Hola! Here with another wincest story! Contains: Wincest, bottom sam and top dean, pregnant sam, angsty fluff, fluff, spn spoilers, MARY FUCKING WINCHESTER, and chuck/amara if you squint.

Hope ya enjoy the ride~

"Mom?"

No. It couldn't be. No way. It was just a trick of the eyes, or something.

Dean blinked.

She was still there.

Impossible.

But there she was, staring at him with furrowed eyebrows (so much like Sam), obviously confused. Just as beautiful as ever. Her white nightgown gently rustled in the breeze as she took a single step forward. Instinctively, he took a step back.

"D-Dean? What's going on? Why am I here? I was—I was just…"

The voice he hadn't heard in thirty-three years hadn't changed one bit, still sounded like lullabies and wind chimes and laughter.

"Wait, you know who I am?" if—if—this truly was Mom, if Amara had really brought her back, then the Dean she would know would be a four year-old little boy. Not a grown-ass man.

She smiled, a soft, reassuring smile, and Dean could feel all of his defenses falling one by one. His hunter's training was screaming at him to do something about the threat, but he was paralyzed. "I've been watching over you two, when I can. You boys sure get into a lot of trouble." She shook her head fondly, like a much put-upon mother, and slowly reached out a hand to cup Dean's cheek.

"Mom?" Dean whispered, voice breaking.

"It's me, honey. It's really me."

And then she was hugging him, and he was melting into her arms. God, he didn't remember her being so small. He breathed in her familiar scent, vanilla and rosemary, deep into his lungs, and he knew.

This was his mother.

They hugged for an indeterminable amount of time, it felt like hours but was probably minutes, until she gently pulled away. Dean bit his lip, something was nagging him in the back of his mind.

"What is it?" Mary asked, looking up at him, and wasn't that the strangest feeling.

"It's just, uh, um, you see—" Dean fingered the silver knife strapped to his side.

"Hand it over."

Dean did as asked, more than a little confused and anxious, and watched as Mary cut across her palm in one smooth motion. "Ho—Mom, what was that?"

She rolled her eyes, and again Dean was reminded of Sam. "See? No reaction. I'm me."

Oh yeah. Mom was a hunter.

"So, where's Sammy?"

The first thing that registered was the burning pain in his thigh. Heaven shouldn't be this painful, and it wasn't painful enough for Hell. He could smell the sharp, citrusy tang of cleaning products, so he wasn't in the empty either. Which meant… Shit.

He was still alive.

Sam chanced peeking an eye open. As he suspected, he was alone. Unexpectedly, he was in a brightly lit, stark white room that appeared spotless. Sitting up, he could see a sink in the corner with a tiny cupboard underneath, a plastic chair next to a matching tiny plastic table, and a door that lead to an equally white bathroom, complete with toilet and shower. Huh. This was definitely the nicest prison cell he'd ever been in, at least.

But goddammit, if only he had a dollar for every time he got shot and kidnapped.

"This is getting old," Sam muttered to himself, simply because the eerie quiet was getting to him. There was absolutely no sound in the room, not even a hum; he wondered if the room was soundproofed. His thigh screamed in protest when he put weight on his leg, slowly standing up so he could get a better look around, but the pain was manageable enough. He looked down at himself to see a thick bandage wrapped around the bullet wound. Thoughtful kidnappers, Sam snorted. Not only that, but he was dressed in all-white (he was sensing a theme here) outfit, not unlike the one he wore during his stay at the mental facility a few years back.

The whole thing gave him the creeps.

Sam limped over to the bathroom and relieved himself, disappointed to see there wasn't a mirror in there. A quick assessment of the room showed that the room's Spartan theme meant there was literally nothing to use as a weapon. The cheap plastic chair and table hardly weighed anything. He found a box of cereal, protein bars, and bottles of water in the cupboard, which meant…

They intended to keep him here for a while.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

Lowering himself back down onto his cot, Sam rested his head in his hands and tried to bite back the panic threatening to overwhelm him. When the woman, apparently from the British chapter of the Men of Letters, had pulled a gun on him, he honestly hadn't given a fuck whether he lived or died. If she fired and it happened to kill him, oh well.

He rubbed a hand over his still flat stomach. Sure, he's carrying precious cargo, but without Dean… what was the point?

What was the point of anything?

Dean's head buzzed with the two words Sam had whispered into the crook of his neck just moments before they said what they thought were their final goodbyes, just barely loud enough for Dean to hear.

I'm pregnant.

In an instant, those two words had irrevocably forever changed his life. Every instinct, every fiber of his being, ached to call the whole thing off. To have even just one more moment with Sam and their… their baby. Holy shit. He was going to be a father.

But just as quickly, he knew he couldn't stay. He needed to defeat Amara, so that Sam and the baby could live on. And he was okay with that, sacrificing himself, if it meant that his family would be okay. He would give anything to be with them, (them!) but he knew in his bones that it had to be done. Sam's confession had strengthened his resolve. Before, he was doing it for the sake of the world, but now… now he was doing it for his family.

And then somehow, amazingly, Judgement Day was called off. He'd actually managed to play counselor to Amara and Chuck. For once, talking things out had actually worked. Sam would get a kick out of that.

Holy shit. Sam. Sam was pregnant. And Dean was going to live to see it through. Holy fucking shit, he was going to be a father!

…how the actual fuck was he going to explain that to Mom though?

Dean immediately decided he was not going to open that can of worms at the moment and do what he does best: deny, deny, deny and leave the problem for another day. Maybe Sam's big ol geek boy brain could come up with a good explanation.

Thoughts buzzed around in Dean's head, lightning-quick and never letting up. He didn't have to pull a Kamikaze, God and Amara were on vacation together, Mom was back from the dead, and Sam was pregnant. He felt like he was going to burst with all the new information. So to calm himself down, as he and Mary walked out of the forest to find a car to 'borrow' to get them home, he told Mary all about Sam. He told her stories, anecdotes, what he liked, what he didn't, anything and everything.

"-And he's so smart, Mom, so smart. One time he managed to figure out it was a witch from just one look at a piece of paper!"

Mary laughed, thoroughly enjoying her son's accounts of the time she missed. But even more than that, she enjoyed the joy clearly on Dean's face, how much he was enjoying telling them. Gesticulated wildly, frequently using his hands to illustrate what he meant, and sometimes he would drop his voice low in what she assumed was a poor imitation of Sam's, all with a blinding smile on his face. It was obvious just how much he loved his little brother.

"Oh, Mom, you're going to love him, I can't wait for you to meet him, he even has your eyes, and he looks just like you when you roll them-"

"I feel like I know him already," she smiled at him as he launched into another story. Even after they found a beat up old bronco to 'borrow' (that Mary hotwired herself, thank you very much) and on the journey back to what he called 'The Batcave' Dean never stopped talking. With each new story, Mary's anticipation to meet her youngest son grew. The tiny, beautiful baby she'd held in her arms what felt like yesterday was now a full-grown man, that she fully intended to get to know with her second chance at life, like she should have the first time.

It didn't take long to reach their destination. She was surprised when they pulled up to an inconspicuous entrance built into the ground of what appeared to be an abandoned building, but Dean was whistling as he rifled through his keys, so apparently this was where her sons called home.

"Sam's not gonna believe this," Dean said with a grin so wide it took up half his face. He opened the door and strode in, calling out "Sammy! I'm home! Sammy! You're not going to believe who's-"

The moment Dean reached the bottom of the stairs he froze. Mary followed behind him, watching as he stared at the ground in front of him with rigid shoulders. "Dean? What's wrong?"

And then she reached the stairs and saw all the blood. A thick trail of it, right in the middle of the floor, where someone was obviously dragged.

The low, guttural, desperate cry of "SAM!" that escaped from her son's throat was enough to give Mary nightmares.

Dean took off running through the bunker, screaming Sam's name. Mary heard doors slam, furniture thrown, and cries of "Sam, this isn't funny. Come on. Sam!"

He returned, empty-handed and anxiously running his hands through his already mussed up hair. The desperation, worry, and fear emanating from him were practically palpable. "Mom, he's gone, he's gone, someone—something must have took him-"

"Hey, hey," Mary stepped forward and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, "It's okay, we're gonna get him back."

"—We need to find him, he's pregnant, we need to find him, oh god-"

She blinked, momentarily stunned despite herself, but shook her head. Now wasn't the time for questions, not when one was missing and the other was falling apart right in front of her. "Dean, listen to me." When Dean refused to meet her eyes and continued his frantic pacing, she grabbed the sides of his head and forced him to look at her. "Listen to me. We are going to get your brother back. No matter what it takes. First things first, we need to figure out who or what took Sam, and we need a plan."

Because she did not come back from the dead only to have her son taken from her. No one hurt her children and got away with it.

No one.

It had been hours since he'd first woken up in the White Room (as he'd quickly taken to calling it) and nothing had happened. No guards, no villians to taunt him, nothing. It was boring, frankly. If his kidnappers were so nice to give him his own personal shower, couldn't they have left a magazine or something? So, with no other option, Sam had taken to talking to the tiny, infinitesimal, practically nonexistent bump in his belly. If he squinted, his middle looked a little less flat and defined than it used to, so whatever. Mostly, he just complained. Complained about the lack of entertainment, books, food, and the unfairness of it all. About the unfairness of his life in general, really. Figured he'd let the kid know what it was in for early, not that he thought there was much of a future for either of them.

But sometimes…. Sometimes he talked about Dean. About the color of his eyes, and how he hoped the kid got them, instead of his own weird, murky hazel. About what a hero he was, how strong he was, how its other daddy could do anything he set his mind to, even if that thing was stupid, dangerous, or stupidly dangerous.

Sam's breathe hitched, catching in his throat, making it hard to breathe. A keening, almost like a wounded animal, filled the room, and he tried to look for the source but he couldn't see through the tears. It took him several moments to realize it was emanating from him.

Dean was dead.

Gone.

This time he wasn't coming back.

Curling up into a ball in a corner of the cot, Sam prayed that this time, he didn't either.