righteouswoman | (no subject)

Sam doesn’t take it very well. He buries his head in his hands like somehow that will make everything go away and mumbles, “God, Deanna, can’t you just get pregnant and move to a trailer park like everyone else?”

Shock makes people say all kinds of weird things, but that doesn’t mean Deanna doesn’t punch his lights out for it.

For that matter, she isn’t taking it too well, either. That bust in Wisconsin (the town, not the state) was supposed to be a simple thing: get in, save the girl, blast some goddamn sons of bitches back to hell, go back to car and play music loudly while searching for next Hunt. How the hell was she supposed to know she fit the stunningly undefined requirements of the ritual to a T?

Well, except for the virgin part, but needs must and all that crap.

So she woke up in the middle of the fucking woods, pregnant with a literal goddamn son of a bitch.

Sammy suggests taking some time off, go see Bobby while they figure out what to do about this Thing. (She refuses to think of it as anything other than a parasite, no matter what the hell it does to her hormones and maternal instinct and whatever the hell else it can manipulate from in there. It’s a parasite, feeding off her goddamn body to claw its way into existence, and she wants it gone.)

She agrees, reluctantly, on the condition that he buy her pickles and mustard and chocolate drops and those little cinnamon Altoids, and mac ‘n’ cheese ‘n’ molasses, plus as many kinds of pie as he can carry for the road. And he has to stop looking at her that way and having a heart attack every time the baby kicks (“Just like his daddy,” she groans), and if she wants to have a breakdown and cry and scream and throw up on him all at once, she’s goddamn allowed to.

Sam doesn’t say a word while she adjusts the driver’s seat to the Impala so she can fit her newly giant-ass stomach into it.

He’s learning.

She’s not sure if Missouri’s making things better or worse. They showed up at Bobby’s, bearing all manner of disgusting food that she just can’t seem to live without now, and Missouri’s right there waiting for them. She steps forward while Bobby’s still busy boggling and envelopes Deanna with a hug and a warm “Oh, honey”, leading her immediately into the house to sit down and get the load off her feet.

(Another thing about being pregnant: it feels like her feet are way too small for her weight, like she’s doing heavy lifting with her own goddamn ankles. And she feels like that all the time)

Sam takes care of explaining stuff to Bobby- demons, pregnancy ritual, Winchester substitution, shit like that. Deanna curls up on the sofa with a pillow and a cup of tea with caramel and ketchup while Missouri lays a gentle hand on her belly.

“You got a nasty one in here,” she says, eyes so full of sympathy and warmth it makes Deanna want to cry.

(Goddamn hormones.)

She plays with the coffee mug, lets the scalding-hot liquid mixture settle in her stomach. “Don’t I know it.”

So the only way to get rid of it without definitely killing her is to wait out the pregnancy and then shoot whatever comes out with silver bullets while it’s still got a tenuous grip on life. If it doesn’t kill her first.

It starts with a little fatigue, which is normal for a pregnant woman, even with the whole hell spawn kind of aspect, but then it keeps growing and growing until she wants to punch Sammy every time he looks at her with that pained, worried face except that would taken too much energy, which she never seems to have enough of these days.

Everyone on the hunting circuit these days seems to have heard about her pregnancy; Ellen drops in for a couple days, as does Jo, and even Bela, who stays for fifteen minutes while Deanna wishes to all hell she had the energy to shoot her ass off. As expected, when Bela leaves Bobby’s a very important and powerful amulet goes mysteriously missing, but the two bottles of really goddamn strong wine she leaves almost makes up for it, and Deanna drinks until she can’t even hear straight.

“To the baby,” she says. “May this go straight to its goddamn little horned head.”

Eventually, it’s time. She feels like a fucking whale, slow and useless and way past ready to get rid of this sucker, no matter the pain it’ll take. The contractions come, slow and excruciating, but Missouri (bless her) has had morphine ready for this very moment for months, and it dulls everything down to a dull, gray fire, and she pushes, trying not to think about what the hell she’s about to bring into the world and what it’ll do if it’s not taken out immediately after.

She almost doesn’t hear him cracking up. But it’s loud and insistent, and eventually, she has to open her eyes and look at whoever it is, if only so she can memorize his face and punch him out when this is all over.

“Oh my God, Deanna,” the laughing-face is saying, “you should have seen your face!”

Weird, she thinks groggily, but nothing hurt anymore. She puts a cautious hand to her stomach, which is still round and swollen. Which doesn’t make any sense…

“SON OF A BITCH!” she screams.

The Trickster spreads his arms innocently. “Miss me?”

“SON OF A GODDAMN BITCH!” she repeats, in case he didn’t hear her the first time, and struggles to sit up so she can beat the shit out of him. “That was all you?!”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, with a fucking benevolent smile like he’s Santa Claus owning up to giving her a pony. “Now you and Sam are even.”

Before she can ask him what the hell he’s talking about, she wakes up in the middle of the fucking woods and Sam’s checking her over for head injuries and she really just wants to curl up and scream, but first she puts her hand to her stomach. It’s flat, and definitely only contains her and nothing else.

It isn’t until later that she finds the stretch marks.

Prompt: Do you want to be a parent? If you already have children, is it what you thought and expected it would be?
Word Count: 1,076