dean's read the single copy of car and driver (the june 2007 issue) in the waiting room of the wichita office of planned parenthood front to back six and a half times before they call his name.
(well, not his name, exactly, but the one proudly stamped on his fraudulent cards and scrawled on his intake paperwork. half his, half not.)
"dean rockford?"
he stands and slaps his thighs and feels the echo of his father doing the same thing a thousand times, palms on denim, habitual groan as he got up from a chair.
(john winchester, old before his time just like so many hunters and men who ply trades that bring nothing but broken knuckles and busted-up knees and no fucking money.)
"hi, mr. rockford," the pretty beta nurse in pepto-pink scrubs smiles. "and will your alpha be accompanying you today?"
he shoots an annoyed side-eye at sam, who's been watching jeopardy on mute on the tv mounted in the corner even though the closed captions are wonky and keep clustering the words together into long run-on strings of nonsensical letters. "maybe, if he can manage to tear himself away from alex trebek."
"there's a whole category about place names that occur in multiple locales," sam says, like that explains his rapt attention on an episode dean's pretty sure he's seen before. "did you know there are twenty-five states that have cities called lebanon?"
"lebanon, huh? is that where you folks are from?" the nurse? tech? (as if dean knows the difference or cares to find out) asks, polite chitchat smile still plastered across their face.
"yep, sure are," sam says, hands in his pockets, as if that's going to make him look any like less of a hulking presence amidst the soft furnishings and racks of posters and pamphlets for breeders of all designations.
"yep," dean echoes, forcing his tone up an octave into "chipper PTA omega" territory, the sickly sweet voice that has sam tensing next to him in a way that would be imperceptible to anybody but dean, since sam alone knows this is the precursor to dean's fangs dropping (metaphorically, mostly, but sometimes very, very literally). "got up this morning and drove the three hours 'cause this guy here," he nudges his elbow into sam's ribs with all the tender love and affection he's feeling for his brother right this minute, "thinks it'd be unsafe to do it myself. I keep telling him, omegas have been managing their own abortions at home for a thousand years but he's," air-quotes, "concerned about," air-quotes, "potential complications and thinks I need to," air-quotes,"seek professional assistance with my termination."
sam stomps on the back of his heel, hard, the little bitch. he lets dean hear the subvocal rumble in the back of his throat, cool it; quit being a dick; they're here to help you.
you're not mad at them, sam's saying without saying, and dean wants to be mad at him, and he wants to be mad at his pretty-in-pink nurse? aid? tech?, and really he's mostly just pissed off at himself because how how how has his shit-show of a body hung onto sam's sperm-bot this long? how the hell is he here, doing this, when he's had more miscarriages than he's had concussions?
"well, mr. rockford," and there's that little nose in the air sniff, the pretending to be nonplussed about the whole thing but dean knows there'll be gossip about this hallway showdown in the lounge or locker room and break room tomorrow, "it's a good thing you've got yourself a sensible alpha."
"sure is," dean agrees as non-combatively as he can manage because no way sam's the sensible one here. if anything, he should be getting pepto-pink's ire. after all, he's the one who's knocked dean up in every month that ends in 'y' and now again in september, and that's just so far this calendar year.
and yes, alright; it's not all sam's fault. it does in fact still take two to have hardcore sex and all that, and dean's never been particularly regular when it comes to his heats and fertile windows. but still.
it could be worse. he could have to take a cab to a motel and wait out the worst of the cramping and the blood, or he could've lied on his intake forms and taken himself partway home before parking the impala at a rest stop and sleeping off the worst of it in the backseat. at least sam will drive him home and won't make fun of him for heating up his old sock full of dry rice to tuck under the waistband of his pants and will probably scruff him to sleep without him having to make a big production of asking for it.
"sure is."
