Dean and the Doula
Cas is a doula, guys.
“Fuck. Fuck!” Sam’s voice cuts through the phone and Dean winces and holds his cell phone back from his ear.
“Sammy,” Dean says in his calmest voice. “It’s gonna be fine, man. I’ll be at the hospital in like ten minutes, okay? And you’re only an hour out. So just calm down, hang up the goddamn phone, and drive your ass safely there, alright? Eileen is fine.”
Sam’s reply is a garbled growl followed by a tense, sharp exhale. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. Eileen said her doula’s there already.” He sighs again. “Fuck. Okay, it’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, man. She’s cool. Her, uh, doula’s there, man. Everything’s okay.” Dean spends the rest of his drive soothing his brother – after making sure Sam’s got the phone on bluetooth speaker rather than holding it in his hand like a jittery idiot. Until he pulls into the hospital’s parking garage Dean wonders, what the fuck’s a doula?
* * *
The maternity ward is quiet this time of night. It’s past normal visiting hours so Dean just passes crisply pressed nurses wearing patterned scrubs, a couple women huffing as they pace the halls with planetary bellies, and a few new parents with deep bags under their eyes clasping newborns in varying states of wakefulness. Eileen’s room is at the end of a nice, quiet long hallway painted rose petal pink. Anne Geddes prints pockmark the walls. Everywhere Dean looks he sees flowers and babies and he thinks, shit, I should’ve brought a bouquet with me. As it is, he’s going empty-handed into the hospital room where his brother’s wife will be giving birth. He knows he’s just a placeholder for his brother who’s been out of town working on a case the past two days. Maybe the gift shop’s still open. He’ll sneak down after Sam arrives.
Dean’s not sure what to expect when he gets to Eileen’s room. Given what he’s seen in movies, he’s braced himself for screaming, preternaturally strong hand holding, and possibly some Exorcist level demonic glares at any man who dares cross the threshold. What he doesn’t expect is to walk into a dimly lit room. Two softly glowing rose salt lamps sit on a table near the bed and the air in the room smells like springtime lilacs. A TV screen at the far end of the room displays rolling ocean waves on an idyllic sandy beach. Eileen isn’t on the bed, her face contorted in rage. Instead, she’s settled on a large exercise ball, belly out, slowly rolling her hips. Her face is calm, relaxed and smiling as she signs something across the room. Eileen is turned slightly away from the door, so Dean turns to see who she’s signing to and freezes.
Hot guy alert.
…