Dean’s fingers are rough, bruising, and Sam counts two, three, four… waits for them to tighten around his neck, waits for Dean to take the life from him. He waits and it’s just uncomfortable, a little painful, no end in sight.
“You stupid son of bitch,” he hisses, hand around Sam’s throat. Sam could stop him, push him off, fight back or something, but he wants Dean to hurt him. Punish him – he deserves it. five, six, seven…
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers through tight lips, tears pricking his eyes, and Dean’s hand tightens a little.
“She’s not a woman, Sam,” he says. “Jesus Christ. She’s a – it’s a goddamn demon.”
Sam doesn’t say anything else, can’t, doesn’t know what to say beyond I’m sorry. He can’t fix it now, since it’s too late; demon or not, still a human body, still laws against fixing things like this so late in the game.
The door latches and Dean turns to look without letting off of Sam’s throat.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she says smiling, belly swollen and mocking, pushing in their face everything this shouldn’t be. Dean’s hand squeezes a little tighter and Sam has to gasp for a breath.
eight, nine, ten.
Dean fucks him face down in the mattress. He can’t look Sam in the face anymore. Fucking a demon, impregnating the body it inhabits; unforgivable in Dean’s book. He fucks Sam too rough, brutal and punishing pace, almost more painful than good, and Sam squeezes out breaths with his face in the pillow.
“What have you done?” Dean whispers, thrusting too hard, hands tight on Sam’s hips. His fingers will leave bruises in the morning.
At Bobby’s it’s all silence. Maybe it’s coincidence that the power’s gone out. Maybe it isn’t. No one talks about it; too many possibilities. She’s sweating in the room at the back of the house, and the orange glow from the candles makes the sweat on her body glisten.
Things crash off the shelves. Books, dishes, holy items. Sam waits outside the room, Bobby inside, and Dean doesn’t look at him or speak from across the room.
The windows rattle when she screams, long and painful, loud and murderous.
Dean stares at the floor, Sam at the doorway. The screaming goes on for hours.
He’s a tiny thing, wrapped in old blankets. His eyes are small and dark, darker than hers, darker than Sam’s, and still something in between theirs. Ten fingers. Ten toes. And it doesn’t mean a thing.
Sam names him David in hopes of Salvation.
Bobby wipes the blood from his hands and arms.