Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"

Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.

Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"

Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions

Warnings: MAJOR Crack!fic (well, I think it is anyway), hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, depression, graphic descriptions— think ER on SPN!crack. This story, while mpreg, is not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. Read at your own discretion.

A/N: Please read the warnings! Credit must go to Pine tranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!



By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)


Chapter Six

More than half as tall as Sam, the rakshasa took up the expanse of doorway, its presence intrusive. The large demon dog licked its teeth, emphasizing the massive cuspids protruding from its mouth.

For an instant, Dean could only stand there, frozen. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the demon. Rain hammered against the ranch house in a relentless cadence, muffling the room with a white noise. Hunting was something from a lifetime ago, the memory of it obscured behind a veil. Dean could vaguely see through it to the impressions beneath, but it was difficult to make out.

The rakshasa hunkered down low, its hackles raised, a rumbling growl in its throat like a rusty car engine. He should have known the demon would catch up with them. They had killed its entire family. It had nothing left but revenge.

Dean may not have been ready to face his demons yet, but his muscle memory was still intact. He eased his weight to the balls of his feet, readying himself to evade the attack.

The door from the family room pushed opened suddenly, and Luke tottered through, waving a coloring book page in his hand. "Dee, look," he said.

Revealing a row of sharp teeth, the demon smiled, and pounced for the little boy.

"No!" Dean shouted, lunging for the child himself.

Luke screamed in terror when the massive dog came at him. The rakshasa's claws dug into Dean's forearm, drawing lines of blood as he snatched the boy up in his arms. Kicking the demon away, Dean scrabbled up the kitchen wall with a grunt of exertion, trying to get to his feet. Fire ripped across his belly, but Dean swallowed the pain. Luke clung to his neck, sobbing. Rebounding, the demon charged at him again. Dean jumped back, dancing back from the rakshasa's clawed grip. Crashing into the counter, Dean held tight to Luke as height-lined jars of flour and sugar, and salt and pepper shakers clattered and glided across the counter-top. Dean snatched up the salt, popped the plastic grate off with one hand, and tossed it directly into the demon's snarling face.

Reeling from the purity of the natural mineral, the rakshasa twitched and gagged. It skidded to the middle of the tile floor, catching its breath.

Luke clung tightly to Dean, sobbing. "Shhh," Dean whispered to the crying child. "I got you." Warm blood dripped down his arm and onto the floor. Poison from the rakshasa's scratch was slowly working its way through his system, shrouding his focus. But he couldn't afford to be sluggish, and he willed himself to concentrate.

Molly burst into the kitchen. "Luke!" she cried, then stopped short, taking in the scene. The rakshasa paced back and forth, its gait irregular from the unhealed bullet wound in its shoulder. It was taking its time. Though it was injured, the demon knew it had the upper hand.

"Molly, stay back," Dean warned. The rakshasa was in between Molly and where Dean stood with Luke. The rakshasa tilted its head, considering the small woman. It glanced slyly back at Dean. The demon had unfortunate intelligence, and it smiled, knowing that its options had increased.

What is it waiting for? Dean thought, heart pounding. Savoring its prey. The second he took his eyes from the rakshasa he knew it would pounce. Goddamned dog.

Fidgeting nervously, Molly's eyes were trained on her wailing son. Molly was a smart woman, but she was a mother too. Dean could see that she was contemplating a very rash and unwise course of action if it meant deterring danger from her son. "Don't move," Dean whispered. "Molly—."

But Molly didn't listen, edging towards them. Hackles up, the demon growled at her. She paused, but did not back away. She dashed to her left towards the sink and the rakshasa bounded after her. Molly reached for the cast iron frying pan that she used to cook breakfast with and hurled it at the demon dog. Luck kept her aim true, and the heavy pan hit the demon squarely on the top of the head. Dean rushed forward, tossed the rest of the salt at the rakshasa, and grabbed Molly's arm, pulling her towards him.

Molly took Luke from Dean's arms, holding the boy close. Dean's blood was splattered over Luke's shirt, a grisly appearance on a child so small.

"Are you okay?" she whispered as Dean shepherded her behind him. He nodded mutely, not taking his eyes from the demon twitching on the floor. It would recover in a minute and there would be no more hesitations. It was hurt and angry and would rip them limb from limb. Dean's mind raced— there was no time for a real plan. He needed to get to the impala, needed a weapon.

"Get to the front door," Dean whispered, "as fast as you can. Don't look back." The only cover Molly and Luke would have between the demon and the door was Dean himself.

Molly squeezed his shoulder briefly before bolting for the front door with Luke in her arms. The demon launched to its feet, charging after them.

Grasping blindly, Dean reached for a shelf on the wall, and pulled it down, spilling an array cook books and utensils across the rakshasa's path. It caused only a minor diversion and the demon leaped deftly over the bric-a-brac. Wielding the shelf board like a bat, Dean swung at the creature, connecting solidly with its head. The demon dog was thrown back, momentarily stunned. It shook its head, clearing the sting of the blow and bounded to its feet, snarling after Dean with reaffirmed wrath, eyes ablaze.

He brandished the plank for another blow, a burn of pain rising up from his gut as he swung. Adrenaline pushed him past the pain. The demon swerved, avoiding the strike. This fight was about to end. Throwing the board at the creature, Dean forgot everything and focused on the door, knowing the rakshasa was a breath at his back. His body screamed as he crashed through the screen, and slammed the front door closed in the face of the demon. The door shook against the creature's wrath as it clawed and pounded on the solid barrier.

At first he didn't even feel the rain on his skin. The front yard wavered, undulating like the world underwater. He blinked a few times, Molly's face coming into focus. "Are you okay?" she asked. Her hand felt cold when she placed it on his cheek. "Hey— Dean?"

"Yeah," he said, refocusing on her. "I'm okay."

Dispassionately, the rain drenched them through in a matter of minutes, fusing cold into their limbs. They heard the demon thrashing around, baying and growling from inside. It wouldn't be long before it caught up to them.

His body was trembling, literally shaking with a dangerous merge of fatigue and adrenaline. Can't stop— they weren't safe by a long shot.

"Listen to me," Dean said, putting his hands on Molly's shoulders. "You and Luke are going to lock yourselves in the Impala. The car has protections on it, you should be safe there."

"You're not coming with us?" she asked, her features wrinkling with concern.

"All the weapons are in the trunk," Dean said. "I'll be with you the whole way."

"But Dean—."

"Don't worry," he said. "This is what I do."

Luke was crying, holding tightly to his mother's neck. "Shh, it's okay," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Dean's going to show us his nice car."

Placing his hand on Molly's shoulder to steady himself, Dean walked them to the car. Though it was only a short distance to the Impala, it might as well have been a mile. The gravely driveway became a muddy mess and the wet earth clung to Dean's boots, weighting his steps, as if his boots were lined with lead. The cold rain and wind were a savage tag team, sapping any reserved strength he might have drawn upon.

Gotta keep going, Dean thought. There was no telling how long that front door would hold up against the rakshasa's wrath. Gotta be ready. He set his eyes on the Impala, outlining her sleek black shape until it was within arms reach. With a shivering hand he reached out and dragged his fingers along the side of the car as if to anchor himself to familiar territory.

"Get inside," Dean said, moving around to the back of the car. Opening the trunk, he pulled out a few towels and shoved them at Molly before returning to the weapons cache.

As Molly and Luke settled into the Impala, Dean rummaged through the trunk, hands shaking with adrenaline and panic. Where were Sam and Jim? Dean couldn't do this on his own. I can't— I can't— His body still remembered the hunt, but it was slow to his command. Where had this rakshasa come from? Had it crossed Sam's path out there in the woods before descending upon the ranch house? He's okay, Dean thought resolutely. He has to be.

After dousing the scratches on his arm with holy water he capped the bottle and gave it to Molly. Instantly, the poison started to dissipate and his cloudy mind became clearer. Returning to the trunk, he found the box of blessed bullets and began loading his gun clip. As he stood there shivering, Dean felt anger surge within him. This evil creature had taken something from him that he desperately wanted to reclaim. Dean was going to take it back or let the demon put him out of his current misery. Either way, it was going to end. He slipped a knife into his pocket and another flask of holy water.

Dean tapped on the window and Molly rolled it down quickly, a look of worry still on her face. "Whatever happens," Dean began, "don't leave the car. Wait for me or Sam to come get you."


The rain let fly before Sam and Jim returned to the house. They'd cleared the hazardous trees and had been splitting the trunks into smaller, more manageable pieces when the sky opened up. By the time they reached the back door they were both wet and cold. Though the physical activity and time away from the house had felt good, allowed him to stretch away the building tension of both body and mind, Sam was glad to be back at the old ranch house. Replaying Dean and Luke's interaction from the morning in his mind, a small smile tugged at his lips. Finally, Dean was starting to come back to himself. The relief flooding inside him was a surprise. Sam hadn't realized just how much he worried about his brother until the weight of it began to ebb.

As they came upon the house, Sam noticed that the screen door swung gently on its hinges, knocking against the frame, slap-bang, slap-bang. A wide hole was torn through the screen at the bottom.

"Wait," Sam said, throwing his arm out to hold Jim back. Sam approached the door, examining the damage. Claw marks marred the wooden frame. A jab of fear spiked through his gut as he began putting the pieces together.

"Looks like an animal got in here," Jim said from behind him.

"Dean," Sam said instantly. His ears roared as he flung open the screen door, knowing already that he was too late. Sam skidded on something wet on the floor in the kitchen and nearly crashed into the table. A trail of red blood slicked the tile. "Oh, God," Sam whispered, horrified. "What have you done?"

Lighting-fast Sam's mind calculated what had happened, whose blood it was. The kitchen was trashed, claw marks gouging every surface, bloody hand prints too large to be anyone else's but Dean's— God, where is he? If Sam turned the corner and saw his brother torn apart, he knew he would lose it, felt himself teetering just at the cusp of insanity as the thought bristled inside him.

But there was no Dean— no body of any kind. A low growl came from the hallway leading to the front door and Sam suddenly saw a pair of yellow eyes staring at him. The rakshasa paced, blood tainting its sharp claws as they clacked over the tile floor.

"It's not supposed to be in here," Sam breathed. "Rakshasas can't enter a home without being invited." Perhaps this creature was too ancient or too powerful for typical rules to apply. After all if this rakshasa was as ancient as Sam suspected it might even be a demi-god, but for whatever reason it had waltzed right into Jim Martin's home without invitation. After what they had done to its mate and offspring, maybe it didn't need an invitation. Maybe killing its family was invitation enough.

"Jim, get out of here," Sam whispered. When Jim didn't move, Sam said, "Someone has been injured— you can't help him if you're killed. Go."

"Neither can you," Jim shot back. "I'm not leaving you in here."

"Then get to the Impala," Sam replied. "There are weapons in the trunk— salt, guns, blessed bullets."

"Sam, are you—."

"Go," Sam insisted.

Jim shot him a worried look before hurrying back out the door. Going into the situation unarmed wasn't the smartest move, but Sam wasn't thinking of that just then. He needed to know where his brother was, needed to know how badly he was injured.

Lightning crashed outside, illuminating the large, black dog as it charged at Sam. Sam jumped back, barely avoiding the demon's grasp. Eyes sweeping for any line of defense, Sam picked up a kitchen chair, using its legs to ward off the demon like a lion tamer at the circus.

It snarled, leaping up onto the chair, its weight knocking Sam off balance. The demon clamored over the wooden seat, trying to get at Sam. Sam pressed the chair back as far as he could, feeling the breath of the demon in his face. It snarled then swiped its paw, catching Sam across the cheek. Using all his strength, Sam flung the chair and the demon back. The chair split apart as it hit the floor, but the demon landed on all fours, lusty revenge in its eyes.

Quickly regaining his stance, Sam put distance between himself and the demon dog, backing into the counter. His cheek stung and he felt warm blood dripping down his face. The raksahsa suddenly flickered, and then disappeared, turning itself invisible.

"Shit," Sam spat, then went straight for the cupboard, tossing spices around until his fingers wrapped around a canister of salt. It wasn't much, but it was all he had.

The rakshasa could be anywhere now, could be right at Sam's throat and he wouldn't know it until it's sharp teeth were ripping through his jugular. Sam threw a handful of salt into the air in front of him to no effect. Pouring a hasty line of salt around himself, Sam heard the sudden scrape of nails across the tile. Leaning across the counter, Sam grabbed for the jar of flour and hurled its contents into the air. A billowy white form to his left pounced at him. Sam pitched another handful of salt at the demon, buying just enough time to complete the salt circle.

Repelled by the barrier, the demon paced back and forth across the floor, flickering back to its visible state. It glared at Sam, furious as it tested the strength of the salt obstacle. The rain droned on incessantly, adding a quick percussive soundtrack to the demon's angry growling.

Scratch marks and blood and chaos— enmity welled within Sam, flushing his skin hot. Beset by the rakshasa, Dean had endured a hurt that could never be undone. Nothing would ever erase the mark of the torturous days following the attack. Sam languished in tandem with his brother and watched helplessly as his only family withered Dean would always have this horror, the feeling of it inside him, the physical scar, and the memory of the cage his mind had been trapped in. Sam would, too, would keep this terror buried deep in his heart.

In pursuit of retribution, the demon had tracked them across the vast Montana terrain, but before the day was out Sam vowed to have his own revenge.

I don't need a weapon to hurt you, Sam thought.

Words deliberate and slow, Sam began to chant in Latin, his voice rumbling just above a whisper. The Rakshasa snarled, knowing exactly what Sam was up to. It pushed against the invisible barrier, trying to get at him. Lightning flashed outside, lighting the kitchen up brilliantly, then a crack of thunder so loud and startling that Sam nearly faltered in his incantation. The salt ring made in haste was not perfect. The demon circled around him, furiously looking for a weakness in the barrier. Concentrating on the ancient words, Sam made the dog twitch, torturing it with barely a whisper, pushing it back to Hell one word at a time.

Though the demon could not influence the salt itself that did not mean that the circle could not be affected. A gust of wind came into the kitchen from the torn screen door, scattering salt crystals across the floor. Like a bull teased by a matador, the demon charged at Sam, knocking him down hard. Teeth bared, it went for Sam's neck, wanting to tear the life out of him, but Sam brought his arm up fast, shielding his throat. The demon's bite burned with venom and numbness began to circulate through his body.

Desperately, Sam resumed his chanting in Latin, trying to finish the incantation before he lost sentience. The rakshasa stiffened and released his arm, quivering at the whispered words. Sam scrambled back, still chanting despite his tenuous grasp on consciousness.

A knife hurtled past Sam's shoulder and landed at the feet of the rakashsa, keeping the creature at bay. Stopping just shy of the blade, its eyes filled with renewed hatred. Sam turned his head to see Dean standing at the entrance of the kitchen, looking pale and soaked clean through. He was trembling slightly and there was a look in his eyes that wrung Sam's insides with caution. He appeared unhinged, as if that very fine thread that Dean had been clinging to had finally snapped.

"Get away from my brother," Dean said to the creature, his voice low and dangerous.

Wanting to yell and shout and rage, Sam could do none of these things as the poison from the rakshasa bite worked it's way through him. Sam had no doubt that Dean was primed to do something reckless and stupid and terrifyingly fatal. The demon didn't move, smart enough to know that the hunter wouldn't dare shoot so close to his kin. It growled deep in its throat, a sound terrifying enough to send chills across Sam's skin even as he lay bleeding, losing consciousness on the floor.

Please, Dean, Sam thought. Don't let it destroy you.

With a sudden bound, the demon lunged at Dean, a mass of claws and teeth. Standing his ground, Dean waited, heart beating fast. As the demon came upon him, he struck, pulling a sanctified bronze tipped knife hidden by his side. The demon knocked Dean to the floor and they slid across the tile, coming to a stop towards the front hallway.

Straining to listen through the rainstorm, Sam tried hopelessly to hear who was moving and who was lying still. Had Dean been bitten by the demon dog too? Had he killed it? Had he been killed? The rakshasa growled and whined, but Sam didn't hear his brother. Dean, Sam thought panic-stricken. God, please— please— Fruitlessly, Sam raged against his poison prison, unsuccessfully willing his body to his command. Move! Goddamn you— Sam swore at his failing body.

Suddenly, Dean staggered into view, tossing the bloodied knife to the floor. "Sammy," Dean said, dropping to his knees beside him with a grimace. Catching his panicked eyes, Dean placed the flat of his hand on Sam's chest, a calming gesture. Relief washed over Sam and he closed his eyes. He killed it, Sam thought. It's dead. It's dead.

"C'mon Sam, naptime's over," he whispered, probing the bite on Sam's arm with gentle fingers. Reminded of the very start of this ordeal, when that rakshasi had swiped him and Dean had come to his aid then, Sam let out a weak laugh at the horrible cycle they'd traversed. Dean poured a liberal amount of holy water onto the bite, and immediately, the poison began to clear from Sam's system. As Sam's focus sharpened, he felt cold, shaking fingers turning his face and then the cleansing burn of holy water cleaning out the scratch on his cheek.

"You're okay," Dean said reassuringly. "Nothing a little band-aid won't fix," he quipped, even though Sam would need several stitches to close the wound. Sam wanted to reply, to say something, but it would be a few minutes more before his body had caught up with is mind. Dean helped Sam to sit up, keeping careful pressure on his arm wound. He looked ready to drop himself, but he was whole.

A growling snarl was the only warning before a blur of red and black pounced upon them. "Dean!" Sam shouted as the wounded rakshasa sprang at his brother's back. Turning fast, Dean sloshed the rest of the holy water at the demon. It smoked and howled in pain, but it didn't stop, it's anger and rage so great that being gutted was not enough to put it down. With an arm wrapped around his stomach, Dean rose to his feet, pulling the gun from the waistband of his pants. The demon was ready to kill and so was Dean.

"Come and get me you son of a bitch," Dean taunted. He took aim. The rakashsa leaped and Dean fired. The demon fell down dead at Dean's boots. All was still for a moment, and then Dean lowered his gun, letting it fall from his fingers to the floor with a clatter. He took two steps back, lurching for support of the kitchen wall when his legs suddenly lost strength. He slid down the wall to the floor, landing with a slight grunt.

With the last of the poison vanishing, Sam hastened across the floor to his brother's side. "Where are you hurt?" he asked, pulling at his wet clothes. Dean's hand pressed firmly against his stomach, low where the incision was. "M'okay," he said, but Sam didn't believe him. Sam pulled his hand aside and his palm came away red.

"You're bleeding," Sam said, placing his own hand there as if to stop any more blood from escaping.

Dean's arm rose and fell, hand loosely gesturing to the scratches across Sam's cheek and the bite in his arm. "So're you."

But Sam was terrified that he'd remove his hand and Dean's insides would spill out. "Jim!" Sam bellowed, hoping the doctor would hear him wherever he was.

"I made him wait with Molly and Luke in the car," Dean said absently. Now that the threat was truly gone, his energy waned alarmingly fast. "Wanted to bring you weapons. Told him to stay put."

Within minutes Jim appeared in the kitchen, gasping at the gruesome scene. Stepping over the bloody rakshasa corpse, he knelt beside Dean and moved Sam's hand away. Gently he peeled back the layers of wet clothes over Dean's stomach, and examined the source of blood. "He's reopened the incision," Jim announced, looking up at Sam with a frown. "Dean, can you stand up?"

"Yeah," he replied. With Sam's help, he rose to his feet, one hand braced against the wall for balance. Managing no more than a step, Dean buckled, his energy completely tapped. In one motion Sam swept him up in his arms, crossed the room in three quick strides, and hoisted him up onto the kitchen table.

Jim pulled away Dean's clothing, exposing his stomach. "Let me see," he said, gently probing the wound with his fingers. It looked dreadful, an angry bleeding line curving across his abdomen in a horrific smile. "Don't move. Let me get my suture kit." Jim hurried off towards his office to get supplies, leaving the Winchester brothers alone.

Sam loomed over the table, mouth a tight line, brows drawn together with concern. "You're a goddamned stupid fool," he said. "You know that, Dean?"

Dean chuckled softly. "Saved your ass, didn't I?" he replied. He clenched his jaw and kept his gaze focused on the ceiling. "This really fucking hurts," he said.

"You popped your goddamned stitches," Sam replied. "Of course it fucking hurts, jackass."

"Your beside manner sucks, Sammy," Dean said, but he smiled gently because Sam only brought out the really fowl language when he was extremely upset. Sam's eyes strayed down to the blood welling around the incision line, dripping slowly down the curve of his body.

"You are going to take time to rest even if I have to handcuff you to the bed," Sam said.

"Kinky," Dean replied with a grin. But Sam didn't smile back, his eyes locked on the blood, and Dean saw panic set in his little brother's face.

"Hey," Dean said, trying to steer Sam's eyes away. Sam shook his head no, still preoccupied by the gaping wound. "Sam," Dean said, his voice with a commanding edge, causing Sam to finally look at him. "It's okay."


"Sam, do you have the salt rounds?" Dean was bent over the trunk, rummaging through the weapons compartment. The brothers were leaving Jim Martin's ranch house in the morning, and Dean was going through some sort of separation anxiety tick where he felt it necessary to catalog everything in the Impala's trunk.

Bending down, Sam picked up a container by Dean's boots. "Here," he said, holding the box out to him.

"Thanks," Dean said, grabbing and tossing the rounds into the trunk. Another minute of sifting through before he said, "I can't find—."

"Whatever it is, Dean, it's gotta be there," Sam said, cutting him off. "You've inventoried the trunk twice now." He moved closer, herding his brother back with a gentle arm, and closed the trunk. "Take it easy, man."

It was six weeks after the showdown with the rakshasa in Jim's kitchen and the brothers were finally ready to hit the road. After reopening his wound, Dean had required more stitches and a longer recovery period. It was slow going— Dean still struggled, grappling with bouts of depression, but he'd gained something from the fight with the demon, and was finally on the path to recovery.

Three days after the attack, Dean had insisted on helping Sam dispose of the rakshasa corpse. It was their first major fight in weeks, in the end Sam relented, despite his fears that Dean would push himself too far again. Sam drove them back to the spot where he'd burned the baby demon corpse. With his incision wound freshly stitched, Dean could not help Sam move the demon but he stood by with the lighter fluid and a book of matches. Standing shoulder to shoulder, watching the demon burn brought a sense of catharsis to both brothers. After that, time went by quickly as Dean regained strength. One day when he and Sam were sitting on the new porch, he said, "I think I'm ready."

Saddened that their time together was coming to an end, Jim offered his place up to the pair any time. With the front porch finally rebuilt, all that remained was a new coat of paint. Sam and Dean promised to come back in a year after the wood had cured to paint it.

Another vehicle pulled up to the driveway, tires crackling over the rough gravel. Molly stepped out of the car, a big smile on her face. "Hi fellas," she said, before turning to gather Luke from the backseat. She'd come out from the city to see them off on their last night. Molly happened to be a formidable presence, just like her father. While the rakshasa attack set her on edge for a day or two, she had stayed on at the Ranch to help patch up Sam and Dean before returning with Luke to the city.

Luke had been scared for a long time after the rakshasa attack, but he proved to be a resilient boy, and wanted to say goodbye, too. He tottered up to Dean with his arms outstretched. Still recovering, Dean couldn't pick up him, but he stooped down to Luke's level and accepted the little boy's hug. Sam looked fondly at his brother, a feeling of pride swelling his chest.

Ever vigilant, Sam kept Dean under constant scrutiny, unable to keep his gaze from straying to the incision line. Dean was healing both inside and out, but Sam was stagnating, the same gripping worries crippling him over and over. Traumatized— He scoffed at himself, at his own foolish worry. Still, he couldn't seem to shake his fear for Dean. In vivid detail, he remembered the operating room, seeing his brother split upon the slab; he remembered the feeling of helplessness as his brother sank like an anchor in a sea of despair.

Pushing these thoughts away, Sam plastered a smile on his face and went over to greet Molly.


Dinner with Jim, Molly and Luke made for a very pleasant evening filled with laughter. Luke regaled them with stories and picture of his own making before his bedtime. Jim and Dean traded funny stories about Molly and Sam growing up, while Sam and Molly denied them up and down.

When the night was over, the brothers retreated into their shared bedroom for the last time. Though weeks had passed since Dean's life-saving surgery, and the rakshasa attacks, Sam was still plagued by nightmares nearly every night. And their last night in Jim's house was no exception.

Sam rolled over onto his side, facing away from Dean, trying to keep his emotions in. After so many horrible visions of his brother coming apart, Sam thought he'd be used to it by now. But it still upset him every single time.

"This has to stop, Sam," Dean said softly, startling Sam from his thoughts.

"Go back to sleep, Dean," Sam said, still facing away from him. It was silent a moment before Sam heard his brother get up, gingerly still, even after six weeks, and then felt the mattress dip slightly.

Sam rolled onto his back, beginning to say, "Dean, really, just—," but he stopped when he saw Dean standing beside the bed, one knee up on the mattress for balance. He had his thumbs hooked into the elastic band of his boxers and his shirt was hitched up over his hands.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked sitting up straight, but he knew exactly what Dean was about to do.

Slowly, he pulled down the top of his boxers letting them rest just below his hipbones, exposing the six-inch horizontal scar across his lower abdomen.

The scar was a raised striation, puffy, and darker than the rest of his skin. But it wasn't anything like what Sam had seen a few hours after the surgery, or even the angry red line when his stitches had torn. And it didn't look like it was about to split open either. But in his mind's eye that's exactly what he saw— blood and intestines dropping out, his brother eviscerated right before his eyes.

"I'm okay, Sam," Dean said evenly.

Emotion rose in his throat and Sam made a strangled noise trying to squash it back down. Dean leaned forward, reaching for Sam's hand. His grip was strong, fighting Sam's mild resistance as he pulled his hand to his stomach, pressing Sam's hand firmly over the scar.

His body was warm and Sam could feel Dean's muscles quivering against the strain. Sam's heart thundered as images of splitting flesh and spilling blood fill him and Sam wanted to pull his hand away, but Dean held fast applying firm pressure against the incision. It must have caused him pain to put pressure on the tender flesh, but Dean didn't say a word, didn't even flinch.

The skin didn't split; it felt solid, strong. Dean was strong.

"Sam," Dean said again, his fierce eyes capturing Sam's, "I'm okay."

Sam felt his resolve break, pent up anxiety mixed with relief released and a small sob escaped his lips. Dean knelt up onto the bed, taking Sam into a tight embrace. Wrapping his arms around Dean, ear pressed to his chest, Sam let his worry break free, silent tears streaming down his face. The steady beating of Dean's heart and his solid embrace was unyielding comfort that Sam desperately needed.

"It's okay," Dean whispered into Sam's hair, more gentle in his strength than Sam thought he ever could be.

"I believe you," Sam whispered back. And he did.

They left at daybreak, Dean at the wheel and Sam in the passenger's side, a sense of contentment washing over them in the early morning light as the brothers left Montana behind them.



Author's Note:

I'm so SORRY this last chapter took me FOREVER and a day to get out there! I spent a lot of time working out the action sequences and my grad school studies have just swallowed up all my free time. I hope you all liked the story as I really enjoyed writing it. Big THANKS everybody for reading and sending those comments along :) I really appreciate all the readers and reviews more than I can say.

So, I feel this bit of crack!fic needs a little bit of explanation… I dreamed this—It was THE strangest dream EVER— EVER— It was horrific, woke me right the hell up in the middle of it and then when I went back to sleep I kept on dreaming it in gloriously gruesome detail. I don't know why I dreamed this. I do kinda have a thing for Dean and kids, but not really Dean and pregnancy and certainly not Dean and demon!pregnancy… lol, but I mustn't dislike it too much 'cause I dreamed/wrote this! I tried to capture the horror I felt while I was dreaming.

I pretty much know nothing about medical procedures, but I did TONS of research in preparation of this fic, which included Q&A with a few doctors and nurses about c-sections and surgery and, um, plausibility (What do you mean demon mpreg isn't believable? It so is!) I also really read up about Post Partum Depression so there would be some authenticity to Dean's behavior and Sam's reactions. I tried my best to make it as realistic as I could, but at the end of the day you still have to suspend your disbelief and chalk it up to fiction.

I really hope you liked it— my first foray into crack!fic. Up next I have a very short two-parter, which is going in an entirely different direction for me (a little bit darker, different sort of writing style, definitely leaning towards an R rating). Please check out my LJ for details. I don't want to spoil it but at the same time I need to warn my usual readers that this is something very different than what I normally write (well, not too different—lots of hurt!Dean and angst!Sam).

Thanks so much everybody! I love hearing from you guys, so drop me a line every now and then.

Other things: You can also read this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer. I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading.

- Li