9Who's Your Daddy?
"Go fuck yourself."
"You are already are, why should I bother?" Dean's voice strums along all your raw nerve endings, and you feel like you're going to break soon. He's inside you, but you're both not moving; there's something both soothing, erotic and too close about being like this, but you can't bring yourself to start the dance again.
He's looking down at you with his huge, perfect hazel green eyes, and you wonder if this is what heaven's made out of. Dean, everywhere, and your body melting until it feels like you're a puddle, instead of a person.
It's been happening more and more often lately. You'll both just stop in the middle of making love, doing the deed, having sex, getting it on (you have too much time to think of euphemisms for it – you have too much time to think about it period), and just stare at each other like you're not sure what's going on.
His eyes seem to look straight through you, right into your soul, and while you wonder if its heaven, you also wonder if it's damned, and ending. Nothing this perfect could last forever, right? That's what they say about good things.
Because you know it's good. It's not just good, it's beautiful, it's everything, and you often wonder (in between the worrying about the sex) how he ended up with you. Sure, there was that thing where you started yelling at him about being a selfish bastard, an asshole that couldn't see his own nose when it was right in front of his face – or something confused to that effect. And he looked at you, like 'what?' and you just swore at him some more. Then you grabbed the front of his shirt, looked into his fallen angel eyes, and whispered that he had to stop being so dumb some time. Then you kissed him.
After that, it just kept rolling. Literally. You ended up having sex on the concrete in some deserted parking lot, right next to the Impala. You had grazes on every imaginable part of your body afterwards – but caring about them? No. Dean kissed them better. But does that really explain why Dean would be here with you?
Some of it must, if the sex was any indication.
It hit you like that during the first couple of months. You'd be doing something completely mundane – washing clothes, cleaning knives, calling somebody, and suddenly you'd attack each other and forget what ever suddenly unimportant thing it was you'd been doing. It was usually fast, sweaty, loud and so wild you make comments about him getting his techniques off the animal channel; but then there were the slow times – sometimes during the day, on the couch in the living room, sunlight glimmering all over his taut, beautiful freckled peach skin, sometimes at night on the floor of the bedroom, the covers heaped under you like some sort of soft, sprawling nest. It was all underlined by the half fear, half excitement that you might get caught by Sam or Sharika.
You never stopped during the act then. You'd be so caught up in each other the motels could have come down around you, and you'd never have noticed. Well, maybe if part of the ceiling had come down next to your head, and bits of plaster got in your eyes…but otherwise…
Something infinitesimal seemed to have changed, inside you both, and you still weren't sure what it was. You still had to figure it out some more.
"What are you thinking about?" Dean asked, and he rocked a little, making your mind zing back to the immediate present. The immediate present where Dean was on top of you, the warm, buttery leather seat of the Impala was under you, clothes were opened and pushed around and misaligned, space cramped and muffled and you didn't really care about the awkwardness of your positions, because as long as it was happening, who cared?
"Us."
"But not this?" He knows too goddamn much, his angel eyes see it all, and you can't even bother trying to lie – you know he'll see through it and you'll just have to tell him later. What was the point?
"No. Well, ish."
"What's up with us lately?" he asks, echoing your thoughts. "This –" he indicates your frozen bodies with an unbalanced motion of his hand, "just keeps happening."
"Yeah," you mutter, and feel the urge to just get on top of him and get it over quickly, bring you both to release and stop the questions burning through you. But even if you tried he wouldn't let you. He'd make it slow and gentle, and soft, just to spite your wishes. You did that to each other – all the time.
"You gonna answer me?" Dean thrusts a little further into you again. It's a cheap, yet very effective way to get your attention. You'd do the same if you were in his position.
"I don't know what's up with us," you answer him finally, rolling your eyes and clenching as tightly as you can around him, to pay him back. If you continue on like this, the conversation will probably get left behind of its own accord anyway. "As you said, it just keeps happening." Don't you want me anymore? you almost ask, damned insecurities coming back to bite you in the ass. But you don't, because not only does it leave you vulnerable, it's not just him who stops. It's both of you.
"Fuck," Dean moans as you clench again, rolling your hips up a little just to tease him. His ridiculously long lashes close over his eyes, and you study the sweep of them against his skin with a kind of tired envy. How come the people who get the long lashes are always the ones who don't appreciate them? "Stop that," he berates you. "I want to get this sorted out. I miss – what we had." Sex, without the worry that this sudden, uncalled for intensity will engulf both of you? Yeah, you missed that too. "I mean, we still have it," he adds quickly, as though you're going to start arguing with him, or get mad that he thinks you don't have what you used to. You still have the magic, the passion, the ferocity and the emotion – you knew that. It was just this thing getting between you. Whatever it was. "It's just this – thing."
"Yeah," you agree. You sigh a little, and look over his head to the roof of the Impala. The pale brown leather looks even smoother than usual, with the warm sunlight reflecting off it. Sometimes when Dean's driving and you're in the back, you stroke a finger over it, and then glide one over the skin of Dean's neck. You always marvel at the similarity of texture. So smooth – so soft – so warm and alive. But then you're constantly comparing Dean and the car. They're practically one entity in your mind these days, synonymous in relation to each other. Besides the fact that Dean talks and teases, while the Impala just purrs. They're so similar…strong, sexy, powerful, protective… they can take a hit (or five), hide secrets, soothe away your worries and get you to the exact place you want to be. Emotionally in Dean's case – physically in the Impala's. Okay…physically in Dean's case too, if you're being truthful. Just in a completely different manner…
Yeah…why are you thinking about this while Dean's still on top of you, your feet are sticking out the window, and some people could come by at any minute? Well not any minute…this was a pretty deserted route…but still, did you really want someone to see that?
Dean's raised eyebrow is a prompt to continue that you can't ignore. You try and get it all sorted out in your head. When did it start happening? The answer comes to mind quickly. About a month ago. You were stressed about something, you can't remember exactly what it was…something was late, and you were worried about it. Something important that Dean made you forget. He'd been watching – what was it, The Exorcist? – something on TV that was alternately boring him to death and making him roll on the floor laughing (not the effect the directors had been aiming for, you'd imagine, when they thought up the whole spinning-head-pea-soup-thing…). He'd pulled you over on to his lap, and just held you with him on the lounge while he watched the movie. You tried to get away a couple of times, flailed, bit him, kissed his neck – that spot under his ear that always made him melt like warm butterscotch pudding – but he just didn't budge, and after a while you allowed yourself to be soothed by his warmth. He did that to you, his presence, sometimes. It was at times like that you felt even keener than usual the fact that you loved him.
Your brain niggled at you. Whatever it had been was important. But you just completely blanked it – which meant it was doubly bad. Your mind only did that to you when it was repressing something it knew would make you antsy –
Oh fuck.
"I know what it is," you whisper suddenly, staring straight into his eyes, your own wide with shock. How the hell is he going to react to this? "I'm – we're – it's – pregnant." The word comes out in a kind of strangled, breathless moan. You never meant for it to happen. But sometimes, when you got caught up like the two of you did, protection lay forgotten in a drawer, Dean's wallet, and your handbag. You'd always been too unorganised to keep yourself on the pill. So, in fact, it was amazing that you'd avoided it thus far.
"We…are?" Dean mutters in this strangely far off voice, like he's already distancing himself from it – like he's – "I'm going to be – we're…?" he trails off, a confused, lost and happy look in his eyes. Happy? He's – he's –
"Well, unless my rags decided they wanted a vacation, I do believe so," you say sarcastically, so you don't have to give a real reaction. You're so nervous right now you don't know how to act at all. What are you – what are you supposed to do in a situation like this?
Dean laughs, a half way joyful, half way painful sound and you wonder if he's hysterical, if he's lost it. Sometimes you really wonder. "God, I love you."
This stills you both, and you kind of stare at each other again. You both felt it in your bones that you did, but you never said it. You never said it because you were both too fresh and insecure about it, inexperienced about such things. You knew what it was; you just didn't want to break it. Didn't want to reveal it, leave yourselves open to the pain that could follow.
Besides, you always imagined that you'd be the first one to say it, if you ever did. Dean was just – well it was Dean. He didn't reveal much at all about his true self. And the last thing you ever expected from this situation was acceptance. Queue the weird, yes. Queue the calm, 'we can't keep it', yes. Acceptance, no.
"I –" you stutter for a second, and you know you have to say something quickly before the doors behind his eyes slam again. But it's so damn difficult to get out from between the fear and pride. Say it – you scream at yourself. Just say it goddamn it! "I love you too," you manage to choke, and then grab the back of his neck, bringing his face down so you can devour his mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you," you mutter, in between desperate kisses and biting his lower lip, panting as he starts moving inside you again, a wild, rocking, driving movement made even more erotic and bumpy and unique by your positions and the car's rolling acceptance with it. You're feverish with the feeling, the freedom of being able to say it without worry and consequences. "I love you, I love you, I love you, Dean!"
He loves me. I love him. We're having a baby. Fuck.
AN: Uh, forgive me? I just couldn't help myself at all. This is for Delsunshine, who is going to be an AUNTIE and for her best friend, who's the mummy. Freakin' awesome. She inspired me, and I just had to write. So, this is a present for her, and my crazy, most sincere apologies about how AU and stupid this one-shot is, to everyone else – okay, you too, Del. Lol. Even though I kind of like it, if I don't think it over too much. :)
I don't own Supernatural. I wish I did.