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The only thing he feels is warmth.
A steady, surrounding heat that presses against him from every side. It cradles him, rocks him gently and holds him in a way that feels good, like something that has always been and always will be.
He doesn’t know what he is. Doesn’t know what anything is. But knows this is safe.
Beneath everything, a rhythm echoes through the walls around him. It’s constant and has been there since the beginning—although he doesn’t know when the beginning started.
Thum. Thum. Thum.
It vibrates through him. Through the soft curve of the world holding him, and he curls toward it in an attempt to be closer to it.
The sound means something.
He doesn’t know what yet, only that it matters.
Sometimes there are other noises too. They come to him slowly rumbling through the warmth and reaching his senses. They tickle his skin. What’s a skin?
When they come, the rhythm above him speeds up just to go slow again.
He likes to chase that sound.
But most of the time, he drifts. Suspended in quiet. Floating without understanding the word floating.
His body moves sometimes; he can’t help it. He’s small and curious with twitches that ripple through the water—and every time he does it, the world below him responds with a comforting warmth. It’s their thing.
And it feels… good.
Good in a way that makes something inside him stretch with contentment.
And he keeps drifting on and off.
Time doesn’t exist yet.
Neither does waiting.
But something in him is already doing both.
✦
The first time the pressure from outside comes, it startles him.
It’s not painful but it’s different than anything before.
The upper wall presses inward—gently, then firmer—and something spreads across the curve above him.
It’s large and solid. And makes his own internal rhythm jump.
Thum-thum. Thum-thum.
The pressure moves slightly, roaming the surface of his world. Wherever it goes, the warmth blooms stronger as the walls soften. Something about it feels familiar and so, he shifts toward it
This is not like the rhythm.
The pressure lingers a moment longer before disappearing, leaving only the steady thum and the quiet sea.
He feels disappointed. But the feeling fades quickly. Everything does it in here.
And somewhere deep inside him, a new curiosity blossoms.
✦
The second time it happens, the pressure is accompanied by sound.
It rolls through the water, through the curved walls and filling him with something he has no name for. He doesn’t understand the shapes or the strange rises and falls, but something in him stirs anyway.
The rhythm in him responds again—faster now. Excited.
Another pressure spreads across the outside of the world. Large again, but careful.
He doesn’t know what a hand is. But that’s what it is. He will know much later, this is John Winchester’s hand resting against Mary’s belly.
The vibrations come again. They are low, warm and steady. And the world around him hums with it.
He drifts nearer, content.
The voices don’t mean anything yet.
But the warmth that follows does.
✦
Sometimes, two pressures arrive together.
One heavier. The other softer.
They move differently.
The heavier one presses firm, protective, lingering against his world.
The softer one moves in slow circles, it’s patient and gentle, making the rhythm in him become calm and steady.
He always moves closer when they appear, drawn by their warmth and the feeling that goes with them.
✦
Time passes.
Minutes, hours? Those words don’t have a meaning here.
He grows without knowing. The world becomes smaller around him, a little more crowded with his own limbs. Sometimes he kicks without meaning to with a slow push against the wall of warmth.
Each time, the rhythm jumps. Then, the soft pressure returns quickly, moving across the outside like reassurance.
And he settles.
✦
The third presence arrives long after the other two. It happens when the big warmth pressures are already there.
His rhythm already beating fast and happy, his little body trying to reach for two.
Then something new touches the world around him. It’s smaller. Much, much smaller.
And it’s lighter than the others—barely more than a warm spot against the walls. But the moment it appears, something shifts inside.
The entire world seems to brighten. It spreads through him in a sudden rush of warmth that makes his tiny limbs twitch with excitement.
But the new pressure stays still at first. Then, it finally moves.
The soft one always moves in slow and patient circles. And the heavy one is steady and big.
This one… it pats.
Small, uneven taps against the outside. Every single one sends a strange, bubbly sensation through him. Something that feels like laughter without knowing what laughter is.
He moves toward it immediately.
Drifting closer to where the new warmth glows.
Outside, Dean Winchester presses his small hand against his mom’s stomach. He’s only four years old and has to stretch on his toes to reach.
“Can he hear me yet?” he asks, still unsure if he even wants a brother.
Inside, the words rumble through the warm sea, distorted and distant. But the feeling of them travels perfectly.
Mary laughs softly above. “Maybe,” she says.
Another small tap.
Dean’s voice again, louder this time. “Hey, baby.”
The vibrations ripple through the world like gentle waves.
He doesn’t know what baby means, though. Doesn’t know what hey means either. But the warmth that follows the sound is different from anything else he has felt.
It’s brighter.
Happier.
The little hand presses firmer.
He drifts even closer, pressing his tiny body against the place where the heat exists. Something inside him bursts into motion.
Something entirely new.
Joy.
It’s his rhythm speeding up, but bigger and bigger and bigger.
Outside, Dean giggles moving his hand and rubbing gently across his mom’s belly.
“I think he moved!” He exclaims, not removing his hand and with his own heartbeat beating faster than ever.
“Of course he moved,” she says warmly. “He’s your brother.”
Brother.
The word means nothing inside.
But the warmth attached to it sinks deep into him.
The hand stays there a long time.
Waiting
And he stays pressed close to it, floating in the glow of that strange happiness.
He’s waiting too.
✦
When the small hand disappears, the world goes quieter.
The steady rhythm stays. The soft circles of warmth still passing across sometimes. The heavier pressure returns too, solid and careful as it always is.
But something is missing.
He drifts where the warmth used to be. Presses gently against the curved wall, hoping for the bright feeling to return.
Sometimes, the big pressure comes once. Then the softer one.
They are good. Comforting. Safe. But they are not the same.
The small one had been… brighter.
Warmer somehow.
Of the three pressures that visit the outside of his world, that one is his favorite. It made the quiet sea around him fizz with that strange, happy energy. He finds himself returning to that place again and again, curling there.
Like something inside him already knows.
And after a long while it comes back. It's a light press against the wall.
He surges toward it immediately, his tiny body bumping softly against the warmth, unaware that soon that warmth will become his new home.
Outside, Dean gasps. “Mom! He did it again!”
Mary laughs softly, covering Dean’s little hand with her own.
“Sammy,” Dean whispers.
And deep inside the quiet warmth, he presses happily against the place where that small hand rests, certain of only one thing.
Someone is waiting for him.
The End.