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Title: In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Zombie Spirit
Word Count 28k
Warning(s): incest resulting in mpreg, less-than-happy emotions towards the fetus, mention of abortion
Summary: There are three things you should know about Sam right now: he's still crazy, he's one of the only survivors in a Leviathan-led zombie apocalypse, and, oh yeah, he's pregnant with an incest parasite-baby-thing. And no, this isn't a guess-which-part-is-a-lie game. When you spend your days being chased by the brain-hungry undead and your nights fighting with your stubborn brother about your new-found condition, you're forced to learn things about yourself. And maybe, with a pinch of luck, you might be led to a happy ending. But considering Sam's a Winchester, that road seems like a fat chance.
Notes: Written for the spn_j2_bigbang and illustrated by the beautifully talented marciaelena. A special thanks to the awesome mods of this challenge and to my friend, Gibs, for the beta work.
If there was one thing Mary had learned growing up, it was to always trust your gut feeling. Like that time when her mom and dad had left her at the house so they could hunt a poltergeist the next county over and her dad had told her to not worry; she’d felt it then, the gnawing dread in her stomach. And sure enough, he’d come home with fifty-eight stitches in his chest and a wet-eyed mother.
Or the time when she’d made that deal. She had woken up with a pit of anxiety anchored somewhere behind her breastbone, and later that night, she’d kissed something precious away to a demon wearing her father’s face even though she’d known not to.
So now, sitting in this garishly decorated waiting room with her three-month old squirming in her lap, she knew that things weren’t going to go as planned. When the nurse called her name, she had to swallow twice before she felt steady enough to stand and not drop Sam. She kept him close to her chest, even after she’d sat down in the plastic chair in exam room three, rocking him slightly.
The nurse followed up with some routine questions, noting Sam’s weight and temperature. “Booster shots and the determination test only,” she said soothingly. “Nothing to worry about. Is he your first?”
“My second,” Mary said, a little hoarsely. The nurse looked a little taken-aback, as if she’d been sure that all Mary was suffering from was first-time jitters, and then she smiled in a way Mary found only slightly reassuring.
“The doctor will just be a minute,” the nurse said smoothly. She closed the door behind her, and Mary automatically made soothing noises as Sam began to fuss, trying not to think about what could go wrong. It was a perfectly normal morning--she was taking her son to get a check-up and then she’d pick up Dean from their neighbors’ and spend the rest of the day in mom-mode. Just what she’d always wanted out of life when she was little, watching her dad clean his rifle and lecturing her about proper shooting technique.
“Mrs. Winchester,” greeted the doctor, sweeping through the door without so much as a perfunctory knock. “How are you doing today?”
“Fine, thanks,” Mary responded, taking a deep breath to soothe the drilling of her heart.
The doctor pawed through the drawers, pulling out a wrapped instrument, his fingers dancing over the serum bottles lined up neatly on the desk. He asked all the regular questions--eating habits, sleeping, such and such, and then he deftly filled a syringe, set it on the table, and set to rubbing an alcohol pad on Sammy’s chubby arm.
Sammy squirmed away, not liking the cold, and Mary shushed him softly, stroking his baby-soft hair. “Normally a nurse would do this,” the doctor said, using one hand to steady Sam’s arm before he stuck the needle in. Sam’s cry was immediate and high-pitched, and Mary rocked him steadily as the doctor prepared the second round of immunizations.
It took Sam a good several minutes to calm down after the last shot was administered, and once his cries tapered off into little whimpers, the doctor continued his train of thought as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “But considering the recent climate concerning fertiles, it’s best to oversee the determination blood work myself.”
Mary felt something settle in her throat, and if she hadn’t had Sam in her arms, she would’ve fingered the little leaf tattoo on her right wrist. He’s a boy, she reminded himself. One in a thousand chance that he has it. The thought did nothing to calm her nerves.
Sam’s cries escalated again as the doctor used the receptacle to collect some blood, and Mary was sure that come the following morning, her baby’s arm would be bruised from the pressure the doctor was using to keep it still.
“All done,” he said, standing up and bagging the sample. “You should have the results in a couple of days.”
He swept out as quickly as he’d come in, and Mary came to the decision that this doctor was a self-righteous prick.
“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor said, not even looking at her as he stepped into the hallway, and he was gone before she could manage a fuck you as a response.
Mary tried her best to forget about the phone call over the following days, and for the most part, it worked. She had a four year old that demanded all the attention she wasn’t giving her baby, and in between, she had to find the time to cook, clean, and do the laundry.
Fulfilling my ass, she thought to herself after her sixth load of wash that day, because no matter how exasperated she might become with the life she’d always thought she’d wanted, she would never voice such frustrations aloud. With what she’d witnessed in her lifetime, a jinx wasn’t anything out of the realm of possibility.
So when the phone finally did ring, Mary was preoccupied with cleaning the flour from the walls after Dean’s wayward attempt to help her make a pie crust. “Hello?” she grunted, cradling the headset between her head and shoulder as she stretched as far as the cord would allow to wipe a little more of the counter with her rag.
“Mrs. Winchester?” asked the person on the other line, cool as ice, and Mary immediately straightened up and grabbed the receiver fully with her hand. She recognized the doctor’s voice, and there was something hidden in it that she didn’t care for.
“Speaking,” she responded, careful not to let her voice betray anything.
“This is Doctor Persimmons,” he said. “We have the results of Sam’s determination test.” He paused delicately, as if that would make her feel better, but she’d always followed the adage of no news is good news, and this was definitely not no news.
“And?” she asked, a tad forcefully.
“It came back positive,” the doctor replied, too levelly. “We need to schedule a time for you to come in and get him tattooed. As well as to complete the requisite paperwork.”
If Mary had not been made of stronger stuff, she might have sagged to the floor. “No,” she said, and to her credit, she sounded a lot calmer than she felt. “We have someone in the family who tattoos fertiles. An old friend. It’s religious, you see.” That, of course, was an absolute lie, but Mary had always done that well: the lying.
“The paperwork, then,” the doctor persisted. “Our front desk will have all the required forms signed and stamped. All you have to do is fill out the necessary information and send them into the bureau. Soon as possible, Mrs. Winchester.”
“I’ll get right on it,” she said. “Anything else, doctor?”
“That is all,” he closed. “Have a good day.”
Yeah. Like that was going to happen.
When she had been younger, Mary’s father had introduced her to his counterfeit guy, an old, balding man whose only skill was forging government papers. She called on him then, pulling out all the stops. In less than a week, the documentation provided to her by Dick Doctor had been destroyed and Samuel J. Winchester was officially one-hundred percent archaic male. No mutated internal organs. No tattoo. Nothing out of the ordinary.
And no one would know but her.
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