Time dragged out like a low belly across a forest floor. Like a serpent in winter. Like slow, fading death. The sharp spikes of Sam's initial anxiety that had proceeded his horrible premonition had died to a gentle roar in his ears, low and constant. Seeing as Dean couldn't believe he was with children (could the offspring of a Naga really be considered children, though?), Sam neglected to mention his pregnancy in the coming days after being subjected to Dean's possessive display. After Dean's disturbing proclamations of ownership, Sam had fallen quiet again. He refused to talk to Dean or even look at him. He shied away from his tentative touch.

After Dean's prodding attempts to get his brother to eat, Sam eventually succumbed later that evening, allowing Dean to feed him. He was hungry, especially after all the horror he'd endured. While Dean slipped slices of mango between his teeth, a dark realization smashed Sam right in the head: Dean's obsession with feeding him had to do with his fertility. Dean was making sure he would grow fat to carry his offspring. The more nutrition coursing through Sam's body, the stronger and healthier the babies would become. Sam had never felt more like a vessel. A glorified incubator. A means to an end.

That would explain Dean's unhealthy obsession with Sam's belly. Even if his conscious mind was unware of the potential, his subconscious, primal Naga brain understood that soon, he would fill Sam up with his young. At the realization, Sam had forced down the bile rising from his throat. When Dean asked him what was wrong, Sam chose to lie. It would take an act of God for Dean to believe him.

In the coming week, the brothers adopted a simple routine. Sam read books. He read books to stamp down the rising terror building in his chest. The terror of not knowing how his new biology would function or if he'd survive the pregnancy at all. Where would they come out of, once they were fully developed? How long would they take to grow? Would the babies kill him in the process, eating him from the inside out? How would he take care of them once they were born? Could Sam live with himself if he allowed the little abomination to live?

Sam desperately attempted any escape from his own swirling, corroding fears, all the while making it a routine to stand in front of the one mirror in the room and prod at his bare belly, checking for any signs of roundness; proof he was building bones.

Dean, for the most part, was gentle. The fight between them had left scars. Despite his stolid exterior, Dean was aware of changes in his own psyche. Day after day he felt like his throat was narrowing as thin as a straw. His concentration broke more easily. His chest hurt. He understood that these unwanted sensations were the aftermath of an old, human emotion: guilt. He hated frightening his baby brother. He hated hurting Sam. But Sam had to learn: Dean wasn't going to make the same mistake he had made when Sam had ditched him for Stanford. Sam wasn't leaving him again. Sam was made for him, after all. He was meant to be beside him, under him, on top of him. They were meant for each other.

Sam just had to step out of that big brain of his before he worried himself into an early grave.

That week, Dean found a new exit several miles into the interworking of the sewer system. Much to his delight, the tunnel led out into a densely wooded area. He was well outside city limits. Shrouded in evergreen shrubs, Dean trampled the plants flat to squeeze out of the pipe. Californian forests were always a gorgeous sight but to not scent humans nearby? Dean was ecstatic. Dean understood this would be a safe escape route if anything wrong would to arise in the sewer system. While Dean slithered through the forest, he caught another fragrance polluting the breeze. He didn't fully comprehend what it was, but Dean automatically knew he did not like it. Submitting to his instincts and letting them guide him, Dean squeezed back inside the pipe and raced down the damp, dark hallways.

By the time Dean had crossed the threshold to the burrow, Sam was on his hands and knees beside the bed, barfing up his lunch.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, darting towards him.

Sam's face was beet red. Fresh tears stung his eyes. Saliva drippled from his pink bottom lip. Half-digested hamburger and fries laid in a pathetic puddle on the concrete. Dean darted down, grabbing Sam's back. Sam gagged again, bringing up a string of hot bile. Dean smoothed the hair out of his eyes. He rubbed his back in slow, soothing swipes.

"Shhhh, it's okay, Sammy," Dean cooed. "You're okay."

Sam shook his head sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. "No, I'm not, Dean."

"What's wrong?" Dean's voice was raw with concern. "You can tell me, dude."

"No, I can't." Sam bit out, tearing his eyes open and spitting a glob of saliva onto the ground. "I'm just sick."

"Food poisoning?" Dean suggested. "I thought that hamburger smelled funny."

Sam let out a bark of laughter that was void of any humor. Dean frowned. He slid his hand up, grabbed the back of Sam's neck, and tenderly rubbed his tight neck muscles. "Sammy, it's okay. You can tell me."

"You won't believe me." Sam said quietly, forcing himself to rise on trembling legs. Dean let him go. Sam sat back on the bed and ran a shaky hand down his face.

Dean studied him. "Try me."

"I think..." Sam sighed. "I think I have morning sickness."

Dean shrunk back, his expression souring. "Man, we've gone through this. You're a dude!"

Sam's hand flew out, his gaze tense. "Don't believe me? Fine! Then why don't you make those men go get me a pregnancy test?"

Dean was silent for a long while, watching his brother. Sam was a wreck of emotion: flushed, teary-eyed, exhausted. Dean sighed. "Fine, next time they go out, okay?"

"Fine," Sam uttered and swung his legs back onto the bed. He turned away, leaving Dean to clean up his vomit.

Dean would forget a few days later, mind consumed with rife, uncontrollable hunger, until he was half-way into devouring a screaming, trashy blonde hooker. Dammit, I forgot Sam's pregnancy test, he thought, gulping her legs down. After Dean had snapped his jaws closed around her tiny, pale feet, he slithered back into the main room to find Sam on the bed. The slaves, always so good at catching his meals and obedient as could be, were eating thick globs of cold oatmeal from their tin bowls. The scratch marks lining their faces were less severe in the soft light. The bitch had fought for her life as the men had dragged her down into the sewers. Good for her, Dean thought idly. Even if she was now just a hunk of paralyzed, panting meat being pulverized in his serpentine belly.

Sam was faced away from him, laying on his side. Without turning around, he asked: "Did you get it?"

"No," Dean said. "I'm sorry. I forgot. Next time I will. I promise."

Sam did not respond. Sensing his brother wanted to be alone, Dean slithered back into the tunnel to digest his meal and chew on his mistake.

By the second week, the morning sickness was a general, lingering sense of feeling of the need to vomit, but without the urgency to do so. Sam stayed in bed. He could hardly choke down anything but crackers and Sprite. While laying beside him, running his hand over his sweaty forehead, Dean took notice of Sam's scent. Sam was dead to the world, his face soft and passive in sleep. So vulnerable. So void of stress.

Sam smelled sweet. Not mildly sweet. Cloyingly, deliciously sweet. Like syrup drizzled on cotton candy and fat gummy slices. Without hesitating, Dean leaned in, dragging his nose down Sam's pulsing vein. He inhale with an urgency not unlike a coke addict taking his first hit of the night. Pulling away sharply, Dean blinked rapidly. Why did Sam suddenly smell so damn good? Nostrils flaring and being careful not to wake his brother, Dean rose over him and pressed his head down, inhaling down his body: his underarms, his chest, his crotch, in between his legs, his toes.

Something fiercely protective curled in Dean's chest. He couldn't explain it, but looking down at Sam was like looking at the most precious thing in the world. Sam was so vulnerable, so soft. Anything and anyone could hurt him. But Dean wouldn't let that happen. Dean buried his face into Sam's throat and inhaled deeply, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him to his chest.

Sam stirred, cracking his eyes open. He mumbled, "Dean, what're you doin'?"

"Go back to sleep." Dean said. "I've got you."

Sam sighed, sleepy irritation coiling beneath the exhausted sound. "You're squeezing me."

"Sorry," Dean mumbled and softened his hold. Much to his pleasure, Sam fell back asleep almost instantly.

A few days later, Dean forced the slaves out again. This time, he remembered the pregnancy test. After gulping down a rail-thin coked up addict, Dean fished the pregnancy test out of the crinkling plastic CVS bag and presented it to Sam. Sam was sitting in the leather recliner, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders, pale finger clenched around a battered copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. His eyes flickered up from his book when Dean rose in front of him.

"Here," Dean presented the cardboard box. One Step Pregnancy Test shown in purple letters across the front. Over 99% Accurate.

Sam's eyes widened. He put the book down on the armrest. "Dean-"

"I think you're crazy, Sammy. But if this gives you a little peace of mind, well, I'd be a dick not to give it to you." Dean handed over the box. "One line means not pregnant. Two lines mean pregnant. I already read the instructions."

Sam stared down at the pregnancy test, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

Dean's lips twitched down into a frown, but he bit his tongue. Once he realizes he's not knocked up, Dean thought to himself, Sam will be as chill as a cucumber.

Sam shimmied off his blanket, rose from the recliner, and walked out of the room. Dean followed close behind. He watched his brother open the box, take out the test, and place the empty box to the side. Sam stared down at the test.

"Sammy?" Dean asked after an awkward amount of time. "You okay, man?"

Sam swallowed thickly, turning to gaze back at him: "Yeah."

But Sam didn't look okay. He looked terrified.

Dean watched his brother unzipped his zipper, take out his dick, and aim. After a couple of seconds, his stream hit the strip. After Sam was finished peeing, he tucked himself back, turned around, and with the test held at arm's length, walked back into the room. Trembling legs collapsed Sam back into his seat. Dean coiled around the bloated leather, perching himself at Sam's right, in clear view of the test.

Sam's eyes were locked on the wet plastic. His brother's heartbeat thudded in Dean's ears. Dean ached to rub Sam's shoulders, to caress his back.

A single red line materialized on the strip. Not pregnant.

"See!" Dean laughed. "I told you, man. You can't get-"

Dean's voice died in his throat as the second line materialized beside the first. Dean's eyes darted between the strip and the key beside it. No, there had to be a mistake. Had he gotten the lines confused? Did one strip mean positive and two strips mean negative?

No. It was correct. Sam was...

Positive.

Pregnant.