standing by as Sam tore down life as he knew it and walked out the door with Dad's ultimatum slashing the family apart like a lightning bolt, Dean would have come. Only reason he hasn't been by already is that he hasn't been all that certain that Sam wants him around. Sometimes, Dean would get out his phone and hover his thumb over Sam's name in his contact list, but he never had the guts to make the call. Only thing worse than a Sam who was gone was a Sam who wanted nothing to do with him, and without the call, he wouldn't have to find out.
“'m not sick,” Sam mumbles to the floor.
Dean raises his eyebrows. Seriously, how did Sam get into this fancy college? “Really. You do realize you're doing a pretty good impression of it, right?”
Sam looks up. Dean expects a bitch-face but the kid just looks miserable. “I'm not. It's... there's something wrong with me. Like, our kind of wrong.”
Immediately, Dean looks Sam up and down with hunters eyes, a fraction of his earlier panic returning, but whatever it is, he can't see it. Not unless Sam's been cursed with bad fashion sense. Sweatpants and ginormous hoodie in the middle of the day? Geez, no wonder the kid never gets laid. He only looks a tiny bit different from what Dean remembers, his hair a little longer, his face a little thinner. There's nothing Dean can see that makes him think that there's anything wrong with the kid, ignoring the recent vomiting, of course.
Sam drags himself off of the bathroom floor - seriously drags, like it takes a lot of effort - and stumbles back into his messy sitting room before Dean can say anything. Exasperated, he follows.
“Sam, dude, if you want me to help, you gotta tell me what's wrong.”
Sam turns to face him, still looking miserable but resigned now. He fingers the zip of his hoodie again. “You're gonna laugh,” he states like it's a fact. “I swear, if you laugh, I'm gonna lose it, Dean, so you better not-”
“Whoa.” Dean raises his hands in mock surrender. “I get it. No laughing.”
Man, what kind of brother does Sam think he is? Like he's gonna laugh at whatever it is that has Sam so freaked. Come on, give him some credit.
Sam watches him from a long moment, chewing on his lip.
“Well?” Dean asks finally, because he's never had the patience for staring contests.
Sam breathes out a huge sigh. “Okay, just...”
“I know, no laughing. Cross my heart and hope to die and all that shit.”
Sam doesn't look like he fully trusts him, which is totally an insult, but he stops fiddling with his zipper and tugs it down, letting his hoodie fall open.
Dean does not laugh. His eyes go down to Sam's abdomen, where his t-shirt is straining to cover the bump that used to be the kid's flat stomach, then back up to Sam's face because he's half expecting Sam to be laughing about pranking him - no, definitely not pranking - and finally, back down to the bump.
“Holy shit, Sam,” he exclaims to his apparently pregnant little brother, “Does this mean I'm gonna be an uncle?!”
Sam whips his hoodie back in front of his stomach, curling his arms around himself to hold it in place. “It's not fucking funny, Dean!” he yells, “Damn it, I knew I shouldn't have got you to come here. If you're just gonna make stupid jokes every five seconds, you can just get the hell out!”
“Whoa!” Dean actually steps back under Sam's onslaught, chagrined. At least he didn't laugh? “Christ, Sammy, calm down. Who else where you gonna get to help? Dad?”
“Calm down?” Sam echoes, looking vaguely hysterical now, and ignoring Dean's astute reasoning. “How the hell am I supposed to calm down, Dean? I'm supposed to be in class. I'm supposed to be normal.”
Sam spins away from him and drops heavily onto the worn out couch, which has such an ugly floral pattern that it should belong in one of the out-dated motels Dean frequents, and Dean's left standing there like an idiot with, honestly, no idea what to do next. He's never seen anything like this before. He doesn't think Dad's come up against something like this either, and even if he had, Dean's pretty sure that Sam wouldn't be receptive to the idea of calling him for advice.
“Sammy-”
“It's Sam,” Sam snaps but his voice is all weird and, shit-
“Are you crying?” He doesn't mean to sound so incredulous but seriously, what? Tears aren't Sam's usual response to confrontation.
“Shut up,” Sam mutters, ducking his head. Dean sees him raise a hand to rub at his face. Aw, man.
“Hey,” Dean says quietly, suddenly feeling like a massive asshole, as he rounds to couch. “It's okay. We'll figure this out. It's not that bad.”
He drops to a crouch in front of his brother, patting Sam's knee awkwardly. Sam huffs a wet laugh.
“Not that bad?” He looks at Dean through his bangs. “Dean, I'm pregnant.”
“Okay, so it's kind of bad,” Dean concedes, his eyes automatically drawn to the bump. Now that the initial shock is wearing off, Dean can see a whole lot of problems in their future. The implications are setting in. “But we're going to sort this out,” he continues, because of course they are. It's what they do.
Sam takes a breath, wiping both hands over his face. He exhales another one of those not-real laughs. “I dunno what's wrong with me.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Uh, I could take a guess,” he says tentatively.
“Shuddup,” Sam says without heat. “Um, I've been researching but...”
“Well, lets have a look then,” Dean says.
Sam motions to the coffee table that Dean had originally assumed was laden with schoolwork. “It's all there but I can't find anything that tells me how to fix this.”
“Maybe you just need a second pair of eyes,” Dean suggest comfortingly. And a brain that's not fried with pregnancy hormones, he thinks as he turns to the table, piled with books and handwritten notes. He shuffles through some of it. Sam's been thorough, as always. There's information on fertility goddesses, talismans, and crystals, along with Djinns and succubi and a few other creatures that can bend reality at their will. Mostly though, it's spells and hex breakers. Dean can tell that Sam's come to the conclusion that the most probable answer is witchcraft, and Dean has to agree. This has witch written all over it. Not that they can count the other stuff out but it's a good starting point, at least.
“Hm,” he muses over a book of ancient curses and curse breakers. “Maybe if we modified some of these...”
“I tried a couple of them,” Sam admits sheepishly, and rightly so because if you're going to mess around with magick, you should have a partner to help out in case things go wrong. Dean lets it slide because Sammy was desperate and, honestly, he just doesn't really want to risk setting off another display of waterworks.
“We should back up. When did this start?” He turns away from the books to look at Sam, thinking about how big the bump is. He must be five months gone by now.
“Only about a month ago,” Sam says. “First I just felt sick, like I'd caught a bug or something, but then this started.” He gestures at his stomach helplessly.
“You waited a month to call me?” Dean asks incredulously. Unsupervised witchcraft he can let go but the kid definitely should have asked for help sooner.
“I know, I'm sorry.” Sam looks down, chastised. “But at first, I didn't even know what was happening and then I thought I could fix it if I did some research, and I didn't know if you would... I mean, if Dad found out...”
Dean wonders what it is Sam thinks Dad would do. He's not sure himself. There would definitely be a lecture, which could easily evolve into a mighty battle between his father and younger brother. Would Dad try to convince Sam to come back? Use this as an example of why Sam needs to stick with them and the family business? He doesn't know so he just shakes his head. “And Dad thought I was the one to watch when it came to teenage pregnancy. I'm going to assume that you haven't actually slept with anyone, right? Seeing as that would obviously be the first lead.”
Sam rolls his eyes but he looks more tired than offended. “Obviously.”
Dean's eyes narrow. “Have you been sleeping at all?”
There are dark circles under Sam's eyes, a crease in his forehead that indicated concentration is being dulled by fatigue. Sam shoots him a classic bitch-face. “Kind of hard to get comfortable with what feels like a bowling ball in my stomach, plus I have to keep getting up to pee or throw up-”
“Okay, enough details,” Dean cuts him off before he hears any more about what Sam does in the bathroom. “Well, first order of business, you need rest. Go get some sleep and I'll look over the rest of this stuff.”
Sam looks like he might protest but either Dean's pointed look or his own exhaustion gets the better of him and instead he nods. Bracing one hand on the arm of the couch, he wearily pushes himself up. He sways a little when he's upright - which reinforces Dean's opinion of a nap being a good idea - but brushes it off and wanders to his bedroom. He pauses in the doorway to look back over his shoulder.
“Thanks for coming, Dean,” he says, and then shuts the door before Dean has time to call him a moron for thinking he wouldn't.
Chapter Two