In which John knows best...
“She told me to get out,” Sam said, shuffling wearily into the kitchen. He looked a little stunned. John glanced at his oldest, who was sharing John’s bowl of chips. Dean’s instinctive reaction was to make fun, but Sam seemed genuinely miserable, and so it looked like Dean was holding it in. Good boy.
“She’ll forgive you,” John said calmly, rising and reaching into the fridge for the last cold beer. “Someday.” Generally, Sammy would bring up the rear in the pecking order for beer, after himself and Dean. John glanced over at Dean, who rolled his eyes in acquiescence. Clearly Sam needed it more than either of them. And definitely more than Sarah. The gut-deep retching sounds coming from the bathroom made it sound as if she’d already had too many.
“Uh...how long will she do that?” It had taken Sarah all of two days to get over the cuteness of Sam holding her hair back while her body tried to turn itself wrong-side-out. As far as John knew, she hadn’t spoken to Sam since this morning, and he’d been moping just out of range of her peripheral vision all day. John tried to remember how it started with Mary, but he didn’t think it had been this sudden. She’d gotten a little paler for a couple days until he’d woken up one morning to a feminine groan echoing inside the porcelain. Sarah, though...she’d simply gotten up from the dinner table two nights ago and walked into the bathroom to start emptying her gullet. He got to his feet and moved over into the living room, settling in. His boys followed.
“Your mother was sick for almost two months with Dean.” Dean smirked like that was some sort of achievement for which he could take credit. “I don’t think it was that bad when she had you, Sammy.”
“Well, dude, you won’t have to worry about the second one,” Dean laughed, flicking the rickety old recliner’s footrest up carelessly, as if it wouldn’t dare collapse under the Dean Winchester. It made John smile. ”Your girl in there doesn’t seem inclined to let you close enough to make any more babies,” he snorted. “Ever.”
Sam dropped his head to the back of the sofa and flipped Dean off. John clapped a hand on his shoulder in sympathy. Dean wasn’t that far off, if last night was any indication. John was pretty sure the waffle pattern of the tweed sofa they were sitting on matched the imprint he’d seen on Sammy’s cheek this morning at breakfast.
“Don’t worry, son. She’ll move on to the next stage eventually.”
“What’s the next stage?” Sam asked in trepidation. The buzz of an electric toothbrush from the bathroom signaled a temporary reprieve for Sarah. Sam was sweating about as much as the beer bottle in his giant paw of a hand. For a moment John envisioned a tiny baby’s head dwarfed in its palm, and the image made him shiver in that rare sort of anticipation -the kind that wasn’t tinged around the edges with dread.
“Well....” John drawled, tipping his Budweiser back for the last swallow, and grinning slow and easy at Sam around it. “She’ll still be spending a lot of it in bed,” he said, “but I’m thinking you’ll enjoy it a lot more.”
Dean whooped like a loon, and Sam finally cracked a grin. Maybe he blushed a little; John wasn’t sure and didn’t care.
He was gonna be a grandpa.
“She’ll forgive you,” John said calmly, rising and reaching into the fridge for the last cold beer. “Someday.” Generally, Sammy would bring up the rear in the pecking order for beer, after himself and Dean. John glanced over at Dean, who rolled his eyes in acquiescence. Clearly Sam needed it more than either of them. And definitely more than Sarah. The gut-deep retching sounds coming from the bathroom made it sound as if she’d already had too many.
“Uh...how long will she do that?” It had taken Sarah all of two days to get over the cuteness of Sam holding her hair back while her body tried to turn itself wrong-side-out. As far as John knew, she hadn’t spoken to Sam since this morning, and he’d been moping just out of range of her peripheral vision all day. John tried to remember how it started with Mary, but he didn’t think it had been this sudden. She’d gotten a little paler for a couple days until he’d woken up one morning to a feminine groan echoing inside the porcelain. Sarah, though...she’d simply gotten up from the dinner table two nights ago and walked into the bathroom to start emptying her gullet. He got to his feet and moved over into the living room, settling in. His boys followed.
“Your mother was sick for almost two months with Dean.” Dean smirked like that was some sort of achievement for which he could take credit. “I don’t think it was that bad when she had you, Sammy.”
“Well, dude, you won’t have to worry about the second one,” Dean laughed, flicking the rickety old recliner’s footrest up carelessly, as if it wouldn’t dare collapse under the Dean Winchester. It made John smile. ”Your girl in there doesn’t seem inclined to let you close enough to make any more babies,” he snorted. “Ever.”
Sam dropped his head to the back of the sofa and flipped Dean off. John clapped a hand on his shoulder in sympathy. Dean wasn’t that far off, if last night was any indication. John was pretty sure the waffle pattern of the tweed sofa they were sitting on matched the imprint he’d seen on Sammy’s cheek this morning at breakfast.
“Don’t worry, son. She’ll move on to the next stage eventually.”
“What’s the next stage?” Sam asked in trepidation. The buzz of an electric toothbrush from the bathroom signaled a temporary reprieve for Sarah. Sam was sweating about as much as the beer bottle in his giant paw of a hand. For a moment John envisioned a tiny baby’s head dwarfed in its palm, and the image made him shiver in that rare sort of anticipation -the kind that wasn’t tinged around the edges with dread.
“Well....” John drawled, tipping his Budweiser back for the last swallow, and grinning slow and easy at Sam around it. “She’ll still be spending a lot of it in bed,” he said, “but I’m thinking you’ll enjoy it a lot more.”
Dean whooped like a loon, and Sam finally cracked a grin. Maybe he blushed a little; John wasn’t sure and didn’t care.
He was gonna be a grandpa.