First Word

Title: First Word
By: nancy
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Nc-17
Series: 1) First Tooth, 2) First Six Months
Warnings: INCEST, angst, violence, series spoilers, language, Future!fic, MPREG
Note: This is actually the fic that started the entire series. I wrote this first and then Juli went and asked, "well how did Dean get pregnant in the first place?" And so was spawned Rites, Rituals, and Rewards, over a year later, all told. Finally can post this because it'll make sense now.
Summary: The boys have some time to themselves to reconnect.

Dean moaned, arching up as Sam slid deep and hard and smooth into him. His hands gripped the headboard so tight that he barely felt his fingers anymore, but he couldn’t let go, either. They’d been going forever, it seemed, his body sore and tired as sweat dripped from all over. Sam could go all night if he wanted, coming and getting hard again simply by never leaving Dean’s body. He shifted position after coming, using his hands and mouth to mark Dean with loving bruises. And with a cockring in place, Sam hadn’t let Dean come, not even once.

It was a ritual between them; a way to reassure each other that they were still alive. The Demon was gone. The contract fulfilled. No Hellhounds would come for Dean in the middle of the night again. No Demon Army tried to recruit Sam, willing or not, as its leader anymore. Ruby left them alone. There was nothing to keep them apart and once a month, unless something dire happened, they took and gave everything to each other.

A soft, tortured groan escaped Sam, signaling the end of his brother’s stamina, and Dean whispered, “That’s it, come on Sammy, come in me one more time. I’m all yours, Sam, just yours now, little brother, that’s right, do me harder, oh fuck yeah, harder Sammy!”

The thrusts grew uneven and ragged, even as they picked up in force. Dean cried out in agonized ecstasy as Sam fucked him deeper than ever before, nailing his prostate with skill and familiarity. The stimulation was too much and the second that Sam released the cockring, Dean howled, jerking violently under his brother as the world exploded around him, graying out altogether…

When he came to, Dean yawned and stretched without really moving. Sam’s weight plastered over him, weighing him down into the bed, a thoroughly enjoyed sensation. He smiled in complete happiness, wrapping his arms around his brother’s still damp shoulders. Sam was out cold and should stay that way until the alarm went off.

Dean kissed Sam’s temple and yawned again. Even though his bladder urgently needed its own release and cramps rolled through his gut, he really didn’t want to move. Finally, though, his body’s needs couldn’t be denied and he expertly rolled Sam onto his back without waking him. The movement jostled his ass in a very unpleasant way and he hissed in pain.

Climbing slowly out of bed, he shuffled to the bathroom and sat gingerly on the toilet. He stifled a truly pained moan and uselessly willed his body to cooperate. Several minutes later, Dean flushed the toilet and stepped into the shower to clean up. He let the hot water soothe abused muscles and sighed, knowing he would have to take a painkiller in order to get any sleep.

“Dean? You okay?”

Dean looked over to find Sam in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. It was a gesture that never failed to tug at his heartstrings, bringing to mind simpler times. Nodding, Dean promised, “I’m fine, Sam, just figured it would be easier to clean up now while I was wake. Go back to sleep.”

Taking him at his word, Sam yawned and relieved himself before stumbling back to bed.

Dean didn’t consider not telling Sam about how he sometimes hurt after these nights to be lying, even by omission. He didn’t enjoy pain, but he loved every single mark that Sam gave him, inside and out. If he told Sam that sometimes he bled from the repeated fucking, if he said that sometimes he could barely move the next morning if he didn’t shower and take pain pills, if he even hinted that what they did together sometimes scared the shit out of him, it would stop.

And Dean desperately didn’t want it to stop. Not ever.

So he took his shower, downed three pain pills, and checked himself out for any substantial tears that might send him to the doctor the following day. Finding nothing too serious, he smirked at his reflection and observed, “That’s what happens when a Winchester fucks you. Friggin’ donkey cocked sonuvabitch.”

With a cheerful wink at himself, Dean walked slowly back to bed and climbed back under the covers. Sam immediately pulled him in tight and wrapped around him like a second skin. Dean squirmed a little to get comfortable and then relaxed completely onto his brother’s chest. Kissing the bare skin nearest him, he smiled and closed his eyes, letting himself fall into sleep with an ease that he’d never had before becoming Sam’s lover.

* * * *

The alarm went off with a piercing regularity, dragging Dean from a deep slumber. He slammed a fist down on it and shoved it off the bedside table for added measure. Finding himself alone in bed, Dean grumbled at the cool sheets and forced himself out of bed. He was about sixty-forty for movement, which was better than some mornings-after, and he walked carefully down the stairs, trying for as little actual movement as possible.

Sam, of course, was in the kitchen cooking up a storm like he always did the morning after. Everything smelled damn good and Dean’s stomach rumbled angrily. Walking up behind his brother, he slid his arms around Sam’s waist and rested his chin on a handy shoulder. “Smells good.”

Turning, Sam wrapped his arms around Dean and kissed him; a slow, gentle kiss that said, ‘Good Morning, I love you, and damn you’re a good lay, thank you,’ all in one. Dean chuckled into the kiss and swatted Sam on the ass.

Pulling back, he said, “Ellen should be here shortly.”

“I made extra,” Sam agreed, stealing another kiss. “Have a seat.”

As if on cue, the front door opened and Ellen’s voice called out, “Hope everyone’s decent, ‘cause I’m comin’ in anyhow.”

Laughing, Dean stepped away from Sam and went to greet her. His arms were already outstretched by the time they met in the living room where she promptly handed over a happy, gurgling baby whose arms were also outstretched. Setting the ten-month-old on his hip, Dean blew a raspberry into his son’s throat, which made the little guy squeal in happiness. Breathing in the perfect scent of baby powder and his son, Dean smiled at Ellen and said, “C’mon in. Sam’s decided to feed an army again.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Ellen agreed, dropping the diaper and baby bags on the living room floor. She lightly tapped a finger on the baby’s chubby cheek and continued, “This one got me up at the crack of dawn and I’ve been going ever since.”

Dean snorted and headed for the kitchen. “Tell me about it. Who knew a seven a.m. wake-up call would be considered sleeping in?”

“Babies’ll do that to ya,” she observed.

Sam waved a spatula at Ellen and smiled at her. “Morning, Ellen.”

She squeezed his shoulder and said, “Morning, Sam. How’s the law?”

Snorting, Sam replied, “Fine, thanks,” and went back to flipping the pancakes.

The next few minutes were spent getting ready for breakfast; setting the table, putting John in his high chair with some Cheerios, and serving the food. By the time Dean actually sat, he forgot to ease down and grimaced in real pain when his ass hit the wooden chair.

“Dean?” Sam asked, a worried frown scrunching his brow.

Dean waved him off and took a deep breath. “I’m fine. Let’s eat.”

“So what’s on for you boys this week?” Ellen finished.

Sam shrugged and answered, “Not much. Work. Baby stuff. How about you?”

“You know me,” she replied, smiling. “Keeping hunters out of trouble. Getting them drunk. Taking their money.”

“Not necessarily in that order,” Dean quipped.

She chuckled and agreed, “Something like that.”

It was a good fifteen minutes later that Ellen put down her glass and announced, “All right boys, as much fun as this has been, I need to get back to the Roadhouse.”

Scooping John up with practiced ease, Dean handed him off to Sam and they walked Ellen to the door. He hugged her tight at the door and ordered, “Watch your back.”

She smiled. “I will, you know that.”

Dean took John so Sam could get in his own hug. Then he held John out a little so Ellen could kiss the baby’s cheek and run a hand over his soft, almost-black hair. He’d surprised the hell out of all of them, not being a blond like Sam and Dean had been, even if Sam’s had darkened over time. Of course, it had made naming him John all the more obvious and bittersweet.

“Take care of my Godson,” Ellen commanded.

They watched her walk down the front path and Dean absently noted the grass needed cutting. He made a note to talk to the punk down the street who charged too much to do it when they didn’t have time.

Sam closed the door and said, “I think I cracked the Brahams’ text, by the way.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean asked, interested despite himself. “I thought that thing was like in ancient Mayan or something.”

A smug grin surfaced and Sam started talking about dialects and code and algorithms as they walked back to the kitchen and started cleaning up. In addition to his duties with the local cops, Sam had taken to being the go-to guy for translating ancient texts for hunters. Dean tuned out most of it, instead thinking about what they could get away with not washing, clothes-wise, and when the next grocery run absolutely had to be done. His Sam-sense told him when to nod and grunt in appropriate places while he wiped down the table and Sam loaded the dishwasher.

John interrupted towards the end, as he had a tendency to do whenever attention was lacking on him. Not that it ever did for long; John was the center of their admittedly small world. The only time they spent away from him was on the one overnight a month they kept for themselves. And then he really got spoiled rotten because Ellen considered herself John’s de facto grandmother. It was something they encouraged, and not just for the free babysitting. Outside the Roadhouse, Ellen had nothing left. Aside from that, she was family through attrition, if not blood, and they owed her big time.

Sam scooped John into his big hands and said, “You are going to be the first ten-month-old to read an ancient Mayan text, Mister.”

“Oh, God. Please don’t make him a nerd,” Dean groaned. “I can only take one in the house.”

Snickering, Sam walked over to him and kissed him soundly. “You didn’t have any trouble with having a nerd in the house last night. Or in you, for that matter.”

Dean poked him in the stomach and growled, “That’s because you’ve brainwashed me. Now hand over the kid and go make some money, wouldja?”

Sam made a kissie face at him and gently cupped John’s head before ambling out the door. He picked up the leather satchel that stood near the door and left the house with a jaunty wave.

Shaking his head, Dean observed to their son, “Your Dad’s nuts, kiddo. C’mon. Let’s go beat that kitchen into shape and then we have tons o’fun with the frickin’ wash to do. But you know, there’s a real treat in store for today. Today, we have something called ‘balancing the checkbook.’ Not that there’s really anything in it to balance, but we’re workin’ on it. Sort of.”

It might not be much of a life to some people, but it was all theirs. They had a home, they had each other, and they had John. That was more than Dean had ever expected from his life. He’d honestly figured on dying young and burning in Hell, but thank God for changes of plan, especially radical ones.

“Now if only I can figure out where the hell the socks disappear to,” he muttered, kicking the dryer.

John laughed and said distinctly, “Hell!”

Dean blinked and looked over at his son. “Excuse me?”

“Hell! Hell, ‘ell, ‘ell, hell!” John repeated, grinning and drooling a little.

Dean sighed. “Ah crap. Sam’s gonna kill me.”